Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.

[…] Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.

“Dream Song 29” - John Berryman

Link is no stranger to death.

At five years old, he’s already witnessed more than his peers ever would. Growing up at a farm can do that to a kid. Cows, lambs, cuccos—all to the slaughter for sustenance, for profit. He stations himself beside Father and Mother as they butcher them to sell at the family shop. He’s also seen Father shoot countless deers and elk during their leisure hunts whenever Father is back home from Castle Town. More often than not, Father would let him borrow his old bow, and Link would contribute to their hunt, too.

But then Link’s pet fish dies one afternoon—a fat white freshwater carp with gold and black splotches he named Goldie—and he weeps and weeps in Mother’s lap. Goldie was his friend. Goldie was always there in the morning when he would wake up, and was there at night before he’d go to bed. But now Goldie is floating in the pond, its tiny mouth agape.

Mother strokes his hair. “It’s okay, Link. Goldie is with the Goddess, now.”

“Can I be with the Goddess, too?” he asks. Snot runs down his nose.

“Well, no.” Mother huffs a laugh. “Where Goldie is… we cannot go there. But what you can do is pray.”

Link withdraws his head from Mother’s lap. He wipes the tears from his face with the heel of his palms.

“Can we pray together, Mom?”

At that, something unreadable passes through Mother’s face. Her blue eyes turn steely.

“You can pray, Link,” she says, something sad about her small smile. “I won’t join. But we can arrange a funeral for Goldie, if you would like that?”

So they spend the rest of the day gathering flowers from the brambles that surround their estate until Mother’s wicker basket is full of white roses, blue nightshades, and armoranths. Mother also allows him to use the small wooden box that sits atop her vanity—a coffin perfect for Goldie. Mother says that it’s a box that used to house a necklace she bought and gave to Father long ago, but that necklace is long lost, so she has no use for it now.

Link wraps Goldie in an old rag and lays it gently inside the box. Then, they dig a hole in their backyard and bury the box and Goldie in it. He cries again, but not as hard as earlier. He clasps his hands in front of his chest, shuts his eyes, and utters his prayers aloud.

“Goddess Hylia, please welcome Goldie in your loving arms, give it many, many worms to eat, and bring it back as a strong and healthy fish in its next life.” Let its next life start tomorrow, please, Link does not say aloud.

When they make it back inside the living room, Father is already there, sitting at the dining table with a cup of coffee. He asks about what they have been up to, and Link answers honestly. Father doesn’t press on, and he looks rather exhausted, so Link goes back into his bedroom and closes the door behind him.

He climbs into his bed and crawls toward the far end of the wall, looking out from the window and into the backyard. He sees it—a small grave by the shrubs, complete with a rock roughly the shape of an oval as the tombstone, with flowers surrounding the little plot of land.

He hears voices from beyond his bedroom door.

“I don’t think it is best for us to go soft on him.”

“Wha— soft? He is five and his pet just died!”

“And you helped him throw a funeral. For a fish.”

“Because he’s just a child!”

There’s a grating sound—a chair being dragged on the floor. “Well, he’s always said that he wants to become a knight. Then we must prepare him for such an occupation.”

“Being a knight does not mean he can’t feel emotions.”

“Eleana, being a knight is not easy. He will see hundreds of deaths in his lifetime. The next death he’ll witness won’t be of a fish, but of a comrade. I just want to prepare him for when he eventually becomes one.”

“Well—” a pause, “—then I hope, for Link’s sake, he never becomes one.”

Link, however, doesn’t pay much attention to his parents’ conversation. Instead, he imagines Goldie wiggling its way past the layers of cloth and wood and soil, flopping around the backyard until it finds its way to the pond again. Once everybody is asleep Goldie will rise up from its grave, he thinks. He prayed to the Goddess, after all.

But come morning, the pond is still empty, and Goldie remains lifeless in its little coffin.

And he never sheds another tear after that.

Link is no stranger to death, and no stranger to funerals, either.

A year after Goldie’s humble funeral in his backyard in Hateno Village, Father must attend one of the most important funerals in the kingdom for as long as Link can remember.

(Well, six years is quite long for him, anyway.)

So here he is, holding Mother’s gloved hand, in the congregation at the Grand Chapel of Hyrule Castle. It’s a sad occasion, of course—everyone’s wearing black, all the women have their faces obscured with a veil, and he can hear sniffles from the crowd. But Link also can’t wait to tell his friends back home of his first real experience in the castle.

There are speeches, sermons, hymns, and many, many other long-drawn-out processions that he has no choice but to zone out on. But once the burial is over, Link is rather excited, because the Royal Guards (and by extension, Father) must accompany the Prince Consort to the Sanctum for an intimate reception.

The Sanctum is grand—big, luxurious, grand. Red velvet is draped everywhere—the thrones, the floor, the curtains, the banners. There’s also a lot of gold, and streaks of blue here and there. Link likes the blue the most.

When Father makes his way through the crowd to find Link and Mother, Link knows it’s time. He straightens his back, draws his chin a little bit higher, and follows Father.

“This is pretty exciting, right, Mom?” Link whispers. “Meeting the Prince!”

“The King,” Father corrects him. “He was the Prince, and now, without the Queen, he has become the King.” He sounds annoyed. “Please don’t make that mistake in front of His Majesty.”

Link clears his throat. “Sorry, Father.”

He gazes up at Mother again, but she’s quiet, and it’s hard to look past her veil.

They climb the grand marble staircase leading to the floating dais above the room, and find a large man standing in front of the throne.

Father and Mother immediately drop to their knees. Link follows suit.

“Your Majesty,” Father says, his head bowed.

“Sir William! Please, no need for this,” the King’s voice booms. Father rises, followed by Mother, and then Link. “I am very pleased to see you again, Lady Eleana. It’s been too long.” The King sounds friendly, but there’s a lot of sadness at the edge of his voice. That makes sense, Link thinks. He just lost his wife.

Then, the King sets his eyes on Link.

Link’s hands feel clammy, all of a sudden.

“And you, young boy—how you have grown! It was not that long ago when your father brought you as an infant to the Castle to celebrate my daughter’s birth,” he says. Link can only muster up a nod and a shaky smile. “Speaking of—” the King turns around to shoo something from his back. “Don’t just hide! Introduce yourself.”

From behind the King’s robe, a little girl emerges, clad in a black dress and a black surcoat. Her face, however, isn’t covered with a veil like the other women, and the first thing Link notices is how golden her hair is compared to the rest of her outfit. It’s almost blinding.

The second thing Link notices is how green her eyes are. Very green. Like grass, like trees. Like the forests that he likes to spend time in.

The girl extends a gloved hand. Palm facing down.

“I’m Princess Zelda,” she says. “Nice to meet you.”

Link takes her hand in a gentlemanly way that Father has taught him when greeting noblewomen. His thumb pad rests on her knuckles. His left hand rises to splay over his right breast. Then, he puts one foot in front of the other and bends his knees, bowing his head.

“Nice to meet you, Princess,” he says. “My name is Link.”

As he straightens up again, Link finds it hard to let go of her hand. The Princess doesn’t, either; her forest green gaze is still piercing through his eyes. It feels like vines are growing out of his wrist and twining around his hand and the Princess’.

“Hello, Link,” she says.

Oh, his heart is racing.

Father lets out a cough, and the vines vanish. Link withdraws his hand as if shocked by a jolt of electricity. The Princess lets her arm fall limp at her side once more, but her eyes are still on him. Mother grabs him by his shoulders, pulling him back to stand next to her again.

“Your Majesty, once again, Eleana, Link, and I would like to offer our deepest condolences for your loss,” Father says. “For this kingdom’s loss. The Queen is—was—a strong and wise monarch, and as a people, we shall mourn her absence forevermore.” His lips are trembling a little, Link notes. He’s never seen that on Father before.

“Thank you, Sir William,” the King says. “You were a steadfast presence in her life, truly.” At that, Mother’s grip tightens. Link tilts his head up to look at her, but is met with that layer of veil again. “Well, I must be on my way. Duty calls upon us all, after all.”

With one last bow from Father, Mother, and Link himself, the King makes his way toward the other end of the dais and descends the opposite staircase. The Princess follows, her back straight and steps never once faltering.

She doesn’t turn back to cast one last glance at his family, but Link watches and watches and watches. He’s still watching as she disappears beneath the grand archway that leads further into the castle.

On the walk back to Castle Town where Father resides, Link feels something heavy settling in his gut. Like his little inconsequential life makes sense, all of a sudden. Like being six years old doesn’t really matter because, in that moment, he feels like there are hundreds of ancient men residing within the confines of his bones. And all those men are whispering the same name over and over.

The name he heard just a half hour ago.

So he speaks up.

“Father, I think I’m ready to really train,” he says. “I really wanna be in the Royal Guard.”

Father laughs.

Mother, beneath her black veil, stays quiet.

In his dreams, Link keeps on dying.

Last night, just like many other nights for the past few months, he dreamt that he was traversing through a forest blanketed with a fog so thick, that one could get lost in it for days. He dreamt of trees with hollow trunks. Of green little creatures that would giggle and scurry away whenever he tried to approach them.

He wandered and wandered until he reached a small passage that would lead into a grove. As he made his way in, there were more and more of those green little creatures. Some shied away and hid, but some gathered at his feet and giggled more. And then he saw it.

A sword glinting in the sunlight, with a purple hilt crisscrossed in green. Lodged in a pedestal underneath the boughs of a gigantic tree.

He stepped up onto the pedestal, stood before the sword, and after drawing a deep, deep breath, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and pulled.

Pain shot up his entire body—searing hot pain. His limbs were on fire. Squeezed all the air out of his lungs. He screamed and screamed. Fire burned through every nerve ending. And as he was fading away and his grip around the hilt loosened, he heard more giggles from those little creatures.

Not ready! they said. Not ready! Not ready!

Then, a girl’s voice—regal, familiar—joined the chants.

He couldn’t see her through the haze of pain, but he knew. He knew whose voice that was.

Not ready. Not ready. Not ready. Not ready—

He wakes up. Sweat plastering his blonde strands across his forehead.

As the morning makes way to noon, however, the memory of the dream usually slips away from him. Like a footprint on the sand washed away by an impending tide on the shore. He doesn’t remember the excruciating pain that surely felt real at the time, and he doesn’t remember the feeling of his life force seeping out of him.

So Link goes on about his day. While mornings are reserved to aid Mother in tending to their livestock, afternoons are usually filled with sword fighting lessons given by Sir Lalo, a retired knight who served in the Royal Guard for decades, and a friend and mentor to Father during his early days in the Royal Guard. Though gray-haired and wrinkly, Sir Lalo still has that intimidating aura about him that makes everyone in Hateno turn their heads in reverence whenever he walks the main street, and a glare so sharp that makes all his students bristle.

Today, they are learning the skill of wielding a sword with one’s non-dominant hand. Link is right-handed, so for this lesson, the wooden sword is in his left. Next to him, Miko, a leftie two years older than Link, is wielding his sword in his right hand. Next to Miko are Ananda and Polly, both of whom are one year Link’s senior and right-handed, so they hold their weapons in their left.

“In a fight, we must be prepared for everything. Everything.” Sir Lalo’s voice is like gravel. “There will be a time when your dominant hand becomes impaired or injured, which means you will not be able to use it. This is where ambidexterity will come in handy.”

Ananda snorts. “Handy. Get it?”

Sir Lalo shoots a glare at him. The boy straightens up immediately. He mutters a sorry.

“You do not have to become fully proficient,” Sir Lalo continues. He paces slowly in front of the students, fists on his back. “However, it is imperative to prime your non-dominant hand as best as possible, so when your dominant hand becomes injured, you are still able to fight.”

Link notes the use of when. When you become injured. When you hurt yourself.

They stand before the training dummies, and begin striking. Surprisingly, Link thinks, wielding a sword in his left hand feels quite… natural. The only thing that feels unnatural is the fact that the sword in his hand is wooden and much smaller than what it’s supposed to be. And lighter, too. He knows it’s supposed to be heavier and bigger and shinier. Everything about this stupid wooden sword is wrong and both his palms almost ache from it.

But that doesn’t stop Link from striking true. The more he moves, the more he warms up—the more it feels right. Like he’s been wielding swords in his left hand his whole life. Well, his whole nine years of living. But still. It shouldn’t feel this easy, right?

Sir Lalo notices this and claps his hands once to signal his students to stop.

“Everyone, look at Link.” They all do. Eyes on him. Link feels like shrinking into his oversized tunic. “Come on, show your peers, son. You were doing great.”

Link does the drill again. It’s the standard set of movements that they usually do, but every movement is the mirrored version of it, carried out by his left hand. Once finished, Sir Lalo hums in satisfaction.

“Impressive, Link, as always,” the old man says. “The key is repetition. Practice, practice, practice. When your muscles become more acquainted with it, it will almost feel like second nature.”

“We literally just began practicing this today!” Polly cries. “Link doesn’t count! His father is in the Royal Guard. Of course he’s good—he probably has trained for this since months ago.”

What she’s saying is good things, Link knows, but all he hears is resentment.

“I just try to relax my muscles,” he says quietly. “And I just tried this today, too.”

Polly only rolls her eyes.

“Well, whatever you are doing is working, so continue with that,” Sir Lalo says, patting Link on the back.

After a few more drills and exercises, the lesson comes to an end. Link retrieves his water skein from under the tree where they all left their belongings, and takes big gulps.

Polly immediately goes home, leaving Link, Ananda, and Miko to share some brownies that Miko has brought from home. They sit underneath the boughs of the apple tree, their gazes on the training dummies ahead of them.

“I think Polly hates me,” Link says, his mouth full of cake.

“I wish Polly hated me,” Miko replies. “Then she’d actually, like, notice me or something.”

Link frowns. “You want her to hate you just so she’d notice you?”

“Link. Link. You don’t get it.” Miko turns his head to look at Link. “When you love someone, you’d take anything they give you. Even hate.”

Link takes another piece of brownie from Miko’s lunchbox and shoves it into his mouth. Goddess, Miko’s mother is really good at baking.

“You love Polly?” Link asks, curious. Though he’s only nine and pretty much inexperienced in anything related to girls, what his friend has seems like a crush. Surely it can’t be deemed as love.

Unlike how he feels about…

Link nearly chokes on the brownie. His brain refuses to even think about it, about that name. Anyway, Link knows what love is—more than Miko does.

He takes another swig of water from his skein.

“Damn, you really got it bad, Miko.” Ananda shakes his head.

“You guys don’t understand,” Miko says as he exasperatedly runs his hands through his hair. “I dream about her all the time. She’s so pretty and strong and smart. It’s frustrating!” He sighs. “Have you ever felt something like that? Loved someone so much she starts appearing in your dreams? Making you wish you never have to wake up?”

“I guess,” Ananda says. “Do you know Rissa from the general store?” The other boys nod in reply. “A couple of days ago, I dreamt that she kissed me.”

Miko whistles. “There you go,” he smirks. “How about you, Link? Ever dreamt of a girl?”

Link’s gaze falls from the horizon to the ground, to the green grass and the dark brown soil that lies beneath. In his mind, each blade of grass grows into a miniature tree into a lush forest.

Imprints of last night’s dream emerge.

“Not really.” Link shrugs. “All I dream about is being lost in a forest and then pulling a sword that’s planted in the middle of the forest, and pulling it causes me so much pain that I pass out and die.”

Miko and Ananda stop chewing.

Then they burst out laughing, spraying brownie crumbs in the air.

“Oh Gods, Link! You’re so weird.” Miko’s shoulders shake and shake with laughter. Link scratches at his nape, bashful. “It makes so much sense that you dream of killer swords instead of girls.”

Link grins, but he knows what he said is not the whole truth. Because he does dream of girls. A girl. Her voice and nothing else. Phantom vocal cords floating in the breeze.

Miko has Polly, and Ananda has Rissa. In their dreams, they see them, touch them, kiss them. Though it does sound nice to dream of a girl the way that Miko and Ananda do, Link doesn’t really need the girl in his dreams to appear. She can stay a mere voice that taunts him about how he’s not ready.

He already knows the face of that voice, anyway.

“You know, Link,” Mother says, her hands gripping a piping bag as she decorates the birthday cake on the countertop, “you’ve had a brush with death before. When you were in my womb.”

Link stands next to her, watching her carefully dot the rim of the cake with buttercream. “How so?” he asks.

“See, your father received an assignment in Faron and I was in the thirty-fifth week of my pregnancy. I hadn’t planned on coming, but he insisted because he did not want to miss your birth. So there I was, on a cart attached to your father’s gelding, my stomach as big and heavy as a chain ball, slowly journeying the distance between Hateno and Faron.

“We stayed in a small house in Fural Plain for two weeks. And mind you, I wasn’t in my best shape at the time. I was often sick, and you were a tough little thing to have in my body. It took a toll on me.”

She finishes dotting the border of the cake, and starts painting flowers in the space between each dot of buttercream, the frosting flowing slowly from the metal nozzle lodged in the piping bag.

“Thankfully, there were other wives that also stayed there to accompany their knight husbands, and they took care of me. Cooked for me, fed me, bathed me, even when I didn’t have the energy to do so. Your father looked after me, too, of course—but he couldn’t stay for long each time. He had to camp out near the spring with his fellow knights.”

“Why was Father assigned in Faron?” Link asks.

“He had to join a few of the other Royal Guard knights to accompany the late Queen during her service at the Spring of Courage.” Mother’s gaze is still trained on the work in front of her, but Link swears he sees a hint of sadness in that gaze. “She was with child, and therefore had to pray at the sacred springs during her pregnancy.”

Link’s tongue itches. He knows, but he wants to let her title slice through the air anyway. “With the Princess?”

“Yes, with the Princess,” Mother replies. “Anyway, I was in my thirty-seventh week when I finally felt it—felt you. See, usually birth happens in the fortieth week. It was way too early. We were all very scared. But you, my lovely little imp, said no, Mother, you must let me out now.”

Now that all the flowers are piped—each five-petalled and equal in size—Mother aims the nozzle at the center of the cake and squeezes the piping bag again. The first few strokes of Hylian alphabets in buttercream.

“So, one of the women ran to the spring to bring your father to me. It was storming outside, the likes of which had never been seen even in Faron during winter. Torrential, Link—you couldn’t see anything that’s in front of you. But two women stayed by my bedside as I writhed in agony. They put a cold compress on my forehead. Brought water. Waited and waited, just like how I waited for you to come.”

Link watches Mother’s handiwork. ‘Happy birthday’ now adorns the surface.

“Your father hadn’t arrived yet, but it was time. So I pushed. I pushed and pushed and prayed that the storm wasn’t a sign of bad luck from the Goddesses, and that you’d come out savable, at the very least. Because babies weren’t meant to be birthed that early.”

Below ‘Happy birthday’, she begins piping the letter L.

“It was such a long labor, but eventually, you came. And miraculously, you were healthy. Thirty-seven weeks in my womb, but you looked like you might as well have spent forty-five in it.” She laughed. “You were chunky and hearty and flushed, your cries were loud. As loud as the thunderstorm. And I cried with you.”

Mother continues piping and frosting, but Link looks up at her, now—watches as her lips break into a smile. She rarely smiles nowadays, and the sight makes his insides warm.

“Then your father came, saw you in my arms, and he knelt next to me and cried with me. Then lightning struck a tree near the house, and the room lit up. It felt like a message from above. Your father and I locked eyes, and somehow, we just knew what to name you. We knew.”

At last, her frosting work is done, and she sets the nearly-empty piping bag onto the counter. Mother’s work is beautiful, as always. Year after year, birthday after birthday, the design stays the same, but Link doesn’t care. It’s a pretty cake. And it’s a cake for him to eat.

Finally, she turns to him and cups his face with her hands—covered with powdered sugar and streaked with buttercream. She leans down and lands a kiss on his forehead.

“Happy eleventh birthday, Link—my beloved, impatient, thunder of a boy.” Her eyes well up. “You are my miracle. I love you.”

Link grins at her. “I love you, too, Mom.”

They sit at the dining table, just the two of them, accompanied only by the strong whistling of winds and snowflakes adorning the windowpane. He cuts himself a huge slice, serves it on a plate, and eats and eats and eats. Two layers of chocolate sponge cake glued by wildberry jam, slathered with vanilla buttercream. Goddess-sent, truly.

Father couldn’t come home for this year’s birthday, but Link doesn’t really mind. He has his birthday cake, he has Mother, and he has sword lessons with Sir Lalo in the afternoon.

Later, with yet another unfitting wooden sword in his hand and his stomach chock-full of cake, he goes through his drills. As a birthday surprise, Sir Lalo has invited some local swordsmen to spar with Link, and Link thinks it just might be his best birthday ever.

He comes out of each fight triumphant.

When nightfall comes and he eventually falls asleep, Link dreams not of a sword that burns, but of a hurricane in Faron and a voice that whispers louder than the thunder.

We were here together, she says. And we will be together again.

And he believes her.

Leaving Hateno Village for Castle Town feels like a death and a rebirth, somehow.

Mother is crying into his hair. “Come back home, all right?” she sniffs, her arms tightening around him. “Come back home to me.”

Something ugly rears itself in Link’s throat and he doesn’t know what it is, unsure if he wants to address it, so he swallows it down. He smiles instead.

“Of course, Mom.”

After a few more goodbyes around the village, at last, Link leaves Necluda all by himself, completely at the mercy of other travelers. He hitchhikes from home all the way to Fort Hateno, then journeys on foot from there until he meets a merchant on the outskirts of Bubinga Forest who’s heading to Dueling Peaks. He gives out a few rupees each time to pay for their troubles. Then it’s a few hours on foot again from the base of the Peaks until he stands before the confluence where Squabble River meets Hylia River, and on the other side of Proxim Bridge, he finally sees Sir Remi, the Deputy Commander of the Royal Guard.

Sir Remi has brought an extra mount with him for Link, so they ride north through the vast Hyrule Field until they meet Father by the entrance to the Sacred Ground. Upon their reunion, the old man gives Link a slap on the back and a ruffle through the hair.

“Look at you,” Father says, his expression fond. “All grown up now.”

Once they cross the front gate of Castle Town, Link realizes that he’s trading the moos and bleats of Hateno for the laughter of drunkards and townies chattering loudly. Trading Mother’s homemade curry and bread pudding and prime steak for stale communal stews at the barracks.

A few weeks later, he knows he’s also traded the sights of pretty Hateno girls for glimpses of golden blonde behind parapets, banisters, and metal gates.

It’s all horrible and wonderful.

Link trains and trains. Listens and follows Captain Harold’s orders. Joins him and the other squires as they raid nearby bokoblin dens. He lets his years of training under Sir Lalo take over his muscles and reflexes, and it serves him well. He’s a twelve-year-old among fifteen and sixteen-year-olds but he takes the trophy of Killed the Most Monsters after every single raid. Captain Harold nicknames him Lionheart.

At night, in the barracks, he lies in the top bunk bed above Markus, a fifteen-year-old with ear piercings from Deya Village. Link learns that Markus isn’t a hopeless romantic like Miko, but a foul-mouthed boy who can’t stop yammering about his girlfriend in Castle Town.

“When I slice through those fucking bokos, I think of Rosemary and her red hair and those beautiful, beautiful hips,” Markus says, his sleepy voice filling up the small room. “My dad says it’s important to find something to fight for when you wanna become a knight. Rosemary’s it for me,” he continues. “What about you, Link?”

Oh, Link has that something, all right. That something is sleeping in the high tower looming above the barracks. That something is in the portraits that hang on various walls in the castle. When he fights and trains and falls and hurts himself, he thinks of golden hair and a pair of forest green eyes.

“I don’t know.” Link stares at the ceiling above him. “The royal family, I guess.”

“Nah, that doesn’t count,” Markus huffs. “Do you really not have a girl that you fancy?”

Golden hair. Forest green eyes. Not ready not ready not ready—

“I guess not,” Link replies.

“You know what? We should hang out in Castle Town on our day off,” Markus says. “Get you a girl. You’ll have so much fun, I guarantee.”

When the day actually comes, Link doesn’t find it so much fun. He just sits in a corner inside the jewelry store as Markus and Rosemary do Goddess-knows-what in the alleyway behind the store.

After what feels like ages, Markus and Rosemary do come back—his lips positively red and her neck covered in mulberry-colored splotches.

Noticing the annoyance in Link’s face, Rosemary tries to make up for it by letting him choose any particular piece of jewelry that he wants. Link just shrugs at first, but Rosemary insists.

“Trust me, kid,” she says. “Girls today love a guy with earrings.”

So Link relents. His eyes scan through the glass enclosure before landing on a pair of earrings; two small hoops encrusted with blue enamel.

He points at them.

Half an hour later, he’s staring into a mirror, his fingers pinching the new accessory.

“If you see my mother, please don’t tell her you got them for free. She’ll kill me. She already did when she found out I gave some to Markus.” Rosemary warns him. “But those look phenomenal on you. Girls will definitely swoon.”

Link can’t help but agree. The blue matches his eyes and his hair band. They look good. Perhaps one day she will finally notice him and think that they look good, too.

The next day, Father comes down to the training yard and discovers the blues that now adorn his son’s ears. Thankfully, he isn’t particularly disapproving of it, but he does insist that Captain Harold give his squires a lesson on royal etiquette.

There isn’t a lot that Link doesn’t already know from watching Father move and walk and talk around royalty and noblemen. How to kneel. How to address each royalty (Your Majesty for the King, Your Highness for the Princess). The distance that should be kept between a knight and his charge (five paces). How to dance appropriately at balls. How to eat in a refined manner at banquets.

When they pretend-dance—arms hovering in the air like one would hold a dance partner—Link pictures her in his arms. When they pretend-kneel, he imagines that he’s kneeling before her. When they take five steps backward from a wall to understand just how far five paces is, Link imagines that he’s standing across from her.

“Most importantly,” Captain Harold says, “I cannot stress enough how very important this is—you must be a paragon of decorum at all times. You must always remember that among these royals and nobles, you are a knight first, and a man second. Always.”

Link’s heart aches a little at the reminder, but he crushes and crumples that ache and throws it far, far away.

The only thing that will ever be granted to him is the privilege of protecting her, and he’d be perfectly happy with that.

Just as Link is warming up to the cold barracks at the castle, Father sends him to different outposts throughout Hyrule to train under the best fighter of each race.

It feels like another death of some sort.

He spends three months with the Zora, under Princess Mipha’s guidance. She appears exactly as she did when he first met her almost ten years ago during Father’s expedition—her lips always upturned with a benevolent smile, her amber eyes twinkling with kindness.

At night, he sleeps in a waterbed at the guest quarters designed for Hylian visitors. During the day, he eats and trains and eats and rests and trains some more. Mipha is exceptionally skilled with the spear, and Link watches as she maneuvers her chosen weapon with grace and ease. In turn, he gives her a few pointers on sword wielding.

When his time there eventually comes to an end, Mipha hugs him goodbye.

“I hope fate brings us on the same path again, someday,” she says, her voice soft.

Link smiles at her. “I’m sure it will.”

After Zora’s Domain, it’s Goron City, where Link learns to survive in extreme (and fiery) conditions. Doing his drills near a lake of lava under Lord Daruk’s supervision (and tasting rock roasts for the first time). Battling against fire taluses. Dodging fire arrows shot by lizalfos. Getting his eyebrows singed when those dodges aren’t timed right.

And then it repeats in Rito Village; sharpening his archery skills with the master archer and Chief of the Rito, Paravi. Learning to zero his focus on a target; learning to slow his breath and slow down time. Sleeping in a hammock every night for weeks. Braving the cold blast of Tabantha winds on his skin. Feeling the glares of a particularly talented Rito archer who’s only a few months older than him.

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to spend that much time in Rito Village. Chief Paravi commends Link for his existing archery skills, and Link silently thanks Father for letting him hunt from such an early age.

In Gerudo, Link realizes just how tough it is to fight in the sand. Gerudo women are quite formidable opponents to spar with, and it takes a few days before he’s able to take down six soldiers at once. Captain Pamela, a friend of the Royal Guard who has accepted Father’s request to train his son, is very tall, intimidating, and skilled.

“You can go back to the castle when you can beat me and my fellow captains. Simultaneously.” She smirks.

So Link trains some more. He practices day and night, leaving almost no room for leisure and rest. He absorbs all those teachings and learnings into his muscles and bones, so that he may make use of them when the time finally comes that he must fight and bleed for her.

When he has passed all the trials in the desert and returns to the castle, the title of knight is finally bestowed upon him. Father, as Commander of the Royal Guard, gives out each newly-minted knight a brand new soldier’s uniform—all metal plates with the Hylian crest embossed onto the pauldrons, and the tabard with the royal crest printed right in the middle. After Link has received his own armor, Father smirks, pinching the fabric of his own dark blue surcoat.

“Now you’re one step closer to donning the reds and blues.”

At that, Link smiles.

One step closer to her, too.

One winter night, Link no longer dreams of dying from the sword.

Instead, he dreams of a spirit, flooding his vision with indigo, blue, and gold. Its voice is feminine, somehow, and it speaks to him in a language that he does not and does understand.

It is time, Master. Head north and come find me.

In the morning, Link finds Father in his office, tells him that he wishes to spend his birthday back home with Mother, and Father agrees.

Instead of heading southeast to Necluda, Link makes his way north on horseback, as he's told. Past Hyrule Forest Park, crossing Helmhead Bridge, through Minshi Woods. He has no map or compass nor any idea of where to go, but when he quiets his mind and steadies his breath, he can faintly hear the voices of those ancient men that he heard long ago, whispering directions.

At the mouth of Lost Woods, Link sees a stone archway.

He knows of the stories shared around campfires, about a forest that can drive people mad. A forest that tricks and deceives. This is where people have lost themselves, he thinks.

Link dismounts his steed, lights up his torch, and braves through the fog anyway.

It’s like he has stepped into the dreams that have plagued him for almost his whole life, but it’s not a dream, because he’s here. It’s his worn boots on the soil, his eyes hazed by the thick fog, his freezing ears perking up upon the sounds of chimes and shy giggles.

And then, just like in those dreams, Link finds himself in a passage that leads into a grove, sees those masked green little creatures gathering near his feet, leading him to the sword—the Sword—that he knows right down to the bone is meant for him.

He steps up onto the triangle-shaped pedestal. Outside the forest, winter is raging throughout Central Hyrule. But here, with the Sword shining before him, he feels warm.

A voice booms from above him.

“We have been waiting for you, Hero,” the giant tree says. “Welcome back.”

Link stares at the hilt. Indigo crisscrossed with green. His fingers ache to wrap around it.

So he does.

Instead of searing hot pain, Link is struck by a million visions; the Sword’s visions of its previous wielders and the lives they lived—the ancient men that have resided in the fabric of his being. Hair in different shades of blonde. Eyes in different shades of blue. Different voices but always within the same timbre. Different bones that always contain the same soul.

As he pulls the sword from the slot, everything that is wonderful floods him in a fraction of a second—birth, life, pleasure, triumph, love. There’s always love—love for her—and he finally, fully understands that these men are him and he is these men, and that he is a mere link in the chain forged by God Herself, designed to find her in every lifetime.

Then the second tide of images hits him, and it tears through him violently and rips him apart. Death, grief, anguish, loss, war. A girl falling through the sky. A boy lost to time. The world shrouded in darkness. A great evil that thirsts and forever haunts. A great evil that he now knows will return very soon.

Nice to see you again, Master.

The Sword, at last, is out of its pedestal. Around its hilt, his knuckles turn white.

The weight of his genesis sits heavy and rough on his shoulders.

Link drops to his knees. Then, for the first time in a decade, he breaks into sobs and falls to pieces.

He hides in the forest for weeks. Sleeps in a bed made of leaves that one of the little creatures prepared for the Hero ages ago. The Sword, sheathed in its ornate scabbard, rests by the bed against the mossy walls. He stares at it, eats whatever is edible, stares at it some more, and then sleeps. He does not do much else and does not speak at all. His fifteenth birthday passes without so much of an acknowledgment, let alone a celebration, because does it even matter to an ageless soul like him?

Day by day, Link picks up the pieces and reassembles himself. Fabricates the parts that fit into the mold of the hero he’s supposed to be. Stows away the fragments that might give away his true nature, his deepest fears.

When he leaves the forest, the Sword of Legend strapped to his back, he is leaving a womb and a grave.

It isn’t until the southern point of Minshi Woods that a few patrolling knights from the training camp nearby finally see and recognize Link. They all urge him to join them at the camp while they fetch Father from the castle.

It’s nighttime when Father arrives at the camp, his face marred by anger and concern and relief.

“Where in Din’s name have you been, Link?!” Father’s voice is rough. “We all thought you were dead! Have you any idea what you’ve put me and your mother through?! I even had to send my knights—”

The words seem to die on Father’s lips as his gaze lands on the iconic hilt peeking from Link’s back.

When the realization fully dawns on him, Father squares his shoulders and nods. As if braving himself for a battle.

Link knows the feeling all too well.

“Son, I believe…” Father exhales, “I believe it is time for you to properly meet the Princess.”

The Princess wishes he never existed at all—that much, he knows.

Meanwhile, Mother grieves and cries for him as if he’s already dead.

Father is rather proud, and warns him that it is even more crucial to remain strong. And Link knows that Father doesn’t mean the physical kind.

Captain Harold doesn’t call him Lionheart anymore, and instead calls him Hero. His friends no longer look at him as their comrade, but more as a legendary figure to be revered. To be envied. To be wary of.

There are so many prying eyes and whispering mouths in the court, the barracks, the towns. Curious about his upbringing, his pedigree. Wonders how good of a fighter he truly is. If he is aware of the weight of his primordial destiny, of the prophecies that become more and more real with each passing day.

And so, as more lips open and move and talk around him, Link keeps his own shut. Tongue behind gritted teeth at all times.

For the first time in his life, Link feels lonely. And he knows it won’t be the last time that he feels so.

Because he is an apocalypse in the form of a swordsman, and every breath he takes is a sign that the end of times is drawing nearer.

The least he can do is keep his thoughts where they belong:

In his lungs, where they rattle and rage against his ribcage.

It isn’t until Link is sixteen, when Sir Remi accosts him in the training yard to break the news of Father’s sudden passing, that he finally understands just what death truly is.

Link runs to Father’s residence in Castle Town, chainmail still draped over his torso and the Sword on his back, and finds the royal doctor and a few of the other royal guards inside the house. Father lies still in his pajamas in bed, skin impossibly pale, eyes closed. Link goes to his side and watches him, his throat going dry.

Three days ago, Father told him that he would join the Royal Guard in two weeks’ time. That Father would be there to pin the Royal Guard medallion onto the lapel of Link’s surcoat after the Princess had conferred his royal knighthood with her knighting sword.

He lays his hand on Father’s cold one. The hand that won’t pin any medallion onto any lapel anymore.

They speak to him in a hushed, soft voice. Tells him that Sir William passed away in his sleep, most likely due to sudden cardiac arrest. When he failed to show up at a council meeting, the King had sent the other knights to Castle Town to investigate Sir William’s whereabouts. He did not die in pain, they say. It seemed that he went over fairly quickly.

“Has anyone spoken to Mo—” Link swallows. “—Lady Eleana?”

“We have sent a courier to Hateno Village. He shall arrive there tomorrow morning,” Sir Remi says. He draws a breath and pats Link’s shoulder. “Link, I am truly sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man. He was devoted to the kingdom until the very end.”

Link wants to laugh. It’s not just loss; it’s the way this tragedy struck him in its indifference, its abruptness. There’s something so crudely simple about it all—that a great man and a talented fighter like Father went quietly in his sleep. As if a divine hand just decided to pluck his soul out of his body. Not giving him so much of a chance to say his goodbyes.

Death, Link thinks, is inartistic and unelaborately cruel. It takes without so much of a blink, let alone a warning.

He stays quiet. Replies to words of condolences and sympathies with a polite nod and masterful silence.

A week later, at Hyrule Cathedral, Link bears the weight of a coffin on his shoulder along with Sir Remi and Captain Harold and three other knights. He holds his chin up high, eyes always ahead. They make their way in between the pews, through the nave.

Once the coffin rests before the altar, Link stations himself beside Father. He gazes at the congregation, at Mother who is dressed in all black just like the others but with no veil obscuring her visage. Her bloodshot eyes and trembling lips are bared for all to see.

In the front row, the Princess rises from her seat and makes her way to the other side of the coffin. Link watches and watches, but she refuses to meet his eyes. She faces the crowd and utters a prayer. After that, the King gives a short speech.

And just like that, Father is transported to the Royal Cemetery and laid to rest alongside the commanders that have come before him. In a plot not far from the mausoleum which houses the late Queen of Hyrule.

After the funeral, Link follows Mother to the empty house in Castle Town, packing up the few belongings that Father had left to bring back to Hateno.

“Do you know I have never been in this house since ten years ago?” Her eyes linger on Father’s nightstand, on a small painting of Link as a child, and another one of a young woman, though the artwork itself looks decayed. “The last time was after the Queen’s funeral. Do you remember?”

Link nods.

“He brought us to that artist near Castle Town Bakery, and painted a small portrait of you.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice. “When we stayed here that night, he put the portrait right here.” Her fingers trace over the wooden frame. “His nightstand had always been the place where he kept his prized possessions. Back at home, before he’d spent most of his days here, it was the necklace I had gotten him from our honeymoon in Lurelin Village,” she says. “Goddess knows where that necklace is, now.”

Upon hearing Mother’s voice wavering, Link stops sorting through the wardrobe to stand before her as she sits down on the bed.

“Is something the matter?” he asks.

She reaches for the portrait of a young woman and inspects it before shoving it into his hand.

“Do you know who that is, Link?”

Link brings the portrait closer to his eyes, and for the first time, he notices the delicate blonde locks. The big eyes. The smile that is eerily familiar.

And suddenly, a lot of things in his life start to make sense.

“This is the Queen,” Link says.

Mother lets out a tremulous exhale.

“Your father is an honorable man. Honorable until the very end, truly. But he had always carried a torch for the Queen ever since he became a royal guard.” She pauses, her fingers curled into fists. “Oh, did he love her. It ate him up from the inside. It ate me up, too. Which is why we hadn’t been happily married for a long time.

“But I love him, and I love you, and I’d do anything for you both, so I stayed. Still, I can’t help but feel that all that family—the Goddess—has ever done is take and take from me. My father, my husband, and now my son.”

Bile rises in his throat. “I’m right here, Mom.”

“I know, but you were never mine to begin with. You are Hylia’s. You have always been Hers.” She grimaces, tears rolling down her cheeks. “That sword, the Princess, the prophecies…” her face contorts as she breaks into violent sobs.

Link sets down the portrait on the nightstand and sits next to her. Takes her trembling hand in his. He hates to see her despair like this, hates that she isn’t wrong, because he is Hylia’s.

He is Princess Zelda’s. And he has been hers since before he was even here at all.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Mother shakes her head. “No, no. It’s not your fault,” she says, her hand squeezing his. “I just fear for you, Link. I see a lot of your father in you, and I can’t— I can’t lose you, too.”

“You won’t,” he replies, and the lie tastes bitter on his tongue.

She’s still crying, her fingers still tightly wound around his, but eventually, she quiets and nods. Smiles in resolve, as if trying to convince herself that everything is going to be just fine.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay.”

And Link finds himself nodding along with her.

Link is no stranger to death.

And in the Sanctum, with the Royal Guard uniform finally wrapped around his body and his knees on the floor and the Princess’ dull sword on his shoulder, Link knows that somehow, he will die young.

That doesn’t mean he is any less scared.

But for now, he is standing up, her lips have stopped moving, and her divine fingers are picking up the medallion from a velvet pillow offered by a courtier. She steps closer to him, her verdant gaze all fire and wrath and still refusing to meet his eyes, before pinning the medallion onto the lapel of his surcoat.

Link suspects that this will be the first and last time she stands this close to him.

“I hereby declare you an imperial guard and defender of the Royal Family of Hyrule. May the Goddess bless you forevermore in your holy duty, Sir Knight.” Her voice is soft. Laced with bitterness.

She steps back, but then she inclines her head and finally, for a second, their eyes lock, and suddenly Link thinks of his old friend Miko and that silly conversation they had underneath an apple tree long ago.

When you love someone, you’d take anything they give you. Even hate.

Link thought Miko to be silly, then, but now, with Princess Zelda before him and his heartbeat in his throat, he completely understands his friend. Because he’d take anything she would deign to give him. Anything.

Hatred, venom, rage, even death.

And he’d take it all with open arms and a heart bursting with love.

Chapter Text

Zelda does not know how to swim, but she’s certain she has spent more time in a body of water than any high-water fishermen in this country.

Water laps against her waist, always. The tips of her hair permeated by moisture. Her fingers and toes prune from the constant aquatic exposure. Her eyes close in earnestness, and then open and look up at that stony, benevolent gaze in desperate pleas. Usually, it repeats and repeats until she has exhausted her arsenal of memorized prayers and begins to improvise.

Today’s prayer session, however, isn’t for the sole purpose of awakening that elusive power within her.

Behind her, by the poolside, are five pieces of clothing. All in royal blue and white, all sewn and stitched by her own hands. It had taken her a month to craft them from mere spun wool to the ready-to-wear garments that they are now. Well, almost ready to wear—she must first pray for the Goddess’ blessings and bestow them upon each garment to aid their intended wearers in carrying out their holy mission.

Zelda turns around to unfold Urbosa’s skirt and faces the Goddess statue once more, her hands slowly lowering the fabric into the water, letting it soak. Once it’s completely saturated, she flattens the skirt so it floats on the surface, splays her fingers over the fabric, and begins to pray.

“O Mother Goddess, I bathe this skirt with spring water to ask for Your blessings for its wearer, Champion Urbosa of the Gerudo. I pray that You grant Your protection to her through this skirt, so that she may defend Your land and prevail over the hardest of battles.”

Zelda retracts her hands, and smiles—imagining Urbosa’s face upon receiving this piece of clothing that she had painstakingly and lovingly crafted for the woman she regards as her second mother.

She lifts the drenched fabric and lays it next to the still-dry garments awaiting her prayers.

After Urbosa, it’s Daruk and Mipha’s sashes, then Revali’s scarf. Each time, she pours and pours her prayers onto the soaked cloth, hopes that the Goddess would finally listen this time for it is not a prayer for herself, but for the Champions.

She lays Mipha’s wet sash atop the other garments by the poolside, and finally her eyes land on the tunic.

No use delaying the inevitable, now.

She picks it up gingerly by the sleeves and lowers it into the water just as she did before, her hands spread atop the soaked garment. Palms over where the chest of the wearer would be, over a pair of lungs that would rise and fall with each calculated breath.

Oh, she shakes that thought away.

She stares at the white embroidery that makes up the cross-guards, the blade. Recalls the heaviness in her heart as her fingers weaved the needle in and out, in and out of the cotton. Still, she gave it her best, put her all into it. Just as she will give her all into this prayer that begs for his protection, his success, his survival.

Zelda draws a deep breath, and lets the words pour from her lips.

“O Mother Goddess, I bathe this tunic with spring water to ask for Your blessings for its wearer—” her breath hitches, “—Your Chosen Hero. May this sacred piece of clothing shield him from harm, may it strengthen his life and soul. I pray that You grant Your protection to him through this tunic, so that he may defend Your land and prevail over the hardest of battles.”

And she damn well means it, for she unfortunately knows he is the hope—perhaps the only hope—of this kingdom.

With trembling hands, she lifts the tunic and places it by the other garments. Her hands immediately feel ten times lighter.

She wades through the shallow water and ascends the few steps leading out of the pool. Takes the neatly folded thick robe on a bench placed towards the wall, drapes it over her sopping dress, then calls out.

“Come in! I am finished.”

The door to the small chapel opens, revealing her faithful maid Nora and the resident seamstress Ingrid.

“How did it go with the prayers, Your Highness?” Ingrid asks as she walks to the poolside, carefully picking up the wet pieces of clothing and placing them on a wooden tray. “I hope the dye didn’t run in the water.”

“It went well, Ingrid, thank you,” Zelda answers. It went well because I wasn’t praying for my powers. “You’ve dyed the clothes perfectly.”

Ingrid beams at her. “That makes me joyous to hear, Your Highness! Now I will take these to dry, then press them to perfection before we give them to the Champions tomorrow,” she says. “Oh, I cannot wait to see them wear these for the portraits and the Inauguration Ceremony!”

Zelda smiles. “Very well. I shall see you tomorrow in the great chamber.”

The seamstress nods and curtsies before she exits the chapel. Then Zelda looks at Nora, and immediately sighs upon seeing the nervousness in her young maid’s face.

“My father wants to see me, I take it?”

“Yes, Your Highness. His Majesty awaits your presence with Lady Impa in his drawing room.”

“Well, I should change into something less wet first, maybe.” Zelda snorts, and Nora titters at that.

The chapel is on the eastern side of the castle, and to return to the main wing and the hallway that leads into her private quarters, they must go through the open-air walkway that overlooks the second gatehouse and the training yard.

As they walk towards the main wing, Zelda finds herself praying for the second time that day. Praying that the men of the Royal Guard aren’t training at this time of the day. Praying that they’re having lunch in the barracks right now, or simply doing something elsewhere.

Some trees branch into the parapets and obscure the view to the training yard, but as she takes a few more steps forward, the boughs end their shroud and the open air begins, nothing to cover her or the training yard. She hears grunts and yells and clangs of sword against sword.

It’s all right, it’s just the squires training, not the Royal Guard, she tells herself.

But then she makes the mistake of inclining her head ever so slightly and sees honey blonde glinting from sunlight in her periphery.

It could be anyone, she thinks. It literally could be anyone.

She doesn’t dare to find out if she’s correct or not, however. She marches on, eyes ahead, towards the archway and into the main wing.

Once inside, she stops for a second and takes a deep, deep breath.

“Are you all right, Your Highness?” Nora asks from behind her.

One more deep breath, then Zelda continues walking. “Of course, Nora,” she says. “Just a little bit winded.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Zelda almost laughed. Yes, Nora. Could you perhaps alter tens of thousands of years of history so that I may live in peace? That would be great, thank you.

“Ah, don’t fret about it.” Zelda looks over her shoulder and smiles at her maid. “It’s nothing that a dry dress and a cup of tea can’t fix.”

Zelda is finally in a dry dress with a cup of tea in her hand, but whatever remedy these things have provided immediately vanishes upon Father’s announcement regarding the Champion’s portrait sessions tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, Father, but no. Absolutely not.”

“It’s non-negotiable, Zelda. This was the tradition ten thousand years prior.” Father looks so nonchalant, sitting behind his study desk, as if knowing that he’d come out of this battle victorious. “Lady Impa, please, tell the Princess of your recent findings.”

Zelda turns her head to glare at Impa, and her friend appears apologetic as she straightens up in her seat. “Of course, Your Majesty.” Her crimson gaze lands on Zelda. “According to an ancient text pertaining to the Calamity that we recently stumbled upon in our archives, it appears that not only did the Champions of the past individually have their likenesses painted, but the Goddess Descendant and the Chosen Hero were depicted together.”

“Please, Lady Impa, tell me,” Zelda starts. “How do you know that this text is indeed an accurate account of what had happened ten thousand years ago? Do we not already have texts that we have perused for the past three years? And from what I remember, none of them say anything about the Goddess Descendant and the Chosen Hero appearing in one painting.”

Father chuckles. “You know, dear daughter, for someone that prides herself on being a scholar, you seem to lack the quality that a true researcher would possess,” he says. “A researcher usually takes new findings into account. Her understanding is ever-changing with each unearthed fact.”

Zelda inhales. And exhales. And inhales. Exhales.

“All right,” she says, steeling herself. “Would you kindly read the text that might refer to this tradition?”

Impa nods, her fingers sifting through a stack of parchment on her lap before pulling one sheet out. She lays it on the study desk for Zelda and the King to see.

“My people have translated the passage from ancient Sheikah and performed multiple cross-checks to ensure the translation’s accuracy, as we have done with any texts we have previously found,” she says. “The passage says, ‘To bolster confidence within the kingdom, appease to the Goddess, and honor the Goddess Descendant and the Chosen Hero, a portrait depicting the Descendant and the Hero was painted by a Sheikah artist using paint diluted with water from the Sacred Springs. The Descendant and the Hero stood across from each other, facing one another—like two lungs of the same body—and had their likeness painted as a High Priestess uttered prayers. It was a long procession that spanned across a few days.’”

Zelda’s stomach drops to the floor, but she presses on.

“Okay. The painter can depict us in the same painting. Fine by me.” She’ll have to avoid ever looking at that portrait, of course, but she can find a compromise. “I can sit in a session so the painter can sketch my likeness, then he can sit in a separate session.”

“Zelda,” Father sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He has a name. I truly do not understand why you dislike him so. Sir Link has done nothing but be an exceptionally gifted fighter, and the Sword’s Chosen since a year and a half ago.” At his name, Zelda’s grip on the teacup tightens. “You and Sir Link are two sides of the same coin. It does you no good to pretend that he does not exist.”

Oh, she knows he is an exceptionally gifted fighter. Has heard it from hundreds of mouths. Hero this, Hero that. Thank the Three for the Chosen Hero! they say. At this rate, he will single-handedly save us all from the Calamity without the Princess’ help.

Impa clears her throat. “Your Majesty, Your Highness—the procession itself does not have to be that long,” she says. “What’s important is that the Princess and the Hero stand in the same pose, within the same room, as the painter begins the first few strokes of the portrait while the High Priestess utters her prayers.”

Zelda is totally cross with Impa right now, but she can also leap from her seat and hug her friend for it.

“They did not have the technology back then to faithfully reproduce real-life scenes as we do now with the camera feature on the Sheikah Slate,” Impa continues. “With the Slate, we can take a photograph of Princess Zelda and Sir Link during the session, print the photograph using the Guidance Stone, and the painter can then continue working on the portrait even when the subjects of the painting are not readily present. This will also make it easier for the other Champions; they do not have to keep returning here for further sittings.”

Zelda wants to protest, as this means that she will not have access to the Slate for at least a few days, but she silently reprimands herself.

Pick your battles, Zelda. Pick your damn battles.

“That sounds like a plan,” she concedes. She has sat for countless portraits in her life, and if her calculations are right, she will only have to stand across from the knight for half an hour at most. As long as the initial sketches are done and the prayers are uttered, she can leave the room and pretend that it never happened at all.

The entire ordeal of having to be in his presence for a prolonged period, however, is another matter entirely, and she intends to stow this thought away until tomorrow, lest it drives her towards a wall before it has actually happened.

Father strokes his beard, mulling it over.

After an eternity, he finally nods.

“Very well. You may proceed per Lady Impa’s advice,” Father says. “Thank you Lady Impa, Zelda. You are both dismissed.”

Wordlessly, Zelda leaves the half-empty teacup on the desk—the only act of retaliation she can do today—and rises from her seat. She pushes the double doors open and steps out, Impa following behind.

In the hallway, some paces away from the doors to make sure they are well out of earshot, Zelda turns around to face her friend.

“I can’t believe you didn’t warn me in advance, Impa,” she sighs. “I went from not having to sit for any portrait at all to having to stand across from him for half an hour!”

“Princess, I’m so sorry. I was just having our weekly audience with His Majesty and, well. We had to go through the contents of each newly-discovered ancient text.”

Zelda looks up to the ornate ceiling of the hallway, silently wishing that one of the chandeliers would just fall right onto her aching head. It never happens, of course. The chandeliers are screwed tight into the ceiling. Faultless. Strong. Perfect.

She continues walking. “I truly don’t understand. It’s just a painting—in the grand scheme of things, it is so insignificant. It’s not going to save us from the Calamity.”

They turn a corner, passing by a few wandering staff members who immediately stop in their tracks and bow upon seeing their Princess. Zelda is usually perfectly amiable, but today she can’t find it within her to even smile. She simply walks past.

“You know how the King is, Princess,” Impa replies. “Symbols and traditions matter to him. He wants to faithfully follow every single guide left by our ancestors. He believes that it is the key to defeating the Calamity.”

The key to defeating the Calamity is the power that is supposed to be her birthright and the Goddess-given sword, Zelda thinks grimly. A power that hasn’t awakened, no matter the years she has spent praying and begging and pleading. They can paint all the portraits of her and the Hero, and they all will amount to nothing if she cannot access her power.

Perhaps she’s brought it upon herself, this cursed portrait session. Perhaps Father is just desperately trying to play all the cards that he has been dealt with, because he knows that his daughter cannot fulfill her duty.

“They could just paint him,” Zelda says quietly. “Why should I be in there when I haven’t succeeded in awakening my powers?”

“Princess.” At that, Zelda stops and turns around to fully face Impa. “No matter what, you deserve to be in that painting as much as Sir Link does. You have the Goddess’ blood, and you have contributed so much in researching the ancient Sheikah relics even without your power.” Those blood-red eyes are kind and compassionate. Kindness and compassion that I do not yet deserve, Zelda thinks.

“Thank you, Impa.” Her smile is out of force, though she feels herself warming up a bit. No one can possibly understand the weight on her shoulders, no one. But there are a few people in her life that at least can make that weight slightly lighter—like Impa, like Urbosa.

“Of course, Princess,” Impa replies with a smile of her own. “I won’t be able to attend the session tomorrow, but I will see you very soon,” she says. “Robbie and Purah should be able to activate those Guardians anytime now, and when they do, we will all convene to witness them ourselves!”

Zelda grins—genuinely, this time. That’s something she can look forward to.

Zelda awakes to the soft rustling of curtains being drawn back, to the clanging of a metal tray against a wooden desk. The rays of the summer sun bleed through the windowpane and through her still-closed eyelids, rousing her from a particularly restless sleep.

She opens her eyes and finds Nora gently laying a cup of tea on her nightstand. Wafts of bergamot flood her nose.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Nora smiles, her voice soft. “Wendi and I have got you some tea, boiled eggs, and toast with wildberry jam.”

“You’re a gift, Nora,” Zelda replies, picking sleep from her eyes. She sits up and takes a few sips, breathing in the aromatic steam, the warmth. After a while, she rises and sits by the table in the middle of the room to eat.

As Nora and Wendi draw up a bath in the washroom, Zelda asks, “Are the Champions here already?”

“Only Princess Mipha so far, Your Highness,” Nora answers. “I believe she is already in the great chamber with the High Priestess and the Sheikah artist. I’ve heard from the guards that Master Revali, Lord Daruk, and Chief Urbosa will arrive in the afternoon.”

Zelda huffs as she takes a bite of the toast. That means her portrait session is right after Mipha’s, which means she doesn’t have a lot of time to prepare herself before seeing him.

She doesn’t feel like finishing her breakfast, somehow.

She abandons the food and makes her way into the washroom, letting her maids unlace her nightgown and unclothe her before stepping into the heated water. She relaxes her back onto the metal surface, letting her hair soak. Nora comes up behind her and starts lathering her hair with the lavender shampoo she loves so well from Hateno Village. Once done, Zelda slides down and tips her head back, back, back until her whole body is submerged, save for her face.

It feels warm in here. Safe. Cocooned from the cruel, cruel world outside. She wishes she could breathe underwater and simply let the day bleed away.

But she gets up, eventually—her long hair dripping like rainfall. Wendi drapes a large towel on her shoulders, and Nora unplugs the drain in the tub.

Then Zelda stands before a floor-length mirror as her maids help her into her dress. Battlewear, she calls it. Dark blue with a white collar and corset and gold trimmings. It is tight around her waist, and she feels it straining against her ribcage as she breathes.

My chainmail.

With the dress on, Zelda sits down in front of her vanity as Wendi brushes her hair and undoes the knots. Meanwhile, Nora applies safflina oil onto her locks. They comb and comb until Zelda’s hair is dry and flows like silk over her shoulders to her waist, pristine like her dress, like the golden diadem that awaits her head.

Zelda takes the diadem in her hands and places it upon her head, one pound of eighteen-karat gold and ruby—the weight of the whole world.

My helmet.

Lastly, she extends her hands outward as Wendi and Nora stand on either side and slide on the white satin gloves before fastening the golden cuffs around her forearms.

My vambraces.

Zelda looks into the mirror, at herself. All armored up with no weapon at all.

Her lips curve into a dry smile. “All right, then,” she says, more to herself. “Into battle, I go.”

Her maids curtsy before leaving the room. Zelda rises, takes a swig of the cooled tea, fidgets at the clasps of her ornate cuffs—secure, faultless—and makes her way out.

She descends a winding staircase, walks through hallways lined with portraits and lit up by torches, the heels of her shoes thudding dully against the carpeted floor. She marches on, head held up high, shoulders squared and fingers curled into fists. Onward, onward. Another turn into another hallway, then she sees it—the double doors, gilded with gold, closed to the world. Three steps forward.

She hears the muffled voices from the other side, chattering and murmuring. She raises her palms and pushes the doors open.

Natural light streams through the tall windows, brightening the room. In the middle, she sees a silver-haired painter behind an easel and an enormous canvas, holding a stick of graphite. In front of the canvas is the Zora Princess, holding her spear, her torso crossed with the sash Zelda has sewn for her—royal blue against the shimmering red and white of her scales. Ingrid the seamstress looks on proudly from the corner of the room, beside a wooden rack where the rest of the Champion garments hang.

Next to the painter, High Priestess Piana is uttering fragmented prayers that sound an awful lot like poetic praises—Diamond of the Zora, her Lightscale Trident that spears thousands of foes, oh how blessed we are for our very own Zora Champion, how majestic, how beautiful—but something immediately lodges itself in Zelda’s throat upon seeing the lone man that sits on an armchair not far to the right of the Zora Princess.

The royal blue tunic that Zelda has stitched with her own hands is now wrapped around the Hero’s torso. His hair—honey blonde, she thinks grimly—is messily tied into a ponytail, leaving some locks to frame his face. Pointed ears pierced with blue hoops. Forearms wrapped in patterned bands akin to those worn by Hylian archers. His hands rest on the pommel of the Sword, the sacred weapon standing upright in between his parted thighs.

The sight of it—of him—isn’t what bludgeons her in the head, however.

It’s his lips—upturned with a smile. A smile she has never seen on him before. A smile that somehow looks at home on his face, even though its existence is puzzling to begin with. His eyes—matching blue with his tunic—are locked on Mipha.

Zelda’s presence in the room is noticed, at long last, and everyone immediately stops to greet her properly.

Mipha bows her head with a ‘Good morning, Princess’. The Sheikah artist rises from his seat and bows, too, a greeting leaving his lips. The High Priestess and Ingrid curtsy. And the Hero—

His smile has long vanished from his face. He gets up from the armchair and kneels.

Oh, he’s dramatic.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t address him, doesn’t look his way. She clears her throat and says, “Please, everyone, don’t mind me.”

“Your Highness, my apologies. I did not know you would arrive earlier,” the Sheikah painter replies. “Allow me to introduce myself—my name is Veno.”

“Nice to meet you—“ Zelda furrows her brows. That name is familiar. “Veno, Sir Vito’s son?”

Veno bows again. “One and the same, Your Highness.”

“Ah, I shan’t worry about the results of these portraits, then.” Zelda claps her hands. “Your father had done countless portraits for my family, and he always outdid himself each time. Goddess rest his artistic soul.”

Veno smiles shyly at that. “You flatter me, Your Highness. I shall endeavor to produce the best portraits for our Champions,” he says, sitting back down. “Ah, I also would like to thank you for allowing me to borrow the Sheikah Slate—it should make these sessions much shorter and more convenient for you and the Champions.” His hand waves toward the small table beside him, where the Slate rests alongside tubes of acrylic paint and brushes.

“No problem at all, Veno,” Zelda says.

“Anyway, I’m almost finished with the initial sketch of Princess Mipha’s portrait, here. After this, it will be Your Highness’ and Sir Link’s turn!”

Zelda gives him a wry smile. “How exciting.”

Veno continues to draw Mipha’s likeness and High Priestess Piana continues murmuring her chain of prayers, filling up the room with it. Zelda is almost glad for the ambient noise. Without it, she’s sure she can hear him shifting in his seat, the rustling of his tunic against the velvet chair.

She looks around to find a chair for herself to no avail. He lurches to his feet, disturbing her periphery and causing her to finally look his way.

Then, after months of not hearing his voice at all, she hears him, as clear as day.

“Please, Princess.” His blue eyes are on her, his gloved palm beckoning to the armchair. “Take my seat.”

Zelda shakes her head deliberately. Tilt to the right, tilt to the left. Steadies her voice. “No need, Sir Knight.”

His expression is neutral—always neutral—as he nods. He doesn’t sit back down on the chair.

A few moments later, Veno deems the sketch satisfactory enough for him to start the first few strokes of paint. Zelda watches as he unstoppers a glass bottle—water from the Sacred Springs—and begins diluting a few colors on the palette. He dips the brush into a puddle of cadmium red, aims his brush on the outline of Mipha’s head, and begins painting.

“Goddess, we ask you to grant your blessings to our Zora Champion through each brushstroke laced with your holy water. May You guide her spear, may You guide Vah Ruta, may they strike strong and true.”

With that, Mipha’s portrait session comes to a close.

“Amazing!” Veno exclaims. “Thank you very much for your patience and steady pose, Princess Mipha. I shall continue with this portrait within the month, with the help of the printed photograph from the Slate.”

“Thank you, Veno,” Mipha replies. “I’m truly excited to see the finished product.”

Zelda watches as Mipha makes her way to the side of the room, where he waits. The careful neutral expression has dissipated, making way for another small smile. They’re speaking in low voices so Zelda can only hear bits and pieces. She turns her face away, of course, because she isn’t watching them, and she isn’t eavesdropping.

“—do I look?”

“Very princess-like—”

A feminine giggle.

“—excited for your turn?”

Complete silence.

Stop, Zelda tells herself. She approaches Veno, who is replacing the canvas on the easel with a fresh blank one. The canvas is even larger than the one used to paint Mipha—it is twice the width, the perfect size for a portrait of two people.

A canvas that will soon depict her and him together.

“Veno,” Zelda starts. At his name, the painter tilts his head to look at her. “Say… when you sketch the outline, what do you usually start with? The face? The eyes?”

Say ‘eyes’, please.

“I usually start by penciling the rough outline of the subject, Your Highness,” Veno replies. “So I get a sense of where things are. Afterward, I begin with the facial features. Eyes, nose, lips, and so forth.”

“Could you perhaps get to sketching the eyes as soon as possible?”

Oh, she knows she sounds completely insane, but she can truly kiss sanity goodbye if she has to force herself to look into his eyes for too long.

Veno looks slightly perplexed, but he nods. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Zelda thanks him, exhales through her mouth, and stations herself in the middle of the room, in front of the canvas. Mipha bids her goodbye, and Zelda gives her a smile and a wave. She’d say more, but she’s sure the only thing that can come out of her throat right now is a croak.

She hears the doors creak open, hears Mipha say something to Ingrid the seamstress, but she can hardly pay attention to it. She trains her gaze on the carpet underneath her instead—red and patterned.

“All right,” Veno says from behind his easel. “Sir Link, please stand opposite the Princess.”

A pause.

“Should I hold this or have it on my back?”

At that, Zelda looks up, and sees him with the Sword of Legend’s hilt in his hand, a questioning look in his eyes. This, he said about the Master Sword. Such nonchalance about the holiest, most powerful weapon known to man.

Why did she expect more from a boy who has had it so very easy?

“Great question, Sir Link!” Veno replies. “You can strap it to your back.”

The knight inclines his head and begins to undo his leather baldric. Zelda almost scoffs—has he no sense of propriety at all, to be undoing his garment in front of other people, let alone a princess? Sure, it’s just his crossbelt, but there is something oddly private about the act.

She could tell him that he should excuse himself to the nearest lavatory and reattach the Sword there, but then it’ll just prolong this torture and she just wants to rip the bandage already, so she says nothing.

She watches as he weaves the leather belt around the scabbard’s locket, and she’s still watching as he puts the baldric back across his torso. Once he finishes, she looks away in an instant. Back to gazing at the carpet below her, at the blue and gold hems of her dress.

Then his boots invade her vision. Three paces away from her dark blue pumps. Just like that day half a year ago, in the heart of the Sanctum, pinning a medallion onto the lapel of his uniform. Too little of a distance, she thinks. Too damn little.

High Priestess Piana clears her throat, and Zelda knows that it is time.

She tilts her head up and meets his eyes—the shade of the sea—and realizes that he’s already been looking at her before she even deigned to do the same.

Those blues strike her like lightning.

“All hail the glorious daughter and son of Hyrule, the Goddess Descendant and the Chosen Hero,” High Priestess Piana starts. “Our kingdom’s wisdom and courage, our land’s very own beating heart.”

And Zelda’s beating heart is raging inside her chest as her eyes stay locked with his. The muscles between her ribs expand and expand with each ragged inhale, threatening to burst from the confines of her tight corset.

“Blood and spirit bound together by the threads of fate; the fruit of the vow made between Hylia and her First Hero. Time and time again, the Descendant and the Soul of the Hero meet to bring life and light to the land.”

He is so still he might as well be a marble sculpture from the castle’s gallery. Placid. Stoic. Faultless. Strong.

Perfect. For the kingdom.

In the midst of her wild heartbeat and her aching mind, she wonders about the thoughts that might dwell inside that skull. Wonders if there are any thoughts in there at all.

Though, she supposes she knows what they are—if they indeed exist.

Goddess Descendant without the Goddess’ approval, without the Goddess’ power. Just a girl with an important enough title to be painted alongside the Chosen Hero.

The High Priestess continues.

“A bond that no mortal can comprehend for it is forged by God, conceived by God, and to be consumed by God.”

Zelda wants to laugh, really. At this point, the High Priestess isn’t uttering prayers anymore, but merely waxing poetic.

Blues are still on her greens. Unflinching, unfaltering.

Veno, hurry up, please, please, please.

“Goddess bless the guardians of our kingdom. May She protect them in their holy mission bestowed by Her. May their sacred bond last forevermore.” The High Priestess draws an audible breath. “Praise be to Hylia.”

“Praise be,” Veno echoes. Then, a click is heard—the shutter of the Slate’s camera. “Your Highness, I am finished with the eyes, now.”

Praise be indeed, Zelda thinks and immediately casts her gaze downward, as low as possible without moving her head at all. Her eyes land on his right hand, still at his side except for the occasional curling and uncurling of his fingers.

The only indication that he’s not actually a marble sculpture.

High Priestess Piana continues murmuring strings of prayers, some a repetition of what she has already uttered, and some new. Zelda lets them all wash and wash into nothing but ambient sounds—incoherent, distorted. The sight of his hand blurs in her eyes into a haze of random colors, random shapes.

It doesn’t make those colors and shapes burn less in her mind.

But she tries her damndest to float away anyway. Out of this room. She is not here. She is underwater in her bathtub. She is in bed, a blanket over her body.

Eventually, Veno signals to the High Priestess by setting down the graphite and picking up a brush. Zelda snaps back into this room, into her body that’s growing sore with each second spent standing still. Takes a deep breath. It’s almost over.

“Goddess, we ask You to grant Your blessings to our Princess and her Hylian Champion—” Zelda wants to laugh at the High Priestess, now. He is definitely not hers. “—through each brushstroke laced with Your holy water. May You guide his Sword, may You guide her divine power, may they strike strong and true.”

Zelda exhales.

“Truly an amazing session,” Veno says. Zelda instantly walks away from the knight, towards the artist. “I cannot wait to finish this portrait in particular! It’s as if the Goddess was right here, watching as I sketched and sketched away.”

“Indeed, Veno,” High Priestess Piana says, closing her book. “What a monumental moment. The Princess and the Hero in the fabled portrait.”

Zelda looks at the expanse of the canvas to find her likeness in the rough lines. Gray-black over white except for the few brushstrokes of blue on her dress and his tunic. She follows her line of sight in the drawing, and finds it connecting with his own. Finds the rough lines of him, depleted from all the oceans of blue and wheat and purple crisscrossed with green that make up his existence. Finds his profile that only boasts one of his eyes, but does nothing to diminish the intensity of his gaze.

On Veno’s canvas, he looks more like a god than she does.

“What do you think, Your Highness?” Veno asks.

“It’s a marvel, for sure.” Zelda isn’t lying—Veno is as great an artist as his late father. She has no doubt that he will execute all these portraits perfectly, and it’s not the drawing itself that makes her uneasy.

“Sir Link, come!” Veno calls out, beckoning his finger. Zelda watches the knight turn his head. “You should see, too.”

He comes over, standing by Veno’s other side to look at the drawing. He blinks once, twice, thrice—not a single readable emotion passing through his face—and finally, merely nods in reply.

“What do you think?” Veno raises his brows, still waiting for the Hero’s response.

A memory from a year and a half ago overlays itself on the scene in front of her. A memory from her drawing room. Her mouth shaping a question—‘How did you do it?’ A curt reply from his lips—‘I simply pulled it, Princess.’

Veno doesn’t suffer the same fate as Zelda, however, for the knight eventually replies with a warm “Great work, Veno.”

Well, as warm as those words can be, coming from him.

“Ah, such joy to hear that both Her Highness and Sir Link like it.” The artist grins. The knight leaves his side to stand beside the empty armchair once more. “We shall pause now to eat lunch, but afterward, the High Priestess and I will continue with the other Champions,” he says. “Princess, will you be joining us for the rest of the sessions?”

Zelda mulls it over in her mind. It would perhaps be perceived as rude for her to not at least greet Daruk, Revali, and Urbosa during their sittings, but the exhaustion caused by a multitude of reasons is truly catching up to her now.

Maybe she can drop by at the end of Daruk’s session and catch both him and Revali. As for Urbosa, Zelda can just invite her to the private quarters after her sitting. It’s long overdue for them to catch up, anyway.

So she tells Veno so. She can see the slight disappointment in his red eyes, but he simply nods and bows and takes his leave to the dining hall, alongside High Priestess Piana and Ingrid.

Zelda is almost glad for the moment of respite before realizing that she is very much not alone in the quiet grand chamber.

Though she is facing away from him, she feels it. A heaviness that can’t be explained. A pull within the room. A storm brewing in the corner. A black hole of a presence.

As she leaves the chamber, the heaviness follows.

It’s not his fault, Zelda tells herself. The hallway right outside the grand chamber only leads to one end until after twenty paces or so, when it branches into two other hallways. She walks, step by sure step, feeling his gaze on her back.

It’s just this time, Zelda. It’s just this time.

Finally, she approaches the intersection and turns to the right, to another passage that leads to her tower.

Thankfully, he turns to the left.

Zelda feels that heaviness recede more and more until there’s simply too much distance between them for her to hear his footsteps. Her ribcage still strains inside her corset as she makes her way back into her bedchamber.

Once she returns inside the four walls of her room, she sits by the edge of her bed and breathes and breathes. The back of her eyelids stings. Her nails imprint crescents into the meat of her palms.

Somehow, even without his presence, the heaviness stays.

Two hours before dinnertime, Zelda meets Urbosa in her drawing room for an afternoon tea. Nora has left a three-tiered porcelain tray alongside a pot of rose tea on the coffee table. Savories on the bottom plate, scones and wildberry jam and cream on the middle, and bite-sized sweets on the top.

They sit on the velvet sofa, helping themselves to the delectable pastries in front of them, talking about nothing and everything. About Urbosa’s skirt (which she loves, thank you very much.) About Revali’s scarf, which received a ‘this is very beautiful, Princess,’ to the surprise of Zelda herself, Daruk, and Urbosa.

“How was your painting session?” Urbosa asks, a little glint in her eyes that betrays the harmless veneer of the question.

Zelda glares at her. “It went well. I had a really, really great time.”

Urbosa grins a little. “Yeah, I thought I heard something from the maids when I arrived earlier today,” she says. “Was it that unpleasant?”

“I don’t know.” Zelda grips her teacup tightly in her lap. “He just makes me so uneasy.”

“I understand, little bird,” Urbosa says. “But has he done anything that truly warrants such disdain?”

Oh, yes, Zelda thinks.

It’s his faultlessness. His unassailability. All those qualities that make up him, that have caused so many in this nation to revere him and look down on her. It’s his silence, his refusal to share. His unflinching gaze. The proud lift of his chin. The Sword on his back.

Upon Zelda’s deafening silence, Urbosa sighs. “Perhaps you should try talking to him again.”

Zelda looks at the three-tiered plates in front of her, at the delicious-looking pastries, but all she tastes is bitter bitter bitter.

“I tried that, remember?” she says, trying to steady her voice. “I told you. A year and a half ago, when he just pulled the Sword.”

Her fingers wrap tighter and tighter around the porcelain cup. Amazing that it hasn’t shattered from her grip, really. Though of course, she isn’t strong enough to be able to do such a thing.

“You know, I’ve never told you this, but when your mother and I first met, I wasn’t the warmest and most trusting person,” Urbosa says, taking a chocolate tartlet between her fingers and devouring it in one go. “I had a lot on my mind. I still do, but I haven’t found a way to… unload all that baggage. But your mother, Heroines bless her—she always tried. I truly don’t know what it was that she saw in me, but I guess she knew that past the tough shell, she could find a friend in me. So she tried and tried, until one day, I relented and let her in.” She washes down the pastry with a gulp of tea. “Still the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.”

It isn’t until a tear rolls down Zelda’s cheek and falls onto the dark blue taffeta of her dress that she realizes she’s crying.

Mother. She has not thought of Mother in a long while. Has put her blue eyes and kind smile and soft voice in the far-flung corners of her mind. Stowed those images away just so she does not have to feel that painful ache in her lungs every single day.

“Oh, little bird,” Urbosa murmurs. She sets her teacup down before tucking Zelda into her arms. “I am so sorry. It was not my intention to make you upset.”

Zelda wipes her tears away with the gloved heel of her palm. “It’s okay, I’m just…” She sniffles. “Today has just been a lot, I think. I truly feel exhausted.”

“I know,” Urbosa replies, her fingers running through Zelda’s golden locks. “You know what? Soon, we’ll have dinner, you can watch Mipha and I tease Revali again, and then I’ll have Nora sneak an extra slice of fruitcake to your chambers, and then you can go to sleep,” she says. “Tomorrow is the Inauguration Ceremony, and I know that you’re not particularly fond of the fanfare, but after that, it’ll be over. You’ll get to do what you want to do the most; train us in controlling the Divine Beasts. Research more ancient relics.”

And continue my fruitless prayers, too, Zelda thinks but does not say. It’s a pleasant thought, though, so she squeezes Urbosa’s arm and says, “Thank you.”

Come dinnertime, they eat in the smaller dining room reserved for more intimate affairs. Daruk has excused himself to instead eat rock roasts with the other Goron visitors outside. Mipha and Revali sit across from Zelda and Urbosa, a plate of food in front of each of them. Tonight, it’s sautéed venison with a side of creamed caramelized onions and mashed potatoes, drizzled with applesauce.

“Is, ah—” Mipha starts, her amber eyes glowing by the candlelight. “Is Link not joining us?”

Zelda freezes. “He has matters to attend to with the Commander of the Royal Guard.”

That’s a lie. Zelda doesn’t know what he’s up to. Never had, never will. But Mipha is a perfectly kind guest and peer, and now a Champion, and Zelda knows that the Zora Princess is rather fond of the Hero, so she has to make something up.

“That’s rather unfortunate,” Mipha says before beginning to enjoy her meal.

“Very fortunate, actually,” Revali chimes in.

Urbosa rolls her eyes.

They converse amiably, and towards the end of their meal, Urbosa does deliver what she’s promised by asking Revali what he thinks about the portrait session.

“I thought it was completely unnecessary,” he scoffs, beak still full of venison. “As if a set of paintings can save us from the Calamity.”

Zelda’s hands stop slicing her food at that. I know, Revali. I know.

“Ah, Revali,” Mipha smirks. “Isn’t a personal portrait painted by hand quite the achievement, though? I’m sure no one in Rito Village has had their likeness displayed at Hyrule Castle.”

“Whatever,” Revali sighs, earning a laugh from Urbosa.

Once finished, they bid each other good night and retreat to their respective guest chambers. Zelda returns to her room, but does not undress and put on her nightgown to go to bed.

She changes into her prayer gown, puts a robe around her shoulders, and makes her way to the main wing of the castle and past the archway that leads to the small chapel. Zelda looks down at the training yard from behind the parapet to find no one, though she can still feel it, see it—phantom honey blonde glinting in the phantom sunlight.

She pushes the doors to the chapel open, the sacred room illuminated in orange from the lit torches. She lets the robe fall onto the stone floor and steps towards the pool, into the cool water, down, down, down, until it laps against her waist again.

Zelda isn’t completely sure why she is here. Perhaps she just wants to take an evening bath without having to prepare the tub in her washroom. Perhaps it is a last resort—to once again seek help from a Goddess that has never once listened to her prayers.

For the first time in her life, she falls to her knees in the pool, and the water goes up to her chin. Her blonde locks fan out like a halo around her.

Silently, Zelda prays.

She asks for her sealing power, yet again. She asks for Father to be more lenient towards her. She asks for the Inauguration Ceremony to go well tomorrow.

She asks for a remedy to the burn inside her mind caused by his gaze.

She closes her eyes, clasps her hands in front of her chest and prays and prays, but the Goddess—

The Goddess can be quite cruel, Zelda knows it. She has known it her whole life.

Because then and there, it feels like the Goddess has struck her with the image of the Chosen Hero—all blue and gold and violet—branding it onto the back of her eyelids. The more she prays it away, the more searing the image.

When Zelda opens her eyes to escape it, she’s met with that stony, benevolent gaze again, the Goddess looking down at her with an ethereally smug smile as if to say—

You fool. There is no remedy.

Chapter Text

The Inauguration Ceremony proceeded without so much of a hitch.

It was everything Father could have hoped for, Zelda knows. Each councilor and advisor was present, an approving smile on their faces. Each Champion’s oath was voiced in the Sanctum with resounding confidence. And Zelda stood in the middle of it all, with her battlewear on—all royal blue and white and gold—and the weight of a mountain sitting upon her shoulders.

After the ceremony, the five Champions joined her in walking through the main streets of Castle Town for a meet-and-greet, shaking as many hands of her subjects as possible, thanking them for their well-wishes and prayers and cheers.

She felt like a fraud the whole time—unsure if she deserved the cheers as much as her Champions do—but now, at least, the event is almost over.

To wrap up the day’s fanfare, a lavish state banquet is to be thrown in the main dining hall of the castle. A long table has been set, covered from end to end with red and gold linen. The porcelains are meticulously laid out across the surface, complete with brass utensils and chalices of different sizes. A napkin is placed on each plate, rolled neatly into a gold serviette ring embossed with the Royal crest. A long and ornate surtout de table lines the middle, displaying gilded metal vases full of Hyrule’s flora and numerous candelabras.

The monarch and the heir apparent always enter the dining hall last, after all the guests have been seated, so Zelda stands before the closed doors, her hand on the crook of Father’s arm.

“You did well today, Zelda,” Father whispers.

Her heart flips. “Thank you, Father.”

From beyond the doors, she hears Father’s courtier announcing their imminent presence.

Please rise for His Majesty the King Rhoam of Hyrule, and Her Highness the Crown Princess Zelda of Hyrule.

The doors swing open, revealing their many, many guests along both sides of the table. Zelda still holds Father’s arm as they make their way through the room, toward Father’s throne at the head of the table. A servant pulls back the empty chair to the left of the throne, and Zelda slips between the chair and the table but does not sit. To her pleasure, Urbosa is standing to her left.

But then she looks up, and right across the table, to the right of the throne, is the Chosen Hero. His eyes are on her, blues licked by firelight. His baldric holding the Sword hangs around the ear of the chair—always within his reach.

Zelda silently curses whoever has done the seating arrangement.

It’s definitely Father, she thinks, and the thought agitates her even more.

Another servant pulls back the throne, but before sitting down, Father takes a brass chalice in his left hand, a spoon in his right, and clinks them together.

“Again, everyone, I would like to thank all of you for being here today, in the heart of this kingdom, to celebrate such a momentous occasion,” he starts. “Now, I will not let this drag on, since I am sure you are waiting to enjoy all this delicious food and wine…” The guests chuckle. “So I shall make a quick toast.”

Father raises the chalice high, and the guests follow suit. So much gold in the air, shining from candlelight.

“To victory.”

The chalice in Zelda’s hand weighs a ton.

A chorus of voices bursts out, echoing those two words. And with that, the banquet begins.

The servants come to serve the first course—hearty salmon tartare sprinkled with croutons and herb sauce. Clinks of metal against porcelain fill up the room, along with the chatters of at least fifteen different conversations going all at once.

Father chats with Urbosa, recalling the days when they used to sit in this very hall, eating and laughing with Mother, a three-year-old Zelda in her lap. Though Zelda is grateful for the lack of politicking (they’ve done more than enough of it for today), hearing those stories that she has no recollection of sends an unexplainable pang in her chest.

And how can she forget—the Hero is sitting across from her, quiet as always, except for the movements of his hands, the fork that prongs each piece of salmon.

Zelda knows he’s listening. And the thought of him knowing some parts of her early childhood makes her uneasy. He already holds so much in his hands—things that she does not have. Blessings from the Goddess. Respect from her people. Respect from her own father.

He can’t possibly have a piece of her in his hands, too.

“Ah, the good old days,” Urbosa’s husky voice slices through Zelda’s thoughts. “Our little bird here always wanted to join the adults no matter what. Always giving her two rupees about everything—not that it was ever unwelcome.” She winks at Zelda. “You always had to be whisked away by your mother’s lady-in-waiting.”

Father barks a laugh. “There was that one time, too, during a state banquet with all the military chiefs of Hyrule, when she came in with her stuffed sand seal, asking the Queen if she could read her a bedtime story,” he says. “How hilarious! Having our discussion on border safety be interrupted by her sweet voice. I think it was Sir William who had to gently lead little Zelda away from the room.”

Zelda squints at her barely-touched food. The name—

Oh no, Goddess. Please no.

Father turns his head to face the Hero. “Speaking of—it is truly a blessing to have you here, Link. Your father would have been really proud.”

Father is proud of him, too—Zelda can see it in his eyes, the softness of his smile. And the sight burns right through her heart.

The boy’s voice is small. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Thankfully, Father doesn’t continue beyond that.

By the time the second course is served—bird suprême with hearty radish and potato gratin—Father has had his wine goblet refilled four times, and the room grows louder with boisterous peals of laughter. Zelda doesn’t talk much and finds refuge in the sight of the sumptuous-looking food on her plate.

Her hearing wanders and wanders, listening to the chatters around her. To Urbosa’s chuckling and Revali’s sneers. Further along the table—to Impa’s lively argument with Purah. Then back to the voices much closer to her—to a feminine voice, hushed and soft.

Zelda looks up to find Mipha leaning into the knight’s right ear, her mouth moving, but the room is far too loud for Zelda to be able to hear her. He nods every now and then, an indication that he is listening, though not a word passes his lips.

They have known each other for a while—that much, Zelda knows. She finds herself wondering what it is like to be his friend. To know him before the Sword chose him. Though she supposes he couldn’t be all that different back then; she has heard the stories from every corner of the castle, the town, the land. How he could best adult men in combat from such an early age. How he has been the best Hylian archer there is, much to Revali’s chagrin.

But those are biographical facts. Those do not reveal what lies beneath the surface—his thoughts, his hopes, his dreams, his fears, if there are any. And Zelda has tried. Oh, did she try to coax it out of him, but it was for naught.

Does Mipha know them? Has she successfully coaxed it out of him? Or did he unravel himself to her?

Zelda’s stomach churns. She looks down at her plate again, and her bird suprême is still only half-eaten. It’s seared to perfection—golden brown on the top, sprinkled with black pepper—but even that does nothing to her dwindling appetite.

At last, dessert is served, which puts a little smile on her face. Tonight, it’s tarte tatin with apples picked from the castle gardens, served with a cup of umeshu sourced from Kakariko Village. While the tart tastes delicious, she tries to devour it as quickly as possible, eager to retreat to the privacy of her bedchambers.

She can hear Mother’s voice in her head.

As hosts, we usually leave last to show consideration to our guests.

But she is not Mother, she has never been as good as Mother, and Mother is long gone, and Father will be staying until late anyway, so Zelda rises from her seat.

The others are too preoccupied with their conversations and the dessert, but she can feel his gaze on her. Always. Feels it prickle her skin as she bids the Champions and the others a polite goodbye. Feels it follow her, branding her, as she kisses Father’s cheek and leaves the room.

Once she’s in the hallway, treading the carpeted stone floors, she finally feels the empty space in her stomach, and realizes that she is still very much hungry.

In the morning, Zelda is awakened by the soft rustling of curtains and the thuds of footsteps in her room, but is surprised when she realizes that the person who is helping Nora carry out her morning routine is not Wendi.

Zelda surges upright in her bed, and finds one of the most prominent royal advisors in Father’s court carrying a cup of tea and an envelope to her bedside.

“Impa?”

“Good morning, Princess!” Impa smiles, placing the teacup on the nightstand. She’s already in her Sheikah garb, her long silver tresses neatly styled in the traditional updo of her tribe. Zelda suddenly feels too conscious of her current state—her hair no doubt looks like a haystack from tossing and turning in her sleep.

“Last I recall…” Zelda picks the sleep from her eyes, “…your job description does not include bringing breakfast for the Princess.”

“Perhaps not,” Impa says. “But I just want to give this to you. Personally.”

Zelda takes the envelope offered from Impa’s hand, inspecting the item. On the back is stamped wax, the familiar seal of the Royal Ancient Lab.

Her head immediately jerks up to meet Impa’s eyes. She tries to hide the pure excitement in her voice, though she knows it definitely isn’t working. “The Guardians are functioning?”

Impa nods enthusiastically.

Zelda jumps out of her bed, messy hair and crumpled nightgown be damned, and wraps her arms around Impa. The older woman laughs, hugging her back.

“Wow. I knew you would be happy to hear the news, Princess, but not like this.”

“I don’t care,” Zelda says into the crook of Impa’s shoulder. “I have been waiting for it for so, so long!”

Eventually, Zelda withdraws, plops herself on the edge of the bed, and rips open the envelope—she can’t be bothered to retrieve her letter opener from her desk. Inside it is a piece of paper, scrawled with Hylian.

To Her Highness
the Princess Zelda

I am very pleased to inform you that our collective efforts to activate the excavated Guardians have been fruitful. Today, we will transport two Guardians from the lab to the castle. We shall be ready to showcase them to you and His Majesty the King at the eastern assembly yard tomorrow before noon.

Sincerely,
Doctor Robbie

Fruitful. That word sends something warm through her. Not hope—hope is a dangerous thing for her to have, especially after all these years—but something close enough.

She hands the letter back to Impa. “Thank you.”

Impa shrugs, though there’s something fond about her expression. “I’m merely the messenger, Princess.”

“No, but this—coming here to surprise me with such news…” Zelda smiles. “It means a lot to me, Impa. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Princess,” Impa says, laying her hand on Zelda’s, giving it a squeeze. “Always.”

The letter from Robbie breathes a new energy into Zelda as she goes on about her day. She stands in the water and performs her daily supplication. Even though she’s met with yet another stretch of silence and that familiar weight of futility, it doesn’t bring her spirits down as much as it usually does.

Revali, Mipha, Urbosa, and Daruk are still staying at the castle and are due to leave in a few days, so Zelda gladly gives them a tour of each palatial wing, playing the perfect host to make up for her early departure from the banquet last night. She shows them the gardens, the wine cellar, the library—the jewels of the castle. She decides to forgo her private chambers for obvious reasons, and avoids the barracks and armory. Also for obvious reasons.

The day passes rather quickly in the company of her Champions, and the next thing Zelda knows, it is tomorrow morning and she is making her way to the assembly yard, accompanied by her guards.

Impa is already there, underneath the canopied balcony where the spectators will stand and watch. Zelda looks down from behind the balustrade and sees Purah and Robbie on the lower level, conversing with the other Sheikah researchers as they wait for the King to arrive. Zelda is rather impatient and excited, however, so she descends the stairs to the yard to join them, stepping closer to the spider-like automatons. The gravel beneath her shoes dirty the hems of her royal gown, but she couldn’t care less.

Purah, Robbie, and the other researchers give her a polite bow, but Zelda immediately waves them off with a wide smile. On the balcony, she may be a princess. But here, on the sandy grounds with the sun beating down on her scalp, she is a fellow scholar among her colleagues.

“How are they doing?” Zelda asks, her gaze running up and down each silver leg, flitting about the swirling patterns of gold and black on its body.

“They’re doing a-okay, Princess,” Robbie says, a stack of papers in his arm. “This one here is just for display—that’s why the eye isn’t lit up. This one, however…” he gestures at the other Guardian with a soft blue glow emanating from its eye, “is on standby. We’ll fully activate it soon, when His Majesty is present, so we can see it wake to its full glory!”

Zelda nods. “What will the demonstration entail?”

“Well,” Purah starts, “this isn’t the largest field for it to wander in, so we’ll just let it crawl back and forth along the length of the yard, and then we have prepared some targets there—“ she points at the circular wooden boards marked with an incomprehensible pattern, “—so we can also show their firepower and range.” She pouts upon seeing an erected tent and some cook pots near the targets. “Oh Goddess, who thought of setting up camp so damn close to the targets?!”

Zelda looks around, and sees a couple of knights—the ones that have been stationed here since last night to guard over the Sheikahs—trying to retreat further into their helmets, a slight look of guilt etched into their faces.

“Not to worry, though, Princess,” Robbie chimes in. “My beautiful baby has lasers so precise it can shoot a tiny pebble!” He lays his hand on the golden groove on the Guardian’s body. Though his eyes are covered by his goggles, Zelda can almost see the affection in them, and she grins at the thought of this man who loves machines like one would a spouse.

The chattering and murmurs suddenly hush, and Zelda knows precisely where to look. She tilts her head up to see Father arrive, Urbosa, Mipha, Revali, and a few councilors and royal guards trailing behind him, underneath the temporary canopy, shielded from the rather scorching sunlight. It’s so bright out that she can’t exactly make out the outline of their faces, but she supposes that it’s a reprieve of some sort. She knows Father would want her to be up there, to stand as a princess and Goddess Descendant, comport herself in a dignified manner. Oh, she can already imagine the sort of face he has on right now—the face he usually flashes at her when he’s decided that she’s had too much fun at the lab.

Zelda doesn’t bother to shield her eyes from the sun and squint to truly look at him. She walks away, towards the brick walls, where the other scientists now stand to make space for the Guardian.

Then it’s Purah and Robbie in the middle of the yard, dropping one knee on the sand to kneel before the King.

“Thank you, Doctor Purah and Doctor Robbie.” Father’s voice booms from up above. “I believe we are ready to see what these Guardians can do!”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Robbie replies, his voice just as loud. “Ladies and gentlemen, these Guardians are crucial weapons that can help our Princess and our Champions in defeating Calamity Ganon. The ones you see before you are only two among the thousands that our ancestors left us ten thousand years ago.”

Purah continues. “So, today, we would like to demonstrate the abilities of these ancient machines, and show you the importance of excavating and restoring as many as we can before time runs out.”

Before time runs out. Zelda feels a twinge of dread at the words, but before she could fall down into yet another hole of fear and loathing, she sees Robbie insert a screwdriver into the slit between the Guardian’s head and body, and the machine finally fully lights up, glowing orange.

Its cylindrical head spins back and forth, and the yard turns awfully quiet, save for the whirring sounds emitted by the Guardian. Zelda holds her breath as each metal part of the legs clicks and shifts, as they begin to move and crawl around the yard. Robbie carefully leads the living machine around the perimeter of the yard, avoiding getting too close to the spectators on the ground.

But Zelda can still see the sheer power that it holds—the tough and indestructible-looking metal that makes up its body. She hears the soft beep, beep, beep that it makes as its blue eye scans its surroundings, searching for its ancient foe. Even being in the presence of one of them is enough to send shivers down her spine, despite the fact that it’s a weapon created to aid their side of the war. She imagines thousands of these machines crawling all over Hyrule Field, pelting their fires at Calamity Ganon as the Champions rain down their wrath through the Divine Beasts.

Zelda feels that warmth again—not hope, she’s still fearful to name it that, but something akin to it. That maybe, just maybe, all these blueprints left for them by their ancestors and all these weapons and the Champions are enough of a defense against the Calamity.

That if the Goddess does actually plan on abandoning her descendant, they might still have a shot at winning.

The Guardian successfully crawled its first lap around the yard, earning scattered applause from the balcony and the ground. Robbie walks around the machine to stand behind it again and does the same thing he did earlier with the screwdriver.

“Now, we will demonstrate the firepower of the Guardian through a set of targets that we have painted with a special pattern only the Guardian will recognize,” Purah explains as Robbie continues to tinker with the machine. “Of course, in the event of the Calamity, the Guardians will immediately seek and target any creature that has been corrupted with the Calamity and, of course, Calamity Ganon itself.” She continues. “However, for the purpose of this demonstration, we have installed a set of codes within the Guardian’s innermost system that will trigger its laser function.”

Robbie finishes his work and steps further away from the automaton as it starts to spin its head in a more predatory manner, seeking out its made-up enemy. It crawls closer and closer toward the far side of the yard, to where the targets stand. Then Zelda hears it—the steady beeps that grow faster, the spidery legs that clearly tread the sand with purpose.

Its head extends upward, its legs still, and Zelda braces herself for the impending sound of explosion—beepbeepbeepbeepbeep—

But it never comes.

The head spins and the machine whirs and whirs and it’s suddenly making its way back to the center of the yard, and Robbie is yelling something at Purah and Purah is yelling back at Robbie and there’s commotion around them, murmurs of worries coming from everywhere—

The Guardian shoots its first rogue blast. The tent that was set up nearby is now reduced to a sheet of canvas on fire. The cook pots fly and land somewhere.

Behind Zelda, the Sheikahs run and bolt to the stairs that lead to the balcony, to the castle. Two knights run toward her, but are immediately hindered when those tough, silver legs go haywire and sweep the knights off their feet. Adrenaline kicks in within her, and she tries to quickly calculate whether to join the crushing crowd heading toward the nearest stairs or to make a run for the stairs on the other side of the balcony that is emptier but sure as Nayru is farther away from her.

The other stairs, Zelda.

She hikes up the skirts of her dress in her fists and runs. The fallen knights scream for her to stop, but she’s not listening. She runs as fast as she can until she eventually trips on her damn gown—this stupid royal gown—and falls to the ground.

The Guardian maneuvers its legs to turn around and face her.

It all happens rather fast after that.

There’s still so much distance between it and her, but she knows it doesn’t matter. Its head extends upward again, and she hears those horrifying beeps and feels her heartbeat in her throat, her head, her eyes, sees the red laser aiming at the wall, not far from her right.

Even if it doesn’t shoot directly at her, the radius of the blast is wide enough to hurt her.

It will hurt her.

In the split second before she closes her eyes, she sees someone run straight into the line of fire. A blur of blue and honey blonde and purple.

Zelda’s blood runs cold.

The Guardian fires the second blast.

And Hylia’s Chosen Hero deflects that blast with a lid from the fallen cook pot on his left arm. The fireball ricochets back to the rogue machine. It lets out a rattling sound before the legs give out, the metal body falling to the ground. Sand dust fills the air.

Robbie cries a ‘No!’ from somewhere. Somewhere in the yard. Yells from the balcony above—Father’s voice. A cacophony of panicked murmurs and everything in between. Zelda doesn’t hear anything. Her ears ring and ring. Her breath comes out ragged and harsh. She can taste the sand on her tongue.

He stands there, his wide-eyed gaze on her, in the middle of the yard, the carcass of months’ worth of work and research behind him. His shoulders rise and fall with each deep, purposeful breath. Sunlight upon his golden hair, upon the golden details of his scabbard.

A reproach disguising itself as the sun.

Someone’s touching her shoulder. “Princess! Princess, are you all right?”

Impa.

Zelda swallows and turns her head, and nods. That’s all she can manage right now; a simple nod.

“Can you get up, Princess?” Impa asks.

“I— I think so.”

Impa rises from her knees and offers a hand to Zelda. Zelda takes it, and realizes that her own feels clammy.

She gets onto her feet and her lips quiver at the sight of the dead Guardian. And he is still there, still looking at her.

And as Impa whisks her away and helps her ascend the stairs, as the other knights rush to the yard to secure the area and check for damages and injuries, Zelda can only think that she was right to not name the warmth she briefly felt earlier as hope.

Because hope, once it nestles itself inside her, can only hurt.

The Court immediately called for an impromptu council meeting, and that meeting is now in session behind the closed doors of the throne room. Zelda heard it from Impa earlier, before she was taken to the medical wing to be scanned for any potential injuries.

When she asked the older woman what the discussions would be about, Impa merely shot her an apologetic look.

And somehow, Zelda knew. She knows what, or rather who, all those councilors and advisors are talking about right now.

Four letters. A name with four letters. A name that she can’t even think about, let alone mouth aloud, because the shape of it leaves a bitter taste on her tongue.

Zelda paces around her room, back and forth. Back and forth. Feels the slight sting from the small cut on her wrist from when she tripped and fell in the yard. A small cut that feels like nothing compared to the wound inside her, open and wide from the dawn of today’s failure.

It’s right before dinnertime when she hears a knock on her door, and she swings it open to find Impa standing before her. Gone is that look of optimism that she had seen on her friend yesterday morning, with a letter that promised exciting things to come.

What Zelda sees on Impa’s face right now is something like pity. Pity for her.

And she supposes that she already knows the answer.

She ushers Impa into her chamber, and closes the doors behind her.

“Just tell me,” Zelda breathes out.

Impa swallows audibly. “You are not going to like it, Princess.”

“Just…” Zelda squeezes her eyes shut. Bites her bottom lip. “Tell me. Please. I’d rather hear it first from you than Father.”

Impa nods. “We are still going to continue our research into the Guardians and the ancient relics as usual. Robbie and Purah have spoken about today’s mishap, and it was due to a faulty core within the Guardian. It shouldn’t happen again,” she says, but Zelda still holds her breath, because that's rather a piece of good news.

“And?”

Impa inhales, resolute. “And, the King has decided to make Sir Link your appointed knight.”

Something shatters in Zelda’s mind.

“Was there any disagreement from the councilors?” she asks, voice small.

“A few. Though the Sword’s chosen, some didn’t like the idea of the Princess being solely guarded by someone not of noble birth,” Impa says. “But His Majesty was adamant, very adamant. And, well. What His Majesty wants…”

“His Majesty gets,” Zelda finishes.

Something sour bubbles up in her throat and it comes out in short bursts of laughter. Once she starts laughing, she actually can’t find it within herself to stop, and it’s an ugly sound. She laughs and laughs because how can a day turn so, so wrong? She came out of this very room in the morning with a smile and something to look forward to, and now she’s laughing maniacally and losing her mind as the realization finally sinks in.

That the boy who reminds her of everything that she could never be is going to be her appointed knight. Appointed knight. Hours and hours that she will have to bear underneath that burning gaze, accompanied by a rebuke in the form of his silence and his Sword. Days and days that they will have to spend together on the road.

Impa walks toward her, attempts to pull her into a hug, but Zelda steps back. She will not go down without a fight. “Where is Father?”

“Princess…”

“Impa, please.” Her voice breaks. “Where is he now?”

“I believe he has retreated to his drawing room,” Impa answers softly.

Zelda bolts out of her bedchamber and makes her way to Father’s private quarters. Each step thunders through the hallway until she ascends the staircase to his apartment, until she holds the brass door-knocker and slams it onto the wooden surface.

“Come in!”

She storms the room, and without a preamble, she says, “You can’t do this to me, Father.”

Father doesn’t look up from all the documents scattered on his study desk. “Do what, dear daughter?”

Oh, we’re doing this.

She steps forward. “Father, I don’t understand why you must torment me so.”

Father laughs at that. “Torment?” He raises his silver brows. “Zelda, why do you always have a penchant for melodrama? How is assigning the most capable swordsman in this entire kingdom to protect you a torment?”

“I already have capable men in my security detail,” she replies. “Brave, capable men.”

“And yet it was Sir Link who came to your aid earlier today.” Father sighs. “Zelda, like I said, I truly do not know what it is that makes you see him with such contempt, but this is not to be debated,” he says. “Sir Link shall be your appointed knight, and he shall accompany you at all times, except when you are within castle premises.”

Her eyes burn. She knows she’s losing this war, perhaps she has already lost it the moment that boy pulled the Sword out of its pedestal, but she still carries on. “Have you even considered the other royal guards for this role?”

“Do you think I have not thought this through over and over again in my mind?” Father truly sounds exhausted now, but she thinks that that’s the least he should bear after all that has transpired today. “Truth be told, I have thought about assigning him as your appointed knight for a while. But today sealed the deal for me.”

“But Fa—”

“Zelda, enough.” Father’s voice is stern. “Link will be your appointed knight, period. Your Champion, Daruk, even suggested something earlier that I thought would be beneficial for our efforts in awakening your power; you must perform the fabled ceremony of legend with Link, as written in the ancient text.”

Zelda snorts—our efforts? Was it Father who passed out in freezing waters two winters ago in his endeavors to access a power that is supposed to be his birthright? Was it he who spent a decade offering countless orisons only to be met with complete silence every single time?

She looks up at the ceiling, and again, wishes for it to crack and give out and crash onto her head. Because everything that could go wrong today did go wrong.

“You are to practice your part of the procession tomorrow with your knight. The day after that, you will convene with him and the other Champions at the Sacred Ground and perform the ceremony.”

“Practice?”

“Yes. The two of you. From what I understand, he has an oath he must utter to you, too,” Father says. “Zelda, consider this an opportunity for you to talk to him, learn from him. After all, he has fulfilled his destiny, while yours still eludes you.”

There it is. The crux of the matter. What he has, she lacks.

And to be beside him is to remind people, remind herself, and remind him that where he flourishes, she falls short. Each time.

There are words coming out of both their mouths, Zelda knows. But they matter not—a mere noise in the grand scheme of things. A noise in a loud universe that already has another plan for her.

She’s fought this battle to the very end and she has lost, and now her feet are dragging the rest of her body back to her bedchamber.

Though the promise of tears is there, welling in her cheekbones and stinging the back of her eyes, she wills it away, bites it down.

If her tears are the only thing she can control in this world, Zelda will make sure she controls it well.

Chapter Text

Usually, the maids come in at seven in the morning with an assortment of breakfast foods in tow. Now, it’s half past five, but Zelda is already awake and out of bed, the morning light from the summer sun leaking through the drawn curtains.

She sits at her desk, a quill between trembling fingers, a lit candle flickering nearby, illuminating the piece of paper in front of her. The surface remains empty, awaiting the scratch of her handwriting.

Father gave her an assignment last night, amidst the raging storm in her brain; today, she is to send a note to the barracks. A note that shall invite the Chosen Hero to her drawing room so they may rehearse the ceremony together.

She takes a deep breath, dips the quill in the inkwell, and begrudgingly, she begins.

To Sir

She must write his name. She must. Anything less than that would be considered rude.

To Sir Link,

As the King has instructed, we are to perform the ceremony of legend at the Sacred Ground tomorrow, per the records that have been found in the ancient Sheikah text.

That explains it well, she thinks. There is an emphasis on the King’s order and the ancient text. A perfectly polite way to express that his appointment is in no way something that she has control over, let alone something she wants.

Kindly see me in my drawing room at 1500 today so we may rehearse the ceremony together.

Writing the word ‘together’ is almost as hard as writing his name.

Now comes the difficult part—how to sign off the letter? Usually, she ends formal letters that she’d send to courtiers with a ‘Cordially’. To Impa, she would end it with ‘See you soon’.

She refuses to use ‘Cordially’ right now because that means warm and friendly—adjectives she would never use to describe whatever it is that exists between her and the Hero.

‘Sincerely’? No. There is nothing sincere about this letter. Nothing sincere about the words she has meticulously chosen to scrawl upon this paper.

Zelda sighs and ends it simply with her title and her name. Nothing more, nothing less.

She puts her quill down and gently blows at the paper, helping the ink dry faster. Draws the paper closer to her eyes, inspecting each letter, making sure the cellulose has fully absorbed the dark, opaque liquid. Her eyes stay glued to his name, stark black against bone white. A name that she has written neatly and beautifully, showing her regal penmanship, despite the endless displeasure that dwelled within her as she composed the letter.

She folds the paper in the middle, the top of it meeting the bottom, his inked name pressed against hers. Inserts it into an envelope, pours melted wax on the sealing flap, and stamps it with her monogram.

There’s a bit more than an hour left until her maids come, so Zelda leaves the envelope on her desk, returns to bed, and slips underneath the blanket. Hides herself from the rising sun that will bring about the day, that will bring her closer and closer to the moment when she has to endure his heavy presence yet again.

Though she knows any attempt to sleep will prove useless, she closes her eyes anyway.

And there, on the back of her eyelids, white against black—she sees his name again.

No escape.

When Nora and Wendi finally come, Zelda rises from her bed and hands the letter to Nora.

“Could you kindly deliver this post-haste to the Hylian Champion?”

Nora’s eyes widen. “T-to Sir Link?”

“Yes,” Zelda replies quietly.

Her maid’s cheeks redden at that, and Zelda tries her best to not roll her eyes. This has been the trend since a year and a half ago—maids reduced to giggles and blushes at the mention of his name. It’s absolutely infuriating.

“I-I’d be happy to, Your Highness!” Nora nods enthusiastically, like she’s just been given a pouch of gold rupees. She scurries out of the bedchamber, the letter clutched in her hands as Wendi serves breakfast.

After her meal, Zelda changes to her prayer dress, then finds herself waist-deep in the pool again, her hands clasped tightly between her breasts, and stares into the Goddess statue’s eyes as her voice fills up the chapel.

She can’t find it within herself to improvise her prayers from the heart today, not after everything that transpired yesterday, so she merely recites the lines that have been branded onto her brain since she was a child, and repeats them until the words start to lose all meaning to her ears.

During lunch, she dines with Urbosa, Mipha, Revali, and Daruk underneath a gazebo hidden in the nook inside the castle garden’s labyrinth. A servant has brought them a large wicker basket full of sandwiches and a bottle of wildberry cordial. It’s a beautiful summer day—not a single cloud in the sky.

The same can’t be said about the brewing storm within her.

“I apologize that so many things have rather… developed unexpectedly within the past few days, and that the King has required your presence here at the castle for longer than we’ve originally planned,” Zelda says.

“It ain’t a problem to me at all, Princess!” Daruk replies before he munches on his rock roast. “I was the one who suggested the ceremony thing to the King anyway. So I’m actually pretty thrilled!”

Revali scoffs. “Thank you very much for that, Daruk,” he says. “I could be at home training and beginning my work with Vah Medoh, but instead I have to be subjected to yet more unnecessary pomp for that lowly knight.”

“I think Vah Medoh can wait two more days.” Urbosa rolls her eyes. “And besides, last I checked, air is quite literally everywhere. You can train anywhere you want.”

“Sure I can, but the winds here in Central Hyrule are way too mild, too gentle. Too easy of an obstacle,” Revali sneers.

Though Revali’s condescending tone can be quite irritating at times, Zelda can honestly understand his frustration; they were supposed to leave right after the Inauguration Ceremony, but at Father’s request, they had to stay to witness the Guardian demonstration. And look at how that turned out.

“Again, I cannot thank all of you enough for being so flexible with the sudden changes,” Zelda says. “I can assure you that tomorrow, after the ceremony, you all can return home.”

“It’s quite all right, Princess Zelda.” Mipha smiles, though her gaze seems distant. “I have rather enjoyed my time here at the castle. You have been such a perfect host.”

Oh, Zelda knows that to not be true; she has been a poor host, one that would definitely have disappointed Mother. And she knows that Mipha has found the castle to be quite enjoyable because of another reason entirely.

And that reason is Zelda’s three o’clock.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” Zelda smiles back.

So they eat and talk about the many things that await them in the months to come: training with the Divine Beasts, more Guardian research (without all the uncontrollable explosions and property damage), more expeditions that will hopefully unearth the other ancient relics.

When all the sandwiches have been devoured and there is no more cordial left in the bottle, they return inside the castle and Zelda excuses herself from the company of her Champions. Though they don’t know what the day has in store for her, Urbosa’s virescent gaze on her—ever thorough and understanding—tells that she knows.

“It will be okay, little bird,” she says, her hand on Zelda’s shoulder.

Zelda lays her own atop it, squeezes it, mouths a ‘thank you’.

The other Champions look at them, a question mark clear in their expressions, but they say nothing. They turn around and saunter away, leaving Zelda alone underneath the archway of the hallways.

All right, then.

She makes her way to her private quarters, to her bedchamber. There is a little over an hour left, so she stands before her wardrobe in the corner and sifts through her many, many dresses and blouses. Her standard blue royal gown is still being mended by Ingrid due to her unfortunate fall yesterday, so she must find a better substitute for it.

She must don her best armor, for she is heading into battle, after all.

Mother has left her quite a number of her old garments, which Zelda adores, but most of them are a bit too baroque and at times too revealing for her own taste, and she absolutely does not want her outfit to be misconstrued by him as anything other than modest formalwear.

Zelda ends up opting for Mother’s peach button-down silk dress that falls to her mid-calves. The neckline features a bow collar in the same color, and the sleeves cover the entire length of her arms and end with buttoned cuffs. Without her maids’ help, it takes her a bit longer to fasten the buttons around her wrists, but eventually, she manages. In no time, the dress is properly wrapped around her figure.

She looks into the mirror, and a prayer somehow swells on her tongue. Not to Hylia, however. Hylia won’t listen anyway.

Mother, grant me your courage and grace through this dress.

With half an hour left to kill, she does the braids on the crown of her head, tight and neat, not a single loose lock or flyaway to be seen. She could wear her diadem, but she knows it would look rather out of place with the dress, and this is not a meeting that calls for extravagance or elaborateness, so her braids will do just fine.

Now that she’s all armored up, Zelda walks to her desk and picks up the paper that she had scrawled on last night, containing a transcription of the speech that her ancestor had uttered to the past Hero, ten thousand years ago.

Hero of Hyrule, chosen by the Sword that seals the Darkness…

She’s tried her best to memorize it within such short notice, but she suspects she will have to cheat and peek at the paper during the rehearsal.

Which is completely all right, she thinks. After all, it is only a rehearsal.

She gazes up at the clock on the wall. Fifteen to three.

Something indescribable coils deep within her gut but she ignores it, pushes it away. She exits her bedchamber, walks down the hall of her private apartment, to the drawing room.

The room has always been decorated in a manner that is both warm and home-like, but also formal and refined enough to host guests. And while Zelda enters the chamber through the door that directly leads to her apartment, on the opposite side of the room is another door that leads to a public hallway—the proper entrance for guests, allowing them to enter the drawing room without ever gaining access to the rest of her apartment.

Zelda’s eyes flit about, finding that everything is in order, until they land on the coffee table. Because there, atop the marble surface, is a set of three-tiered plates, boasting an assortment of pastries and sconces. There are two empty porcelain cups on opposite sides of the table, a steaming teapot in between them.

The sight fills her with horror.

Goddess damn Nora—it’s quite a blasphemy toward her tradition of afternoon teas. Because afternoon teas are to be had with friends, with loved ones. To be enjoyed thoroughly and unhurriedly as the room is filled with relaxed chatter and laughter. And the thought that her maid perceived the Hero as her friend makes her want to crawl out of her skin.

Zelda gazes at the clock again. Two to three.

He must already be on the other side of the guest’s door now. Waiting with the other guard stationed just outside, waiting to be let in. And that other guard is waiting to hear the chime of the call bell—the explicit go-ahead that Zelda must give.

Her pulse batters in her throat as she picks up the handbell from the table.

She looks at the clock again. Three on the dot.

A deep breath fills her lungs. A breath that does nothing to ease what feels like a rock lodged in her windpipe.

She shakes the bell, and the peal it emits is deafening.

The guest’s door swings open, and the castle guard—Sir Masson, Zelda notes—enters the room, bows, and announces, “Your Highness, Sir Link of the Royal Guard is here to see you.”

Then the man in question crosses the threshold, clad in navy blue and burgundy and white of his Royal Guard uniform, the Sword of Legend forever strapped to his back. His eyes pierce through her, as always, and she’s granted a reprieve from them when he inclines his head solemnly and drops to his knees to kneel before her.

She tries her damndest to steady her voice, her breathing, her hands, her mind.

“No need for that, Sir Knight,” Zelda says.

He rises, and the blaze of his azure gaze is back on her again. She avoids ever meeting it.

“Thank you, Sir Masson,” she tells the guard. “You may leave us now.”

Sir Masson bows once more and closes the door behind him.

And with that, it’s Zelda and the Hero of Hyrule, alone in a room together, engulfed by a thunderous silence.

She has the urge to sit but she knows she shouldn’t, because royal etiquette dictates that in a drawing room, once a member of the royal family sits down, then the guest must sit down, too, and the existence of those cursed pastries and porcelains suggests that said royal family member wants to enjoy the delectable sweets with the guest, which Zelda does not want.

So she must remain standing.

“I’m sure my father has officially informed you that you are to be my appointed knight,” Zelda says, but then she realizes the sheer stupidity of that statement. Of course, Father has made the announcement. Of course, he knows that he is to be her appointed knight.

He nods.

“Very well then, shall we begin rehearsing?”

He nods again.

Ah, yes—his trademark silence. If this is a taste of what their interaction will be like from now on, well—it’s a rancid taste, for sure.

Zelda realizes that she’s still clutching the handbell for dear life, so she places it on the table and picks up the piece of paper she’s brought from her room. A paper that will help her, in the event that her tongue fails to move and the words from the speech die on her lips.

Upon noticing his lack of his own notes, Zelda frowns and asks, “Have you not your own written note to help you memorize your oath?”

He shakes his head. “I have already memorized it, Princess.”

Of course. The first thing that he utters to her today is a brag.

“Well,” Zelda says curtly. “Suit yourself.”

She beckons for him to join her in the middle of the room, behind the wide sofa and a console table, where there’s the most space. He follows, five paces behind her, and when she stops, he stops, too.

This should be no different than the painting session, she tells herself. This is better, even. Better than the painting, better than knighting him in the Sanctum.

But those instances had been in the company of other people. In rooms that were not a part of her private quarters. Here, it feels like he has intruded upon her sanctuary. A sanctuary meant to be used to entertain guests, sure—but a sanctuary nonetheless.

Zelda squares her shoulders and lifts her chin up. “Do you know what is expected of you during the ceremony?”

“Yes, Princess,” he answers. “I am to kneel before you as you say your lines. Then I will take your hand and voice my oath.”

“Do you know that there are two versions of the oath?”

His head perks up at that. The first gesture she has seen from him that isn’t just a nod or a bow.

“No, Princess.”

“Well, there are two,” she says. Oh, she can’t help that hint of smugness in her tone. “Though I suppose it doesn’t matter. The ancient text provides two transcriptions, apparently—a short version and a long one. Just utter the one you have memorized.”

He nods.

Well, here’s to hoping that it will all go over quickly. “Okay, then. Let’s begin,” Zelda says.

Again, he puts his right foot in front of his left, bends his knees, and kneels before her. His eyes are trained on her beige pumps. Zelda’s left hand curls and uncurls at her side, threatening to crumple the piece of paper. Her right hand rises, palm angled towards him, as if her golden light has already awakened within her and she is now radiating that light to him.

She inhales, exhales, then begins.

Her mouth is moving, making shapes. Hero of Hyrule, it says. Chosen by the Sword that Seals the Darkness. Memory takes over—or what little part of the speech that has successfully branded itself onto her memory. You have shown unflinching bravery and skill in the face of darkness and adversity.

Or so they say. So they say.

Streams of words come out of her throat. Something about how he has proven himself worthy of the blessings of the Goddess Hylia. Whereas she hasn’t.

Something else, about being skyward bound and adrift in time and steeped in the glowing embers of twilight. Her mouth forms all of it. The sacred blade is forever bound to the soul of the hero, it’s saying. We pray for your protection, and we hope that the two of you will grow stronger together as one.

Zelda realizes her gaze has lingered on his face, and she instantly shifts it upward, to the pin on his navy beret.

Now comes the blessing for the Sword. The Sword that was first crafted by Hylia, bathed with flames from the Three.

Forged in the long distant past, the Sword that Seals the Darkness, her tongue speaks. Guardian of Hyrule, ancient steel. Ancient steel that makes up a weapon that loves its master. Forever bound to the Hero. Forever searching for him, awaiting the warmth of his hands.

More words. More and more of them, breathed into life by her mortal voice. In the name of the Goddess Hylia, I bless you, and your Chosen Hero. Words that taste bitter. Words that can’t mean anything coming from her because Hylia has never listened to her. How can she bless anything in Hylia’s name, let alone bless Hylia’s chosen?

Something about time again, about a sea of distance. About the golden power of the Goddess—power I do not have, power I do not have, power I do not have, power I do not have—

“Princess?”

His voice knifes through her thoughts. Snaps her back into her body.

“Our hope…” The words elude her. Out of reach, slipping through her fingers like sand. “Our hope…”

His blues are on her greens. Setting her ablaze.

“Our hope rests in you,” he says, aiding her.

“Our hope rests in you to be— to be—”

“Forever by the Hero’s side…” He helps her again.

“To be forever by the Hero’s side.” Her lips are trembling. She’s fighting a frown from forming on her face. The paper has long been crushed in her fist. “Again, we pray— we pray that the two of you will be stronger, together… as one.”

It’s over.

In her mind is a blaring chorus of confusion—how does he remember all of that?—and disappointment. Disappointment towards herself, because where she falls short, he flourishes. Each time.

And he knows this. He must have anticipated her falter, her error. Oh, he must be laughing at her inside. Laughing at how ridiculously incompetent she is.

It’s his part of the procession now, so she extends her arm, relaxes her palm. An offering for the Hero, as dictated by the ancient scripture. A hand for him to take, to bind them together. For better or for worse.

There’s some distance between them—five paces—so he shifts and scoots towards her on the floor, still kneeling; a rather graceless movement from the boy chosen by the Sword. Another person perhaps would laugh at the sight of a royal guard dragging himself across the carpet, but she finds no humor in all of this.

Besides, this is just a rehearsal. He can be as graceless as he likes.

An inch closer, then his gloved right hand finally meets hers. His thumb rests on her knuckles. His left hand rises and splays over his heart, over the gold embroidery on his navy tabard that makes the royal crest.

Where they touch, even through the fabric, it feels like a lightning strike.

He ducks his head down, breaking his gaze with hers. A tongue wets his lower lip, then the words spill and spill. More words than she had ever heard from him.

“Blood of Hylia, light of our land,” he starts, his thumb shifting ever so slightly on her bare knuckles. “I vow to become your warrior and protector. May my blood be spilled in your holy name, may my sword be wielded to defend you from harm.”

He’s reciting the second version, she thinks, amidst all the haze. He’s memorized the longer one.

And whereas her voice wavered and faltered, his is firm. Word by steady word. Not a single stutter.

“Such as the heroes that came before me, my body and my heart are yours to lead with your divine direction,” he speaks, then tilts his head up to look at her once again, and it pierces through her like a long spear, from the top of her scalp to the soles of her feet. Inescapable. Inexorable.

“Until I perish—” he inhales deeply, “—until the end of time.”

He’s finished. The spear is still in her, rooting her to the floor. Their eyes won’t stop locking. For a second, she thinks she can see something other than the blankness usually etched into those eyes, but before she can grasp it, seize it, coax it out—it vanishes.

“Thank you, Sir Knight,” she manages to say. “Please rise.”

The Hero does as he’s told. Her naked fingers are still in his gloved ones as he rises, and she immediately jerks her hand away from his grip, as if someone had just spilled scalding milk on her skin.

She will have to train herself to be more composed tomorrow.

“It seems to me you have memorized your oath just fine.” More than fine, actually. Even memorized my damn lines, too. “I don’t understand why Father wanted us to rehearse, but well.” She huffs a breath. “At least that’s now over.”

However, she knows the reason why Father wanted them to meet and rehearse. She knows. It’s why there are pastries and teacups served on the table, because Nora must have gotten the instruction to do so from somewhere.

Consider this an opportunity for you to talk to him, learn from him.

And what she has learned from this brief meeting is something that she has known for a while now—

That he is beyond reproach, unlike her.

It’s evident from the fact that he has memorized lines that aren’t even a part of his own oath. From the Sword that lives on his back—a totem of the Goddess’ approval, of Her love for him.

Somehow, a smirk threatens to break across her lips, because Father is wrong. An afternoon tea is not needed for her to learn from the Hero. Just being in his crushing presence and subjecting herself to his unspoken judgment is more than enough.

He’s quiet, impassive as always, so Zelda doesn’t bother to press the conversation further. She makes a beeline to the coffee table, picks up the handbell, and shakes it.

The guest door swings open and Sir Masson appears once more, awaiting his fellow knight to return to the hallway, out of the room. The sudden end to their meeting seems to have earned her a slight knit to those wheat-colored brows of his.

Zelda feels a hint of pride at that.

He marches to the door, and before he crosses the threshold, he turns around to face her and bows. She supposes she should utter a ‘thank you, Sir Knight’, but chooses not to—it’s the thought that counts.

And then he finally leaves and the door closes, and Zelda is once again alone in the drawing room. She rushes to the sofa and sits down before her knees can give out underneath her.

With trembling hands, she pours herself a cup of tea—now cold—and eats eats eats. Slices of vanilla cake, wildberries dipped in chocolate, meringue tartlets, straight into her mouth, into her churning stomach. Chews loud enough to drown out the pandemonium in her mind.

None of them tastes sweet on her tongue.

Father, Zelda thinks, should have a second occupation as a court jester, because he has the most wicked sense of humor. Not in good fun that makes her burst out in joyous laughter, however.

As if the torment he has subjected her to with the whole rehearsal-combined-with-afternoon-tea ordeal wasn’t enough, he has spontaneously called all of the Champions to the great dining hall for a final supper before they leave tomorrow. All of the Champions.

Zelda is the last to arrive, and is glad to find that Daruk is sitting between her and the knight, who takes a huge chunk of space and completely eclipses her view of him. Across from her is Mipha, right next to Father at the head of the table, and next to Mipha is Urbosa and Revali. Revali looks utterly annoyed that he has to sit opposite the Hylian Champion, and truthfully, Zelda doesn’t really feel bad for the Rito. At least he didn’t have to bear being alone in a room with him.

Father mostly converses with Mipha, Daruk, and Urbosa, considering their prominent positions within their respective communities. Politicking over fine Hyrulean wine and prime steaks, save for Daruk’s rockier dish.

Zelda lets her mind wander again—what might she do in an evening as warm and cloudless as this? She would spend time underneath the gazebo in the labyrinth—alone, this time—and let the chirps of restless crickets be the soundtrack to the book she would read. She would perhaps stay over at the Royal Ancient Lab, drinking sake with Purah and Robbie and talking science all night long until she would pass out among scattered notes on the floor. Perhaps she’d head to the library, seek out tomes that have nothing to do with the Calamity or Hylia, and sit in the corner as she devours the words.

Her hands move out of her own volition, as if having a brain of their own. Slicing and stabbing at the prime meat on her plate, bringing a piece to her mouth.

The dinner passes rather quickly, thankfully, and the next thing she knows, fruitcake is being served, drenched in vanilla cream, just how she likes it.

But Zelda is unable to finish it. Maybe her stomach has decided that she’s had enough sweets for today, considering she consumed a portion of pastries meant for two people.

When all the plates are cleaned (except for hers,) Father bids the four Champions good night and goodbye, in the event that he’d be too busy tomorrow to see them off after the ceremony. However, as Zelda is on her way to the door, keen to return to her room, Father stops her.

Stops him, too.

“Zelda, Sir Link,” Father calls out. “May I have a moment?”

The knight answers with a ‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ and Zelda merely sits back down on the chair as a reply.

“How did the rehearsal go?” Father asks.

She looks at the knight, still standing at ease behind the chair where Mipha had sat earlier. His expression is vacant, like always—perhaps he is waiting for her to speak for the both of them.

What is she thinking? Of course he’s waiting for her to speak.

“It went well,” Zelda says simply. “We shall be ready for the ceremony tomorrow morning.”

Father’s gaze darts between her and him, him and her—searching for something—but then he just sighs and nods his head.

“All right, that is all,” Father says, bringing a napkin to his mouth.

The knight shifts to stand at attention, bows his head, and makes his way out of the room. Zelda drags her chair back and rises, exhaustion creeping into her, but then Father speaks again.

“You know, that’s the dress your mother wore when I proposed to her twenty years ago.” She turns to look at Father, and sees something fond and warm in his smile. Something she hasn’t seen on him for a while now. “It looks good on you.”

Zelda almost smiles at Father as a thank you, but then she tilts her head and sees that the knight is still there, his pace slow, before crossing the threshold and disappearing into the hallway.

Her heart plummets.

Turns out, her armor of the day isn’t armor at all.

Castle Town, a few hours before noon, is always a sight to behold.

There’s always hustle and bustle near the restaurants as their owners prepare for the usual influx of patrons during lunchtime. Merchants from other villages delivering late-minute supplies to eateries. It’s all lively in a way that isn’t bothersome at all—unlike the town at night, when people start to lose their inhibitions from all the mead and beer and wine, and fill the streets with rude remarks, drunken jabberings, or worse—provoking street fights.

Zelda walks over the main bridge leading out of the castle, above the moat, approaching the fountain at Central Square. She would try to hide her identity if possible, but with the diadem around her head and her blue royal gown (now mended and washed clean from sand, thanks to Ingrid), it’s impossible for her to go unnoticed.

Immediately the town dwellers hush upon her presence, murmur into each other’s ears—‘Oh, look, it’s the Princess’—bows in part-reverence and part-obligation, letting her part the crowd.

She holds her head up high, her arms still and relaxed at her side, and walks and walks and smiles. Smiles at her people, waves at them. Smiles even at the ones who boast frowning mouths on their faces, who insult and jeer, who whisper ‘Ain’t gonna lie, I miss the Queen—you always feel safe with her around!’ and ‘At least we got that boy with the Sword! Where is he anyway?’

Apparently, you do not need alcohol to be openly rude.

Her two knights, Sir Axel and Sir Reno, follow behind her. They have loyally and steadfastly watched her back since she was but a child, and now it is their last day as part of her security detail. The last trip they’ll ever accompany her on.

Before the stone arch—the entrance to the Sacred Ground—they stop. Zelda tries her best to keep that smile on her face.

She turns to face her knights—first, to Sir Axel, a middle-aged man who no doubt had seen it all, judging from the gnarly scar across his cheek. He has protected her, guarded her from the day she turned seven.

“What will you do now, Sir Axel?” she asks.

“Oh, Princess, don’t look at me like that—you’re breaking my heart!” he says, which earned him a teary laugh from her. She’ll miss this. She’ll miss his straightforwardness, his honesty. His friendliness. “I’ll still be around, Your Highness. Mostly training the squires. I’m gettin’ old.”

“That’s good to hear,” Zelda replies. “I hope to see Lady Lucia again soon, along with your children.”

“Of course, Princess. I’ll definitely bring my family ‘round for the next fall equinox celebration!”

Zelda then turns to Sir Reno, a thirty-something from Deya Village. He was only assigned to her security detail three years ago, but she has grown to appreciate his presence and protection, and he and Sir Axel always exchange the funniest banters, which entertains her to no end.

“How about you, Sir Reno?”

“They offered me to stay as a castle guard, Your Highness. But they also said that they need someone to take over the role of Deputy Captain of Akkala Citadel since the previous Deputy Captain had passed away, so I have chosen the latter, Your Highness.”

“Akkala. That’s very far,” Zelda says quietly. “What of your family?”

“Not to worry, Your Highness,” he says. “Military families get to live in the residences in Citadel Village, so I’m dragging them to the edge of the kingdom, for sure!”

Zelda laughs. “I am glad to hear that, Sir Reno. Please, don’t be a stranger—the castle would always love to have you and your family whenever you’re around Central Hyrule.”

“That means a lot to me, Your Highness. Thank you,” Sir Reno replies.

Behind her, the Sacred Ground awaits. The Champions await.

The Hero awaits.

“Well, I suppose this is it, then.” Zelda draws a breath and extends her right hand to Sir Axel, offering a handshake. A proper one—not the genteel way knights usually do to a princess.

Sir Axel looks surprised, at first, but then he nods solemnly and takes her hand in his.

“Thank you, Sir Axel.”

Then she shakes Sir Reno’s hand, and says, “Thank you, Sir Reno.”

Sir Reno withdraws, steps back. He glances at Sir Axel, they incline their head as if in agreement, and then faces her once more before both men lower themselves to the ground, kneeling before her.

These are men who are perfectly capable of protecting her, Zelda thinks. These are men who have done their jobs well. Who have never let her down. Who have never made her feel inferior or inadequate.

But what Father wants, Father gets.

They rise, then Sir Axel says, “We believe in you, Princess. We always have.”

Zelda almost chokes on a sob. “Thank you.”

And with that, she turns around and crosses the arch, knowing full well that they will no longer be there by the time she leaves.

Zelda sees them—Mipha, Revali, Daruk, Urbosa, standing before the dais, a reluctant smile on their faces. They bow, and watch as she steps onto the dais, as her gaze meets that of her new knight’s.

He’s once again clad with the work of her hands, now—the royal blue she had dyed together with Ingrid. The white details that she painstakingly embroidered onto the neckline, the hem, the sleeves. The tunic she had bathed with spring water as she prayed and prayed and prayed for the Goddess to keep him healthy, keep him safe.

There’s a question etched into his eyes. Shall we start?

Zelda nods. Let’s get this over with.

The knight kneels before her, and she steps closer this time, closer than five paces. She doesn’t want a repeat of yesterday, where he had to gracelessly scoot on the carpeted floor to meet her hand; today, it’s not a carpeted floor underneath them—it’s stone, and he might scrape through the fabric of his trousers if he did that, so here she is, making that grand sacrifice to stand two paces away from him.

Just as she did yesterday, she raises her right hand. Imagines that hand radiating a golden light, blessing him.

Then the words are made audible through her vocal cords.

Her mouth moves and forms shapes. Tongue flexing with each syllable. Her raised hand stays still in the air, steady and firm. She will not stutter and tremble and cower like yesterday.

She hears her Champions murmur and whisper, but she does not bother to listen in. It’s nothing that she hasn’t heard anyway.

Then her part is done, and the knight takes her hand again, but this time it’s his bare fingers against hers (curse these fingerless gloves), and she feels the roughness of his digits, the callouses that surely have formed from years and years of perfecting his skills, his self.

His left hand splays over his chest. He trains his gaze on the ground. Then he voices his oath.

“Blood of Hylia, light of our land—I vow to become your warrior and protector. Lead me with your divine direction, until I perish.”

Zelda freezes.

He has changed his oath to the short version.

Her mind races with a million thoughts, a million questions—Why? Why? Why?—but she has to say something now. She has to bid him to rise. She has to end the procession.

End it now end it now end it now—

“Thank you, Sir Knight. Please rise.”

He rises, and lets go of her hand at the same time she lets go of his. There isn’t a single decipherable thing in his visage.

And just like that, the ceremony comes to a close.

They walk back to the castle. Along the way, Zelda hears the whispers of the people again—‘Oh, that’s the Hero! That’s him!’ ‘Thank the Three for that boy, that princess sure can’t do anything.’ Still, she keeps her chin lifted, her gaze on the horizon, her arms still at her sides. Even though her lungs burn, her heart aches, and her back is branded. Branded by the blaze of his gaze.

A gaze that she will have to bear every day from now on.

Chapter Text

Leaving the castle used to be a blessing. A break from the sometimes damp, dank air within the stone walls. A reprieve from Father’s critical, disapproving eyes. An opportunity to breathe in the breeze, balloon her lungs with it, and let it mess up her hair and kiss her skin.

But now, the castle has become more of a refuge, and a battlefield waits outside, and Zelda feels a lump grow in her throat as she watches Nora pack her things: change of clothes, bodices, underpants. A warm cape in royal blue (Rito Village is still cold even in the summer, after all.) Her favorite Hateno shampoo. Her field journal. Hairbrush. A nightgown appropriate for traveling. A quilt. Her prayer dress (for when they make a stop at the Temple of Time on the way back.) A pouch full of rupees enough to pay for a room at an inn for a few nights, courtesy of Father.

Her royal traveler’s outfit is on—matching blue hair clips on either side of her hairline, the Sheikah Slate attached to her belt.

Dread rings between her teeth.

“All right, Nora,” Zelda says, giving her young maid a sure smile—well, as sure as it can be. “I’m ready. Let’s head to the stables.”

On the way there, they pass by the hallway that leads to Father’s private quarters, but Zelda doesn’t trouble herself to knock on his doors and kiss him goodbye, even though she would be gone for a week.

It’s a reprisal that she hopes will sting him just slightly. A reprisal that is so very minuscule compared to the gargantuan torment he inflicted upon her two weeks ago.

At the stables, Zelda sees her knight attendant for the first time since the somber ceremony at the Sacred Ground. He’s finished saddling up her royal white stallion, and is now tacking up his own brown mare. She watches as his deft fingers fasten the catches around his steed with quick ease, and before she can stop herself, a question leaves her lips—

“What’s her name?”

He cocks his head to the side and his eyes widen upon realizing that he is in the presence of his charge. His hands leave the saddle to fall at his sides before he bows his head.

At least he doesn’t kneel again this time, but if he keeps on treating her like a soldier would his commander, Zelda might actually scream.

His eyes are still on her, almost vacant. She raises her brows.

“I asked you a question.”

That seems to snap him back to earth.

“Oh. Her name is Epona, Princess.”

Zelda nods, then thinks, stupid—she doesn’t actually care about the name of his horse. It was just an effort to fill the silence. And she should get acclimated to the silence as soon as possible, because she supposes there will be a lot of it.

But that’s a rather awkward place to drop the conversation, so she supplies, “Well, mine is called Ares.”

“I know, Princess.”

Oh, something stings in her chest and threatens to rupture on her tongue. It’s one thing to carry the Sword of Legend on one’s back and not speak a word about it; it’s another thing entirely to openly brag.

Her fingers curl into fists.

“Nora, please help the knight stow my pack onto Ares,” Zelda says, knowing full well that he’s perfectly capable of doing so himself. Nora smiles shyly at him as she climbs the small footstool by Ares’ flank and fastens the pack.

The knight simply turns around to finish tacking up Epona, and, somehow, that stings Zelda even more.

With all her belongings properly stowed by Nora, he drags the footstool to right below the stirrup, perhaps as a means to help her mount, and Zelda has to hold herself back from explicitly scoffing at him. She skips stepping on the footstool altogether, immediately hooking her foot into the stirrup and swinging her other leg to settle comfortably atop Ares.

Again, he doesn’t react. He picks up the footstool, disappears into the storage room with it, then returns and mounts Epona without a word.

The morning breeze fills her nose, and it makes her sick.

“Take care, Your Highness,” Nora says, waving them goodbye. “Sir Link.”

With that, Zelda taps her heels against Ares’ flanks, urging her mount to a walk. Her knight follows, blues on her back.

When they reach the main gate, the guards working the morning shift wave at them before lowering the bridge over the moat. They cross then take a sharp right to avoid the morning bustle of Castle Town, opting to go along the perimeter until the cobblestoned streets bleed into one large dirt path leading out of the town. Zelda taps her heels onto Ares again, and the horse switches to a steady trot. She is rather thankful, because Ares is quite the wild thing and can be disobedient at times, but maybe he can sense her current need to do no wrong in front of him.

She hopes that Ares will stay this way throughout the whole excursion.

Then, it’s Hyrule and its sprawling verdant meadows and blue skies with the summer sun beating down her back. No prying eyes, no frowning mouths, no pomp or pageantry.

Well, save for her royal traveling outfit. And her royal horse. And the extra set of hooves clopping against the ground that constantly reminds her of his presence. Reminds her of everything she lacks.

In no time, they are crossing Carok Bridge and passing through the shaded valley of Breach of Demise. There are a few stragglers here and there, mostly keese and bokoblins, and her knight does not bother to dismount to slice through them with his holy blade. He would pick up his pace until he’s no longer riding behind her but next to her, then raises his arm to signal her to stop.

He retrieves his royal guard bow, nocks an arrow, and shoots down each creature with frightening speed. Then he nods at her, and lets her ride ahead before continuing to trail behind her—a constant shadow.

They stop in West Hyrule Plains so that Zelda can stretch her legs, relieve herself, and eat some of the meat pies that the kitchen has packed into her lunch box. She plops down on a tree stump and glances to the side to find her knight munching on beef jerky. There is still one meat pie left in her box, and the boy looks rather hungry, so she shoves the box his way.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” she says. “You should have the last piece.”

But he just wags his head as a ‘no, thank you’ and Zelda doesn’t have the energy (or the patience, really,) to break through his apparent asceticism, so she puts the box back into her pack. If he wants to survive on just jerky and water, she won’t stop him. She’ll save the leftover meat pie for a midnight snack.

The sun has set by the time they reach the base of Mount Rhoam, so wordlessly, Zelda pulls at the reins and gently leads Ares to Tabantha Great Bridge Inn.

She doesn’t look back to see if he follows.

A stableboy greets her, and—upon realizing the royal blue of her outfit—bows his head. She accepts his hand when he offers it to help her dismount.

Her knight dismounts, too, and immediately talks to the stableboy after unfastening her pack from the saddle. Zelda stops walking toward the entrance and quiets her breathing. Hears him speak in a low voice.

“—apples and sugar cubes—”

“Of course, sir.“

“—also a brush, a bucket of water — in twenty minutes—”

“Sounds good, sir!”

Then she watches as he fishes through the pouch attached to his belt, pulling out a red rupee.

He’s paying out of his own pocket.

Zelda approaches him.

“You don’t have to do that,” she tells him. “My father has already given me an allowance for this trip.”

He shakes his head. The red rupee is still in his palm. The stableboy’s gaze flits back and forth between them—confused, or perhaps just impatient to take the money.

Zelda sighs. “You are on duty, on a royal excursion, accompanying a member of the royal family. All expenses incurred during this trip should be covered by the treasury.”

He’s shaking his head again.

“Oh, Goddess.” She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Just keep your money, Sir Link—”

Whatever words that are left to be said die on the tip of her tongue, where his name—his name—has slipped from her for the first time.

Their eyes lock.

After a few beats, he nods and slides the red rupee back into his pouch.

Her hands tremble as she retrieves her own pouch and proffers her own red rupee to the stableboy.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the stableboy says before scurrying away to carry out whatever task her knight has sent him to do.

Zelda doesn’t dare to meet his azure gaze again. She heads into the building and greets the innkeeper—an old man who was definitely about to doze off on his desk but instantly perks up and rises from his seat upon seeing the Princess of Hyrule.

“Y-Your Highness! We are s-so honored to have you at our inn!” He bows his head over and over again, and Zelda has half a mind to stop him, lest he strains his neck or something.

“Thank you, sir.” Zelda smiles anyway. “I’d like to rent one private room, and one bed in the common room, please.”

“Done and done, Your Highness,” the innkeeper says. He turns to where a shelf of room keys is mounted to the wall, and retrieves one before handing it to her. “For Your Highness, it’s room number one—our largest room! It’s just down the hall upstairs. For the gentleman, it’s down the hallway on this floor, second door to your left. Take any bed you please.”

Zelda nods, fishes out two purple ones from her pouch, and slides them on the desk. After a stream of more thanks from the innkeeper (to which she replied with a kind, regal smile, of course,) she heads for the stairs.

But then she hears a second set of footsteps—always following her—so she turns around to face him.

“I hope you don’t think you are going to sleep in my room,” Zelda remarks.

Her knight shakes his head, a bit frantic. “No, Princess, I—” he trails off and looks down at the traveling pack he carries in his hand. Her traveling pack.

“Oh.” She purses her lips. “All right, then.”

They ascend the steps, wooden floors creaking as they pass the numbered doors. Then, at the end of the hallway, she sees 01 painted on the door, and unlocks the room.

Zelda has definitely seen bigger rooms at inns across Central Hyrule, but this particular one isn’t bad by any means. It has a double bed in the corner, crisp white linen, heavy curtains that obscure the view outside, and a small dining table in the middle of the room. There are vases of flowers here and there, mostly containing different kinds of safflinas—small accents that help sweeten the surroundings.

Her knight drops her traveling pack on the ottoman chair in front of the bed before scanning the room. He draws back the curtains and pushes at the windows, fingers thoroughly inspecting the latch and hinges.

She frowns. “What are you doing?”

He stops. She can see the faint reflection of his visage on the windowpane. Placid. Impassive. “Checking for weak points, Princess.”

“Well, hurry up. I’d very much like to rest,” she says, replying in the same monotone voice he always has. Though she supposes that hers is not as good as his—her emotions always get the better of her, always bleeding through the cracks, no matter how much she attempts to dam them all up.

It’s not news; she is simply not as good as him.

After a few more seconds of look-over, he finally faces her way, bows his head, and leaves the room.

And then, for the first time since this morning, Zelda is all alone.

She rushes to the edge of the bed, sits down, and breathes. In and out, in and out. The vines that have wrapped around her lungs throughout the course of the day finally loosen, even just a little, allowing her to let her guard down.

Nothing has prepared her for the sheer weight of being constantly in his presence—not the first meeting they had a year and a half ago, not knighting him in the Sanctum, not the painting session, not the rehearsal, nothing.

Tears prick at her eyes but she looks up, blinks them away.

Eventually, she rises to retrieve her nightgown from her pack and slips out of her traveling clothes. More weight shed. Weight she’ll have to don again come morning light.

With a glass of water in her hand, her ears perk up at the sound of soft whickers coming from outside, so she postpones curling up in bed to peer through the window.

There, on the ground, Zelda sees her knight, quiet in his equestrian ministration as he feeds their steeds. He’s stripped off the royal blue tunic, clothed only in the cream long-sleeved muslin shirt and his trousers. His baldric and the Sword rest on the wooden fence of the paddock. His shoulders look less squared, less tense. Epona is nuzzling his palm, munching on something—an apple? He did request for some from the stableboy earlier.

A feeling close to satisfaction bubbles in her chest. Here she is, in her rented room, looming above him, quietly observing the observer.

She squints at his face, at his lips that move ever so slightly. He must be saying something. Talking to his mare, perhaps. Though that should be a strange occurrence, shouldn’t it? The Hero talking freely, spilling words that aren’t just a short response meant for his superiors.

Zelda shakes her head, reprimands herself; she should make the most out of these private moments. Write in her journal, head to sleep early. Shouldn’t waste her time gazing at her knight through the window, trying to study him. There isn’t much to study, anyway—that, she knows. There is nothing to dissect out of a man who bears nothing inside.

When she slips into bed, the day’s soreness quickly catching up to her, she swears she can hear faint laughter coming from outside. From the front yard, the paddock.

She falls asleep to the sound.

The journey from Tabantha Great Bridge Inn to Rito Village takes a little more than half a day. They set out pretty early, thanks to the wake-up calls by the innkeeper at seven on the dot.

They take a few breaks—once at the base of Nero Hill, and once before crossing Kolami Bridge. Zelda would take more, but being on the road alone with him makes her rather anxious, so she continues to keep Ares in a steady trot.

When Zelda looks up, she can see it—Vah Medoh in its glory, all gold against the great blue, soaring above Tabantha. As they ride the last stretch of distance between Kolami Bridge and Lake Totori, she wonders how she’ll get up there. A free ride from a Rito, most likely. Somehow, she hopes it won’t be Revali, because she has seen him fly, and he's quite the daredevil. 

It’s afternoon by the time they reach Rito Village, and at the gates, two Rito men greet them—assistants to Chief Paravi. They introduce themselves as Indro and Buddi, and kindly lead their Hylian guests to the local stable.

As the four make their way up the suspended bridges leading to the center-most island, Zelda can already feel the breeze turning colder, stinging her skin. She would grab her cape, but it’s in her pack which, as of the moment, is carried by her knight, so it’s braving the cold breeze for the next few minutes, it is.

Rito Village, Zelda thinks, is charming and quaint. Perhaps too open-aired to her liking, but for a short stay, it can be quite the destination for a more unconventional vacation. Though she is here on a royal assignment, she takes the time to appreciate the spectacular views that sprawl around the village—of Tabanthan mountains and Hebra’s snowy peaks.

Finally, Indro and Buddi show her to the guest room, which is basically just a hut built into the wooden foundation that holds the whole village, only a level or two above ground. It has been equipped with roller blinds to obscure the view into her hut, for which she’s thankful. The bed, however, is a mere hammock with some throw pillows and a quilt, and Zelda can only hope she won’t freeze too much tonight. Or wake up with a sore back.

Her knight puts down her pack below the hammock, and wordlessly, steps outside.

She immediately goes for her cape and puts it on.

Not long after, Buddi knocks on the wooden beam of her pavilion to let her know that Master Revali is waiting at the flight range.

She draws open the curtains that serve as a makeshift door to her pavilion and makes her way up, spiraling around the center spire which the village is built into, until she sees her Rito Champion standing on a wooden platform painted with the Rito crest. The scarf she has sewn for him is tied around his neck.

“Welcome to my hometown, Your Highness.” Revali bows, though Zelda reckons it’s more of a mock-bow. “You have come at the right time, truly. The view from Medoh during sunset beats all the others that this kingdom may offer.”

She steps down onto the platform, feeling the wind gust around her, blowing her hair. “Thank you, Revali. I have been looking forward to getting a closer look at Vah Medoh. She is quite the beauty.”

“I agree, Princess.” Revali nods. “Definitely the most beautiful out of the four, I say.”

Though Zelda has yet to see the other three Divine Beasts, she thinks each of them is majestic in their own way. She doesn’t say that to Revali.

However, his proud smile vanishes, and Zelda can guess as to the reason why. She turns to look over her shoulder and sees her knight standing before the stairs that lead down to the flight range, impassive as ever.

“I sure hope he won’t be joining us up there,” Revali says. “I am not carrying him on my back.”

She faces Revali again, raising her eyebrows at him. “Does that mean you are going to carry me?”

“Well, of course, Princess. I am the most capable flyer, after all.” Revali crouches, beckoning her to hop onto his back.

This will be fun, she thinks. Her first flight.

But then her knight descends the stairs and steps closer, an alarmed look on his face. “Are there no harnesses?”

Ah, yes—her glorified babysitter.

“Oh, he speaks!” Revali mock-gasps. “Harnesses are for toddlers. I think the Princess is perfectly fine. Don’t you agree, Your Highness?”

She’s a tad bit nervous, of course, but there’s something rather embarrassing about asking the villagers for a harness, having to attach it to her Champion, and that concern on her knight’s face is borderline condescending, so she nods in agreement. “Yes. Let’s head to Vah Medoh.”

She climbs up Revali’s back, her arms circling tightly around his feathery neck, legs firm against his sides. Then, he beats his wings and she feels as well as sees the updraft they create, and the next thing she knows, they’re soaring up, up, up.

It feels like her heart is left right there on the flight range. She hugs Revali tighter, because now that’s the only thing keeping her from certain death, and it won't do the kingdom good if their princess died during such a tumultuous time, especially from something as trivial as falling from the sky.

But that primal fear subsides as Revali stops his initial ascent and begins to fly horizontally at a steady speed. With shaky breaths, Zelda loosens her arms so she can tilt her head to look around, and the view before her punches whatever air that’s left in her lungs.

“What do you think, Princess?” Revali says. For once, Zelda doesn’t hear that trademark cockiness in his tone. He sounds genuine, wishing to know her thoughts.

She laughs, all giddy. “Absolutely beautiful.”

And Revali’s right—this is most likely the best season to visit Rito Village and Vah Medoh. The sky bleeds in oranges and reds as the sun sets over Tabantha, and Zelda has the strangest thought that maybe, the reason why all her prayers have been fruitless is because the Goddess doesn’t dwell in temples and springs, but right up here, in the skies, among the clouds, between the rays of the sun.

Then she looks down and sees Medoh’s surface growing closer, hears the whirring sounds that its machines make, so her arms tighten around Revali’s neck once more as he descends.

They land among the pillars on the Beast’s left wing. Her arms feel like jelly as she slides off Revali’s back and her feet finally find solid ground. The wind is even stronger and colder in this elevation, and she pulls the cape around her shoulders tighter.

Up here, without the fear of falling (at least not when she’s standing far away from the edge,) Zelda makes sure to truly behold the marvelous vista that surrounds them. In the distance, she can see Death Mountain and the smoke that billows from its volcanic head. She can see her home—Hyrule Castle—its many towers and spires a mere silhouette against the burning sky. She turns around to find the jutted island that houses Rito Village, seemingly small from up above.

A little part of her brain wonders what he might be doing down there, but she shakes the thought away.

They walk towards the body of Vah Medoh, where the main chamber is, as Revali tells her about his experience so far with the Beast.

“Of course, I have already done a lot the week prior to the Inauguration Ceremony when your Sheikahs came to me to ‘show me the ropes’.” He makes quotation marks with his wings. “They were rather impressed with how quickly I was able to adapt myself with Medoh’s mechanisms, actually,” he says, crossing his wings across his chest. “Still, though it’s difficult to admit… I sometimes have a bit of trouble with controlling its right wing. For some reason.” He sighs. “So hopefully, your expertise will come in handy, Princess.”

Zelda hums thoughtfully. “Purah, Robbie, and I did talk about this last week at the lab. I’ve brought with me some schematics that the Sheikahs have found among their ancient scriptures—I’m sure they can help in recalibrating the right wing to better suit you as its pilot.”

They’re approaching the arch that leads to the main chamber now, and Zelda stops in her tracks when Revali calls her name.

“Princess, before we go in there, I just have a question I wanted to ask you,” he says, his eyes pensive. “Why him?”

Zelda smiles ruefully at that. I ask the same question every day.

“Believe me, Revali—most of the choices that have been made by the Court were not up to me at all,” she replies. If she had the power to decide for herself, she would assign the Hero to an outpost in a far-flung corner of Hyrule. Akkala Citadel, perhaps. She’d never have to bear his gaze, never have to see that purple hilt peeking from his back.

“Yeah, sure,” Revali says contemptuously. “It still boggles the mind that he has that… little sword, but we can’t do anything about it. But for him to be assigned as your sole bodyguard?” He laughs. “Surely, there’s someone else better than that lowly knight. And I feel that you agree with me on this, Princess.”

Agree that he shouldn’t be her sole bodyguard? Sure, very much so. Agree that he’s a lowly knight?

There must be a reason why the Sword let his hands wrap around its hilt and pull it out from its slumber. Why the legends say that Hylia had chosen the Hero and why his spirit is breathed into a new body each time the world calls for him, needs him. Mother, too, used to tell her of these tales, about how the first Hero was actually Hylia’s beloved. There must be a reason why She had loved him so, though that love most certainly did not bleed into Her descendant.

Her knight is anything but lowly. He is invulnerable, faultless, holy. A walking rebuke in the form of a sixteen-year-old swordsman.

And that is where she and Revali differ.

“It was all up to my father,” Zelda says. That’s the truth, after all.

Something passes through his lime-green eyes—challenge, perhaps, before it makes way to reluctant acceptance. He sighs, and finally enters the chamber.

Zelda takes a deep breath and follows.

It took about an hour to recalibrate Vah Medoh’s right wing, and in no time, Revali was able to control every part of the Divine Beast with ease. For all his braggadocio and arrogance, his skills do speak for themselves.

The descent back to the village isn’t as daunting as the ascent, and Zelda is almost disappointed that the flight ends rather quick. They land on the flight range, but the surroundings look even more idyllic now that the sky has turned dark and all the lanterns are lit.

“Thank you for the free ride, Revali,” Zelda says, running her fingers through her messy tresses in an effort to look a bit more prim. “I can safely say that I might just be the only Hylian alive to have ever been aloft like that.”

“Sure, Princess.” Revali smirks. “See, if I was your appointed knight, you would be flying all the time.”

Zelda can only smile in reply.

Indro awaits them by the stairs, informing them that Chief Paravi is ready to welcome them for supper. Her stomach grumbles in response.

There is a certain absence, however.

“Indro, where is the Hylian Champion?”

“Last I saw him was upstairs, Your Highness. With the kids.”

Zelda frowns. With the kids?

“You go on ahead, Princess,” Revali huffs. “I’ll see you at the Chief’s pavilion in a moment.”

He beats his wings and flies away, and Zelda ascends the stairs. Most of the villagers are already in their private residences, serving dinner to their families, and Zelda can’t help but watch them as she makes her way up the winding platform, from behind the wooden beams and past the half-drawn curtains.

Such mundane, simple lives they live. A mother, a father, children. Cooking together, eating together. Conversing idly as they enjoy their homemade meals.

She wonders if she was ever meant for that kind of life. If, perhaps, such a life is possible after everything is said and done.

Before those thoughts can take her further to the rarely-visited valleys of her mind, Zelda hears melodious coos and hums coming from a particular pavilion, just above the next set of stairs. She tries to ascend the steps quietly, not wanting to disturb those harmonious sounds, and when she finally finds herself standing before the entrance of said pavilion, the sight renders her speechless.

Her knight is sitting on the floor, cross-legged, one elbow on his thigh and his cheek leaning on his fist. He’s slightly facing away from the entrance, but she can very much make the smile that somehow has broken across his lips as four Rito fledglings sing in front of him.

After a couple of verses, the children stop singing, and one blue-feathered boy says, “I don’t think that was great…”

“What do you mean?” her knight asks.

“I don’t know. I think I was a bit out of tune.” The boy frowns.

“Nah, I think that sounded great,” her knight says, his voice soft. It makes her breath catch. “I sang earlier and you guys heard how bad that sounded, so.”

He sang?

“Yeah, but you have that really cool sword,” another fledgling says. “So I think we can forgive your bad singing!” The kids break out into giggles.

One of the fledglings finally sees her, however, because the giggles stop and he immediately points at her. “Look! The Princess!”

Her knight immediately cocks his head to the side, his sapphire gaze on her, and surges up to stand and bow his head. The smile is long gone, replaced by the blank façade that she knows so well.

She lifts her chin up. “Chief Paravi is expecting us for supper.”

He nods and follows her as she continues up the stairs. Five paces behind her, always.

“See you later, Sir Link!” the fledglings say, but Zelda does not bother to look back to see if he waved the children goodbye.

She hopes that he did.

In the morning, after a particularly restless sleep in the hammock, Zelda meets with Chief Paravi again to bid him goodbye. Her knight does not follow, obeying her command to stay at the flight range instead.

“Vah Medoh has been a constant in our skies ever since the Sheikah unearthed her seven years ago,” the Chief says, holding a rather gigantic cup of tea in his large wings. “It makes me joyous to know that now its pilot is one of us. Our brightest, I might add.”

Zelda smiles. “It’s truly an honor to have Revali as one of the Champions, Chief Paravi,” she says. “As I said last night, please do not hesitate to send for me or anyone at the Royal Lab should Vah Medoh’s machines require further help or adjustments.”

“That’s very kind of you, Your Highness, thank you.” It’s hard to see if he’s actually smiling or not, considering the Rito’s stiff beaks, but it’s present in his voice nonetheless. “You have quite the soldiers at your disposal; the best from each race. You shan’t ever have a reason to worry.”

Zelda looks down at her hands, her fingers. Mortal, ordinary. Lightless.

She feigns confidence, gives him a half-lie. “I agree. The Champions are quite the force.”

“Especially with that knight of yours,” Chief Paravi adds.

Right. Chief Paravi did say something about that last night—of a time when her knight was only thirteen, before he became the Hero, staying in this very village to sharpen his archery skills under the Chief’s tutelage. Zelda was a bit curious, but he was right there at the dining table, quietly munching on his dinner, so she didn’t try to find out more from the Chief.

“How was he like when he was your student?” Her voice is small. Afraid that the winds somehow will carry her voice down to the flight range, into his ears. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“He was very dedicated. And very, very skilled,” Chief Paravi says. “He was already forged and tempered, when he came here. All he needed was a bit of polishing.”

Zelda wants to sigh. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before. What she desperately needs to know is if he has any weak points. Vulnerabilities. Anything that might suggest that he’s not the unassailable soldier that he appears to be.

Right now, all she knows is that he’s not a good singer.

But she doesn’t press on further. She’s not in the mood to chase roads that lead to the same destination.

Zelda rises from the cushion seat, still fashioning that regal smile. “I’m afraid I must leave now, but again, thank you very much for your hospitality, Chief Paravi.”

The Chief spreads his right wing to wave her goodbye, and with that, she descends the stairs, heading towards the flight range.

Before the steps that lead down to the platform, she stops at the sight of her knight and her Rito Champion, seemingly in the middle of a heated conversation. Well, a heated one-sided conversation. Though she can’t hear much of it, some words make it to her ears.

“—you can prove me wrong?”

Revali moves closer to the knight.

“—settle this one on one?” A wing on his chin. Then he points to the sky, to Vah Medoh. “How about up there?!”

No response from the knight, though his stance looks more tense. His feet further apart, knees slightly bent. Shoulders squared.

He must be annoyed.

Some more words leave Revali’s beak that she’s sure must be packed with insults. Then, he spreads his wings wide, beats them with such power that she has seen (and experienced firsthand) yesterday, and takes off to the skies.

Zelda hears his parting words, as clear as day: “Good luck sealing the darkness!”

Her knight tilts his head up to look at the heavens, at Revali’s flying figure turning smaller and smaller as he soars closer to Vah Medoh. Perhaps, he looks a bit fazed from the force of the updraft, but then he stands up straight and gains his composure as quickly as Revali’s wingbeat.

Zelda realizes that Revali hasn’t bid his adieu to her, but she thinks it might just be a blessing in disguise. A spare from his squinty gaze and condescending remarks.

“Sir Knight,” she calls him. He turns to look at her, his wheat blonde hair catching the morning sunlight, blinding. His eyes, as blue as the sky, are blinding, too. “Please retrieve my pack from the guest pavilion. Then we can leave and head to the Temple of Time.”

He nods and joins her on the balcony, then descends the next set of stairs that lead to the guest pavilion. Then it hits her—he’s standing in front of her. Walking ahead of her. It’s her gaze on his back. Though the purple and gold of his scabbard burn her eyes, she takes the view in. His ponytail sways from the breeze, held by that hair tie the same color as his earrings.

He draws back the curtain to the guest room and retrieves the traveling pack. Zelda has made sure to load all her belongings in it before she left to see the Chief, because the thought of him looking through her things—knowing what she’s brought—doesn’t sit right with her.

Then it’s about fifteen to twenty minutes of crossing the various bridges surrounding the central island until they reach the local stable. Her knight fastens her pack onto Ares, and then offers his hand to her to help her mount.

She doesn’t hold back her scoff, this time. She can mount her steed by herself just fine.

Again, his expression remains flat, detached.

Maybe she has to spit insults at him like Revali does to at least evoke even the littlest of reactions. Maybe she’ll find that weak point, some day.

They ride and ride, crossing Kolami Bridge again, heading south to Tabantha Great Bridge. By noon, they make it to the road that winds around Seres Scablands, at the base of Washa’s Bluff, where they take a short break. Then it’s further and further until they meet the three-way intersection that leads west, back to the Breach of Demise and towards Castle Town, or south, over Jeddo Bridge, along Regencia River. They turn right, southbound.

As they approach the outskirts of Dalite Forest, however, their steeds start becoming skittish and harder to control.

Her knight immediately catches up next to her, atop Epona, and extends his right arm again, signaling her to stop.

“Dismount,” he says quietly. “Monsters.”

Zelda almost wanted to admonish him for using such a commanding tone, but she’d also hate to be on Ares’ back when he’s all frightened and spooked, so she says nothing and hops off her stallion. Her knight does the same.

This time, he doesn’t retrieve his bow.

His fingers wrap around the hilt of the Sword, and she hears the holy blade ring as he unsheathes it from the scabbard.

Just as he’s predicted, two moblins appear from among the trees, carrying spiked clubs, growling as they set their eyes on their presumed prey.

Epona and Ares gallop away from her. She steps back, slowly, gaining some distance from the impending fight, not wanting to catch the moblins’ attention.

Zelda’s hands tremble.

And her knight finally charges towards the monsters, the Master Sword glinting at his side as he yells and hops onto a swinging club, propelling him upwards, letting him drive the Sword straight into the moblin’s head. It shrieks—a low and ugly sound—as it staggers forward, and he quickly lands on his feet and draws the blade out of its oozing flesh to finish its friend.

The second one doesn’t take long for him to finish—a flurry of gold and blue and purple as he takes his mindless foe down.

Then, it’s the Hero, standing in front of two dead moblins, the blade of the Sword dripping with black blood, his shoulders heaving from exertion.

Zelda breathes through parted lips.

It doesn’t register within her that he’s finally running towards her and then past her, heading to where Epona and Ares have run to, on the other side of the dirt road. The horses neigh and avoid him, but he slows down his pace, gently nearing the creatures. He sheathes the still-bloody Sword before raising his hands in front of his chest.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay. It’s me.”

He approaches Epona first, drawing closer and closer until her muzzle meets his palms. One hand moves to rest on her forehead, the other to the underside of her chin. She inclines her head, bending down, her dark mane brushing against his honey blonde.

“You’re a good girl,” he’s saying to his mare. “It’s okay. You did good. I got you.”

Something supernatural is unraveling before her eyes, Zelda knows. Beyond the laws of nature. Words spoken so softly fill up the air, fill up her ears. She’s unsure if she’s even supposed to be here, if these are sounds that are meant to be heard—meant to be heard by her. Because he does not talk like that, he shouldn’t be able to talk like that, but here she is, listening to those words anyway.

After a moment, he moves to soothe Ares, though his silence has returned. Ares bows his head, too—whickering as her knight runs his fingers through his mane.

Just like that, her stallion calms underneath the Hero’s touch.

They continue their journey, past Manhala Bridge until they reach a clearing by the bank of Aquame Lake, not far from the Coliseum. The Great Plateau isn’t so far off, now—perhaps only two to three hours of ride away—but it’s getting late and her legs aren’t getting any less sore, so pitching a tent it is.

Zelda watches as he sets up their camp, deft hands assembling the poles, then matching the poles to each grommet. Staking all the corners. Dread building low in her stomach as he works his way up and up until the tent is fully set up, ready to shelter her while she sleeps.

She quietly retreats to the tent with her bedroll and pack as he builds a fire just right outside. She tamps down the raging of her thoughts by writing about Vah Medoh in her field journal. When she goes out again, mushroom skewers are already served on a wooden plate, which she consumes quickly. Her knight sits on a log, facing away from her, a rag in his hand as he wipes the moblin blood off the Sword, his baldric and scabbard resting against the log.

The movements of his hands are so gentle, it takes her addled mind a few seconds to realize that those are the very hands that had driven through the moblin’s skull. The same hands that her temperamental stallion bowed down to.

Zelda doesn’t know what to do with the thought, so she pushes it away.

When she returns inside the tent, she lies on the bedroll, but doesn’t change into her nightclothes.

At the inn, she was protected by four concrete walls, a hallway, a staircase, and another door. But here, it’s only a layer of canvas, and then it’s him and his silence and his surveillance. Not so much of a fortress between them.

So her armor must stay on.

Deep in the bowels of her sleep, she dreams.

Everything is awash by the soft amber light emanating from the candles–the red satin sheets of her bed. The white silk of her nightgown. The bottle of perfume that sits on the countertop, its liquid the color of wildberry cordial. The hazy reflection of herself in the mirror above her vanity desk.

Here, in her bedchamber, she feels warm. Safe. So she closes her eyes.

She sinks into the vanity stool as a pair of hands work through her golden locks. Applying safflina oil to soften the strands before combing it with a hairbrush. The bristles catch and pull at her tresses from time to time and she sighs contentedly.

When her hair finally flows like yolk upon her shoulders down to her back, not a single knot or kink in sight, she hears a clattering sound—the maid setting the hairbrush down on the table. Her nightly ritual is almost finished—her hair must be woven into a tight braid so as not to tangle it during her sleep.

She waits for those familiar tugs at her hair, yellow silk parted into three before it’s braided—over, under, tighten—but it never comes.

Her eyes flutter open. 

In the mirror, she sees the maid from the neck down, standing behind her. Wearing a cream long-sleeved muslin shirt, the neckline dotted with green and red stitches. She has never seen such a garment on any of her maids before. Never seen their arms to be so tanned and scarred, either.

A pair of hardened palms land on either side of her naked shoulders and it releases a crackle of static. Shooting through layers of skin and fat and muscle, straight to the core of her bones.

Oh, this is no maid. She knows who those palms belong to. She knows.

And here, in the penetralium of her brain, she wears no armor and those hands wear no gloves. Nowhere to hide.

Words spoken so softly fill up her room, murmured against the top of her head, the tip of her ear, her neck, her skin. But there’s nothing soft about how they thunder through her mind.

It’s okay. It’s me. Good girl. I got you.

Chapter Text

Outside the Temple of Time, within the private confines of a bathhouse, Zelda sheds her traveler’s outfit.

Traditionally, the priestesses at the Eastern Abbey wash themselves here as they utter prayers—Hylia, our Mother Goddess, in Thy name we purify our head and breast and hand—before they enter the temple to begin their worship and communion. Zelda has heard those prayers since she was a child, filling out this very room. One time, she had asked High Priestess Piana if she must wash herself, too, but that had earned her a pitiful look from the High Priestess.

‘Did the late Queen not tell you, Your Highness?’ Zelda had shaken her head, then. ‘The Goddess’ descendants do not need to purify themselves, for their blood is of Hylia’s, and is therefore already pure. It is us mortals that need to sanctify ourselves.’

And here she is, ten years later, with nothing to show for her power, more mortal than Goddess-blood.

Stripped to only her underpants, Zelda puts on her prayer dress and secures it with the blue-gold belt that wraps around her waist. Fastens the cuffs around her wrists, the necklace around her neck. Steps into her sandals. She takes off her hair clips, too, and undoes the braids atop her crown. All white and gold and noble blue, ready to stand before the Goddess in supplication and beg until her voice turns hoarse yet again.

She steps outside. Her knight is there, stationed beside the door to the bathhouse, facing away from her. He turns around to meet her gaze.

“Could you put that down, please?” She nods at her traveling pack—its straps still held in his fist. “I must put away my traveling clothes.”

He does as he’s told, then steps away to make room for her to crouch, unlace the flaps, and hastily shove the clothes in. They’ll crumple, but she doesn’t care much. She’s never been the best at folding her garments, or packing her own clothes, for that matter; her maids have always helped with that. And she suspects that he probably knows how to do it, and would fold her clothes in a heartbeat if she asked, but she’d rather soon fling herself off the Great Plateau than have him touch her belongings.

She rises again and, without a word, makes her way to the entrance of the temple. There aren’t a lot of people around, save for the guards. Most of the priestesses are still at the Eastern Abbey, probably serving breakfast at this hour, and Zelda doesn’t mind.

His footfalls follow, quiet and steady against the cobblestone, and stop when they enter the narthex of the temple. From this point on, only those who have purified themselves are allowed to proceed through the nave, though Zelda thinks he, out of all people in this kingdom, should be the exception. Because he is Hylia’s Chosen One—Her beloved—which makes him the purest, most sacred person to ever walk on earth.

Regardless, it’s a rule she finds quite convenient, to be completely frank—the farther he is from her as she inevitably meets another failure, the better.

Zelda continues forward, her sandals on the red carpet that leads all the way to the altar. Ascends the steps to stand before the tall Goddess statue.

She drops to her knees, clasps her fingers beneath her chin, shuts her eyes, and prays.

The first string of prayers leaves her mouth without a struggle; it’s nothing she hasn’t uttered before, nothing that hasn’t been imprinted on the surface of her brain since long, long ago. The words come to her as naturally as the swell and fall of her chest. Words of worship, words of service. She imagines her heart as double doors, pictures them opening wide, letting all the light in. Shining upon each cell in her body.

The concrete is hard against her knees. Sweat collects on her nape, trickling down to her shoulder blades. Her underarms itch.

Still, she prays.

Her lips move faster—she’s in a trance. It’s only been a minute; it’s been an hour. She’s within and without. Hylia, I open myself up to You, I open, open, open. She envisions that light growing brighter, flooding the atrium of her soul.

A sound emits from behind her, from the narthex. A soft cough.

Still, she tries to continue.

In her mind, the light rushes through the room, and underneath the threshold that leads into her cavity, a silhouette appears. A person.

A boy.

Her eyes fly open to meet that smug smile again, carved into stone.

Zelda wants to utter aloud, ‘Is everything a joke to You?’, but that wouldn’t be very respectful to the deity that is also her ancestor. On the other hand, the Goddess is omniscient, so She must have heard her already. Perhaps it is why She hates her so, why She doesn’t bother to listen to her.

So Zelda ends her service just like any other—with a promise that she will come back bearing more faith and conviction the next time, and a ‘Praise be to Hylia’.

She rises, stumbles a little as her legs reacquaint themselves with the rush of blood, and returns to the narthex. Her knight looks rather surprised—perhaps he was expecting her to dedicate the whole day to praying, and that sends a pang through her chest. It's the first time he's ever witnessed her praying, and he has already seen just how much of a disappointment she can be.

They exit the temple and head to the bathhouse again, and this time, Zelda says nothing and just yanks at her pack that he’s holding, which he drops immediately. She retrieves her traveling clothes—lo and behold, they’re crumpled—and quickly peels off her prayer dress that weighs a ton on her body.

Outside, on the outskirts of the Forest of Spirits, she sees a few Sheikah researchers roaming about—no doubt working on the excavation site that Purah and Robbie have talked about. She itches to approach them and talk to them, perhaps even witness the excavation process herself, but Father had been very clear about her itinerary:

‘After Rito Village, you must travel to the Temple of Time, and the Temple of Time shall be your only stop in the Great Plateau before you head back home.’

Zelda shakes her head. A few words with them can’t hurt.

As if on cue, one of them spots her and waves her way. “Your Highness!”

A grin breaks across her lips as she tries to jog as princess-like as possible towards the group of researchers. She hears the extra set of footsteps behind her, of course, but she pays no mind to it. Once she’s only a few paces away, the researchers bow, but she waves them off. She’d gladly shed her royalty for just a few minutes of being a scholar.

“What a delight to have you here, Princess!” The researcher’s garnet eyes are beaming. She’s truly delighted to see me here, Zelda thinks, and it makes her feel warm. “Will you be joining us at the excavation site, Your Highness?”

Zelda smiles ruefully. “Unfortunately not. I was just at the temple to pray, and I’m afraid I must be on my way home very soon.”

“I understand, Your Highness,” the researcher nods. “I would very much love to give you a quick update, however, if you have the time?”

Zelda smirks. “Of course.”

“So, though we have progressed rather slowly for the past few weeks, we did discover a spot near the cliff south of the forest that we think is a tunnel,” the researcher says. “It correlates to the findings from the ancient text, specifically about a medical facility of some kind that was built into the cliff ten thousand years ago.”

“A medical facility?” Zelda asks. She’s sure she has peered through almost every single text that the lab has found in their archives, but this is news to her.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the researcher says. “A facility that, according to the text, can heal even the gravest of injuries. Currently, we’re still working on clearing the entrance from all the rocks, but we do think we will be able to clear it out soon, perhaps in a couple of days. Doctor Purah and Doctor Robbie will be coming here tomorrow, actually.”

Now Zelda truly wishes she could ignore Father’s orders and stay here. But her knight is right there behind her, as watchful and vigilant as ever, and will no doubt report it to his king if she ever dared to go astray. He was assigned by Father, after all—not her.

He answers to Father. He can never be an ally.

So she swallows the rising bile in her throat and says, “I wish you all good luck with the excavation. Please send my greetings to Doctor Purah and Doctor Robbie.”

They all bow once more before bidding her goodbye and making their way back towards the excavation site. Zelda stands and watches them disappear into the Forest of Spirits, the soles of her feet aching to follow, sorrow growing viscous in her lungs.

“All right, then,” she says to herself. To no one. “Let’s head back to the stable.”

And no one replies to her.

With a sigh, she returns to the cobblestoned path, towards the staircase that will take them back to the base of the Great Plateau.

Earlier in the morning, their ascent to the top of the Great Plateau took significantly longer—the many, many steps had seeped all the energy from her body, leaving her panting and her knees sore. The descent now, however, is blessedly easier and quicker. She has to watch her footing, though, because the steps are rather steep and uneven, and she finds herself firmly holding on to the stone balustrade, afraid that she’ll fall.

Down and down and down, step by step. One hand on the railing, always.

She can’t afford to slip, especially when he’s there.

Thankfully, she reaches the base in one piece. Then it’s twenty to thirty minutes of walking to the stable, which she begrudgingly weathers through even as dread percolates through her skin.

She hates this, being engulfed in silence. His silence.

Her fingers fidget at the hems of her blouse, at the leather strap that holds the Sheikah Slate. She detaches it from her hip, swipes at the screen, and feels regret settling in her gut upon seeing the camera symbol on the Slate. Oh, how she wants to run back to the base of the Plateau, climb those stairs again, and run through the Forest of Spirits to the excavation site. She wants to take photographs of the site, wants to memorialize her fellow researchers’ efforts in unearthing an ancient relic that their ancestors had created and left for them.

She wants to do anything she can to ensure all the pieces on the chessboard are lined up, even without her elusive power.

But now she’s looking through the gallery on the Slate, and only finds images from that wretched painting session. Processions, traditions. Things that have never led them anywhere, that have never guaranteed them success.

Zelda closes the gallery, and grips at the Slate a little bit tighter.

There is no use in lamenting, she thinks. The only way to go is forward.

“Soon, we must make our way to Goron City,” Zelda says to no one, again. But thinking aloud helps her parse through her thoughts. Helps her from drowning in that uneasy silence, too. “We’ll need some adjustments on that Divine Beast so Daruk can manage it as easily as possible.”

Rustling of grass. Footfalls following behind her. No words at all.

“He’s figured out how to get it to move,” she continues her soliloquy. “However, it’s apparent that we still have much more to learn. But to think that the Divine Beast was actually built by people…” she trails off.

Everything that was left for them to find was built by her ancestors. The Divine Beasts, the Guardians, those mysterious shrines that dot the country—all man-made. And ten thousand years ago, they had come out victorious.

Maybe victory isn’t something so unattainable. Maybe.

“That means we should be able to understand how it works and how to use it to our advantage,” she finishes her thought. “These Divine Beasts… so much we don’t know… But if we want to turn back the Calamity Ganon, they’re our best hope.”

Zelda is saying this, she knows, but the kernel of the truth is as clear as day and cannot be ignored. One can rearrange the factors in an equation. Take some out, put some new ones in. But two constants will always remain in this ocean of variables:

The Princess and the Hero.

All the legends and the prophesiers say so. History says so.

She stops in her tracks, hands falling limp at her sides. Looks over her shoulder, at him. Because as all roads lead to Faron, all things hinge upon him—the boy chosen by the Sword, by Hylia. The most powerful piece on the chessboard. Perhaps the only viable one, because Goddess knows she isn’t.

“Tell me the truth…” In her periphery, his cerulean gaze bores through her skull. “How proficient are you right now, wielding that sword on your back?”

Still, he doesn’t answer.

A scene from a year and a half ago flashes in front of her eyes again—their first meeting.

‘How did you do it?’

‘I simply pulled it, Princess.’

Maybe it’s good that he’s not replying now, because the time that he did, it had hurt her—his nonchalance, his certainty in his destiny. And somehow, she wants to return that hurt to him. Remind him of the weight that he carries. Because she’s reminded of hers every single waking moment of her life, and Gods, it’s heavy. It’s so heavy.

“Legend says that an ancient voice resonates inside it,” she says. “Can you hear it yet, Hero?”

The title rolls off her tongue like acid. Sour. It burns her, and she hopes it burns him, too.

It probably doesn’t, knowing him. But a girl can hope.

There’s something so inherently despairing upon seeing Father’s face fall. When the slight upturn of his lips slowly twists downwards to a frown. When his brows—raised in hopefulness and expectation—start to knit instead as the realization sinks in for the thousandth time. When the glimmer in his viridian eyes vanishes, making way for bitterness, for disappointment.

It’s something Zelda has witnessed so many times, but it doesn’t ever get easier.

She tries to tell him about Vah Medoh, that Revali is now truly proficient at controlling the giant machine, and that they are one step closer to attuning all of the Divine Beasts with their respective pilots. But Father merely looks at the sunset through the window of his drawing room, unable to see the brighter side of her most recent excursion. All he knows is that his daughter has failed yet again.

“If this continues…” Father starts. “You will have to visit the Springs of Power and Courage again.”

Zelda swallows. Her voice comes out small. “I know.”

Father sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as though declaring his defeat of the day. She bites the inside of her cheek, braces for another string of admonishment, but it never comes.

He tilts his face away from the window to look at her. His exhaustion is evident in the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“While you’re here, I should tell you—we have put our interim Sheikah court poet and bard into our permanent employment,” Father says. “You should converse with him soon. Anthon knows a lot about the Calamity of ten thousand years ago, and perhaps music can help you in your training.”

Zelda has seen the bard a few times before, mostly at balls and ceremonies. A tall man, perhaps only a couple years older than her, silver hair always in a bun, arms always curled protectively around scrolls of his compositions.

She doubts music would be the key to unlocking her power, but she really can’t blame Father for throwing all sorts of solutions and tools her way.

So she nods and says, “Will do, Father.”

Father’s countenance turns slightly brighter, at that. Perhaps he was expecting his daughter to be as unruly and defiant as she usually is when he suggests such things to her, but right now, exhaustion and dejection are coiling around her neck, and whatever protest that bubbled in her throat has died.

“Very well,” Father says. “In fact, tomorrow Anthon will perform in the theater with a string quartet. It shall be an entertaining evening indeed.”

He sounds a bit more jovial now, and while she wishes she could ask about journeying to Goron City for Vah Rudania, she has to save that battle for another day. It’s better to leave him in a good mood.

Zelda bows but somehow can’t bring herself to kiss his cheek, so she saunters out of the room.

As she treads through the various hallways that separate Father’s private quarters from hers, courtiers and maids pass by her, bowing and curtsying. When she turns a corner, she hears them.

‘I heard she just got back from the Temple of Time. And nothing came out of that, as usual.’

The words prick at her skin, but Zelda keeps her chin lifted up; it’s nothing she hasn’t shouted at herself deep in the pit of her blustery mind. Besides, they’re mere paper cuts compared to her knight’s gaze that would relentlessly burn through her back. That is a true rebuke, more than any random lord or councilor can ever utter about her.

When she finally returns to her bedchamber, body aching and heart even more so, she sits on her vanity chair. Undoes her braid, takes off the hair clips.

But then she looks at herself in the mirror.

It comes back to her gradually, like honey slowly pouring into a jar. The hazy imprints of last night’s dream. Her hair strands, much softer, shining from oil. Her shoulders bare, uncovered from all the royal blue and pearl white. A pair of hands—hardened, battle-worn. A phantom voice that gusts through her ears like a squall.

It’s okay. It’s me—

She rakes her fingers through her hair and pulls and pulls, hoping that the slight pain from it can somehow ease the raging of her mind. When it doesn’t, a whine escapes her mouth, loud within the silent confines of her bedroom’s walls.

If these walls were alive and all-seeing, they would be laughing at her, at how ridiculously hopeless she is, unraveling in front of her vanity desk like a petulant child. Her brain, too, must be laughing at her, because it keeps throwing a wrench into the works. Conspiring against her, scheming against her. Conjuring up dreams that have no business being dreamt of.

It’s truly cruel.

Even without his presence, it’s like he’s never left.

The rage of her musings is thankfully stopped by the sound of knocking on the door. Nora steps in, and Zelda tells her that she wishes to have supper in her study.

Father will wonder where she is, but if she must spend the rest of this evening putting on a smile and listening to him ramble about other avenues not yet explored in an effort to awaken her sealing power, she’ll actually lose it.

With Nora out of the room, she heads into her study, does her best to stow away any unnecessary thoughts, and begins to read and read and read.

Father wasn’t kidding; Anthon the bard does know his way around the history of the Calamity.

It’s two hours before the intimate concert at the castle theater, and now Anthon is showing Zelda scroll after scroll scrawled in musical notations and lyrics at the library.

“The string quartet and I have of course rehearsed all these songs I am showing you, so you only need to choose one that intrigues you the most, Your Highness,” Anthon says, his ruby eyes gleaming from the fluorescent chandeliers. “It would be my absolute honor to perform a song that the Princess of Hyrule wishes to hear.”

“That’s very kind of you, Anthon,” she replies as her fingers sift through the sheets of parchment laid on the table.

Zelda has never learned how to read music; she has been doomed to training at springs and temples since she was six, so she can only blindly guess the meaning behind all those symbols and signs printed on the parchment. But Anthon has written the song titles on every sheet, so she goes by how they sound to her.

She skips most of them. ‘Calamity Ganon’s Wrath’—no, thank you—her mind is already filled with that twenty-four hours, seven days a week. ‘Ballad of the Goddess’—doesn’t sound like something she hasn’t read about in history books and ancient texts. ‘Hylia’s Beloved’—hard pass.

Her fingers continue to sift through the sheets, and she can feel Anthon’s nervous gaze on her as she scans each title.

Then she sees a title that finally piques her interest.

“What is this one about?” Zelda points at the title. ‘Ballad of a Beautiful Apocalypse’.

“Ah! This is actually one of my favorites, Your Highness,” Anthon says. “I admit, this piece is more… speculative than it is a retelling of the Calamity of ten thousand years ago.” His digits trace over the first bar of the music, as if he could hear the notes through touch. “But I thought of what might have passed through the minds of our ancestors back then as they were preparing for the Calamity. And then I began writing about some of the things I would like to do if I did not have much time left. Here, on earth.”

Something stings her throat, at that. She has never allowed herself the luxury of thinking such thoughts, because doing so means defeat. But Anthon’s words make her wonder—just how many people are there in this kingdom that ponder upon such things? Considering their lack of faith in her powers… Have people quietly begun making a list of things they’d like to do before the Calamity happens?

It’ll most likely be a difficult song to listen to, but maybe she needs this. Maybe it can awaken something in her.

“That is quite the thought that you’ve put behind the song, Anthon.” Zelda smiles, hoping that the bard can’t hear the little waver in her voice. “I think I’d like to hear ‘Ballad of a Beautiful Apocalypse’ tonight.”

“Splendid!” Anthon claps his hands. Zelda almost wants to laugh—never has she seen someone so delighted at the prospect of singing a song about the end of the world. “I shall inform the string players immediately! I’m afraid I must leave you now, Your Highness, my apologies—but I will see you at the theater very soon!”

All right, she is actually laughing now. “Of course, Anthon. I’ll try getting a front-row seat,” she says, though she is the Princess and there will always be a seat saved for her, next to Father’s on the front row. But the Sheikah bard grinned ear to ear at that, and well, it’s the thought that counts.

A few hours later, she has a hand on the crook of Father’s arm as they walk into the theater, making their way to the first row of seats. The concert hall is decorated to the brim with candelabras, casting the room in flickering patterns of amber and gold. On stage are four wooden stools with a music stand in front of each. A cello, a viola, and two violins are stationed beside the stool, awaiting the hands of their players.

Zelda sits and looks around. It will be quite the intimate show; there are some empty seats in the audience, and she can only recognize a few faces in the crowd—Father’s advisors, some dukes and lords, Impa (who is thankfully seated behind her), a few captains and commander of the guard—

Zelda sighs. Of course Father has invited the knight tonight. He’s clad in his Royal Guard uniform and sitting next to his commander Sir Remi, three rows behind her. His head is down, face obscured by messy wisps of hair as Sir Remi talks into his left ear. Zelda quickly turns around before anyone can catch her line of sight.

It could be worse. At least there are bodies in between them, separating them.

At last, the string players walk up to the stage, bowing before they take their seats and hold their instruments. Anthon follows, offering the most dramatic of genuflection, his garnet eyes twinkling as they land on her and Father.

From behind her, Impa leans forward and whispers, “He’s been waiting for this concert since you left for Rito Village. Couldn’t shut up about being able to finally sing for the Princess.”

Zelda tilts her head a little to look at Impa. “I’ve heard him sing before,” she whispers back. “He even sang at the Inauguration Ceremony.”

Impa merely shrugs and leans back in her chair as a reply, and Zelda returns her gaze towards the stage.

Anthon clears his throat. “Welcome, everybody. First things first, I would like to thank His Majesty for allowing me to grace this stage, along with my talented colleagues, to entertain you during such a tumultuous time,” he says. “At the request of His Majesty, such a concert will be thrown once every three months, and everybody is welcome to join the audience and enjoy the tunes we have prepared.

“Without further ado… This first song, requested by His Majesty, is called ‘The Evergreen Queen’.”

The bard signals with his hand at the players—one, two, three, four—and the music begins.

Zelda looks at Father, and sees something fond in his expression. Anthon’s beautiful voice resonates throughout the room.

O my Evergreen Queen
The world has wilted since you left me
But my heart, it still bleeds
In armoranths and daisies

It’s a song about Mother, she thinks. Father has requested a song about Mother, and it makes her warm and cold all the same. Warm, because beneath that thick layer of ice that has encased Father ever since Mother’s passing is the same man that Zelda once knew as a child.

Cold, because that man is rarely seen now, and he has somehow told the bard to only show Zelda songs about the Calamity, not even allowing her to request a song that doesn’t have anything to do with that impending doom.

After more verses, some about how the forests of Hyrule have turned gray and the rivers of Hylia have dried, Anthon finishes the first song, and is replied by the sound of applause filling up the hall.

“Thank you,” Anthon says. “The second song for this evening is titled ‘Ballad of a Beautiful Apocalypse’, requested by Her Highness the Princess.”

Zelda smiles, and Anthon’s voice once again breathes life into another song.

The skies bleed black through the windowpane
But close my eyes to it, I do, and tell you my lament
For time, it slips through our fingers like sand
And still, my heart turns iron with every word unsaid

The strings start to swell, minor chords instilling a sense of foreboding. Anthon’s visage is so clearly marred with melancholy—living through every lyric that he has written. Zelda’s lips tremble.

So kiss me, oh love, so softly and sweetly
For nothing is wrong now when you are near
May the fire ravage and swirl through me
Oh, I beg for a beautiful apocalypse!

As the swell of the strings continues to rise and rise, Anthon’s urgent voice carries more pieces to the fray. They fall at her feet as questions that claw at her legs, that beg and scream to be acknowledged:

What would she do if the world was truly hurtling towards the end? How would she spend the time she has left? With whom would she spend it with?

Zelda is picking up those questions now—she has acquiesced. Accepts their existence, acknowledges them. She tells them to be quiet for the time being, however, lest it drives her to the darkest pit of her mind and distracts her from her pressing duty. Besides, she’s unsure if she can even answer them now.

When the song ends, the audience applauds once again, and before she can realize it, her neck is craning to look over her shoulder, and sees him through the sliver of space between the heads and shoulders that separate them. Wonders if such questions plague him, too.

There are two possibilities, she posits—either he doesn’t think of it at all because why would he, when he is so certain in his ability, or he does think about it because he knows that his success is contingent on hers, and considering her repeated failure, he has no choice but to think of those questions.

In the midst of her thoughts, those blues still haven’t met hers, and she counts her blessings and turns away.

After Anthon and the string players bow once more as thanks, and the guests start to filter out of the room, Father turns to her.

“How was it, daughter?” he asks. Though Zelda hears the real question behind it—did you feel anything?

“It was great,” she replies. “Moving, for sure. Anthon is truly a talent.”

“That is… heartening to hear.” Father hums. “As I have said before, you should spend more time with Anthon. Music can be a powerful agent in an equation.”

She remembers the slight crinkle to Father’s eyes as Anthon performed the first song. The way each lyric from her requested song pricks at her heart, roiling all sorts of thoughts within her. How the strings set the stage, the sounds swirling in her ears as they begin to take form into something dark, foreboding.

“I agree,” Zelda says.

The minor chords of the strings still linger in Zelda’s mind even days later, as Purah, Robbie, and Impa sit together with her in the drawing room.

“We successfully opened the medical facility two days ago, Princess,” Purah says before she sips her cup of tea. “It’s quite the scientific feat. Never have we seen such advanced technology before.”

“I mean, it’s truly insane that this is the stuff they made ten thousand years ago!” Robbie chimes in. “If only you were there, Princess. I think my heart stopped when we first entered the cave.”

Oh, the pain of not staying there at the Great Plateau is really stinging her now.

Zelda gives him a sullen smile. “Well, I wish I was,” she says. “So what does this medical facility do, exactly?”

Purah retrieves a scroll of parchment sheets from her bag and unfurls it on the coffee table. Impa sighs and pushes the teacups and plates of pastries away, not wanting to dirty the parchment.

On it is a detailed black-and-white sketch of what appears to be a chamber with a swirling design akin to those Zelda has seen on the Guardians and the Slate.

“So, this is the first chamber that we discovered. There’s nothing much there except for a ramp that leads further inside,” Purah says, then she pulls out another sheet of paper from underneath the stack. “Now this… This is the innermost chamber.”

Zelda’s eyes immediately land on the drawing of what looks like a bed—or perhaps a pool?—situated in the middle of the chamber. Above the bed, branches of light and metal emerge from the ceiling to form one, giant dome reminiscent of the shape of an octorok.

“This bed is a revitalization tool. The ancient text doesn’t say much about this gadget because it seems that they never had to use it, but we believe this was created as a contingency measure. It can heal any type of injury, even near death. It even has a long-term stasis function that can be maintained and activated until the healing process is complete,” Purah continues. “Now, we don’t think the facility is one hundred percent ready for use right now; we still have to restore it to full working order.”

Zelda’s fingers linger on the outline of the bed. Imagines it filled to the brim with healing water. Imagines a body submerged in it, on the brink of death.

She tries very hard to not let her brain come up with a face to go with the body.

“What would happen if the patient were to use it?” she asks, her voice small all of a sudden. “Are there any known side effects?”

“We have no idea, not right now,” Robbie says. “We’ve taken a sample of the water yesterday, so we will run some tests very soon. But there has to be a reason why this technology was considered a last resort to our ancestors.”

Last resort. That’s all Zelda needs to hear. She will have to make sure that they never have to use this facility.

“Well, do keep me posted,” Zelda says, earning an ‘Of course, Princess’ from the scientists. “In the meantime, I will have to journey to Goron City and help Daruk with Vah Rudania.” She purses her lips. “The Divine Beasts are still our best hope, so I will continue to focus on training the Champions while you work with the rest of the ancient relics.”

Now comes the hardest part—she has to talk to Father. Ask for his permission to go to Goron City. And if that request is granted (she hopes it will), she has to weather through her knight’s presence yet again.

But the string continues to swell and the stage is set and something grim rears itself inside her gut, rises over the horizon, chanting the same sentence over and over again—

You don’t have much time.

The only way to go is forward. And whatever comes with each step she takes—it’s simply a price she has to pay.

Chapter Text

The journey to Goron City is grueling and long, to put it lightly.

Zelda has been awake since five o’clock, and been riding since six, yet they have only made it as far as Trilby Plain. The summer heat is truly at its peak now; the season’s last chance to burn and punish everyone in its wake before making way for a more forgiving, cooler autumn. Every inch of her skin is perspiring, the wretchedly thick fabric of her traveling outfit sticking to her skin, and she wishes she could just plunge into the pond that they’re now passing by.

She has quite the reserve of fire and heat-proof elixirs stashed in her pack, but she figures it is wise to wait until they begin their hike up Death Mountain before taking them. It’s hot here on the outskirts of Lanayru, but it’s nothing compared to the extreme weather that awaits them in Eldin.

But even so, she keeps one hand on the reins as one rises to wipe the beads of sweat from her forehead, and presses on. Heat means she’s going somewhere. Heat means not sitting idly at the castle after a futile prayer. Heat means progress.

Plus, it makes her nearly forget that there’s another source of fire near her. The blue flames of those blue eyes, perforating through her back as she keeps her eyes on the horizon.

Eventually, her legs burn so much that she dares to look over her shoulder and meet his gaze.

“Let’s stop by the riverside,” she says curtly. “I think we’re due for a short break.”

Her knight nods, slowing down Epona to a walk as they veer off the dirt path, towards the riverbank. Zelda dismounts and pats Ares’ forehead, letting her stallion graze on the patches of grass nearby. Epona, without her faithful rider atop her back, joins Ares, and Zelda watches as the gentle creatures nudge each other with their muzzles, whickering together as if murmuring secrets. Perhaps Ares is asking—Epona, why is your guy so quiet? And Epona would answer—I dunno, Ares. He’s just weird like that.

Zelda shakes her head. Silly, silly thoughts.

She unstoppers her waterskein, takes big gulps, and refills it by running it through the stream. The water feels blessedly cool against her skin, so she puts her skein down and dips both her hands into the water. Cups them and splashes at her heated face. Drinks from her palms, too.

Water, when sourced from anywhere other than a sacred spring or a temple, tastes sweeter in her mouth. And in times like this, she finds herself praying and thanking Hylia from the bottom of her heart.

When her skin feels cool enough, Zelda takes the wooden box from her pack and eats the mushroom rice balls the kitchen has made for her. She faces the river, her back to her knight. His silence, as unnerving as it may be, can also be a blessing—it makes it easier to pretend that he’s not there at all.

Then it’s onwards, traversing around Trilby Valley, along Zora River. Keeping a steady pace on their steeds until they approach a copse of trees, where growls can be heard. Ares is getting a bit skittish, and Zelda pulls at the reins to slow him down.

In the thicket, a man is holding a spear, yelling as he fights a lone bokoblin, its skin silver striped maroon. Its antennae-like horn bobs and sways as it swings its spiked club at the man, and he staggers backward, nearly missing a hit to his head. Thankfully, the bokoblin can’t see her—there’s some distance between them—but the man certainly needs help.

Zelda looks back to find her knight merely staring at her.

“You have to help that man, Sir Knight,” she says.

“I can’t, Princess.”

She frowns. “You’re not serious.”

He looks blankly inscrutable. “I can’t guard you and help him at the same time.”

A man is clearly fighting for his life, there among the trees, and her knight can’t even shed his sense of duty for just a moment to help someone else.

Some hero he is.

“Are you crazy? I’ll be fine!” She’s half-yelling now. “You have to help him!”

Something close to conflict passes through his eyes, but then he nods, sliding off Epona and unsheathing the Sword.

“Please stay here, Princess.”

Then he runs into the thickets and shouts a ‘Hey!’, averting the monster’s attention to him. The man clutches at his shoulder, backing away as her knight ducks and sidesteps the mindless creature before slicing through its neck with the Sword.

And just like that, the problem is solved.

Zelda watches as the man approaches his savior, limping slightly.

“Oh, Goddess—thank you so much, sir. Thank you so, so much. I wasn’t sure I could kill that bastard myself,” the man is saying. Her knight just shakes his head, a small smile on his lips.

Then the man squints at the Sword, and gasps as the realization sinks in.

“You’re him.” He laughs deliriously. “Hylia, you’re him. The Hero. Of course, of course you’re the one that saved me today.”

Zelda has half the mind to jump off Ares and very kindly inform him that if it weren’t for her command to her knight, the man would not come out unscathed.

But she doesn’t. She stays put, eyeing them wearily as the man showers the Hero with more thanks. Letting her exasperation die in her throat, where it burns just as the sun burns the top of her scalp.

When he returns to her, she averts her gaze, suddenly finding interest in Ares’ silky white mane.

“Are you all right, Princess?” she hears him say.

Zelda snorts; she won’t even deign to answer that question. She taps her heels against Ares’ flanks and rides on ahead. He’ll follow anyway. Unfortunately, he always will.

They continue until they reach the inn on the cliff overlooking Cephla Lake. It’s only two hours until they cross the Maw of Death Mountain, but it’s getting late and Zelda would rather save the most grueling part of the journey for tomorrow.

The inn itself consists of small villas scattered around the property, with the lobby housed in a separate building in the center. Zelda tells the innkeeper that she’ll rent one private villa and one bed in the common house, but her knight raises his hand, interrupting her.

“I don’t need a bed, Princess.”

Zelda furrows her brows. “What, do you require your own room?”

“No, Princess.” He shakes his head. “I have to keep watch in front of your villa.”

She’s aware of the innkeeper’s eyes on them, but she sighs and continues, “You must be joking. You ought to get some sleep.”

He shakes his head again, and a deranged thought bubbles within her—an urge to put her hands on his cheeks and hold his face still, so she’ll never have to see him shake his head ever again.

“Depriving yourself of sleep doesn’t make you a better bodyguard,” she tries again.

“I’m used to it, Princess.”

Zelda tilts her head up to the ceiling, imagines her gaze penetrating the layers of gypsum and wood and brick to reach the skies above, and prays for Hylia to grant her patience and grace in the face of his indifference.

She only sighs at the end. “All right, suit yourself.”

She fishes out some rupees from her pouch, takes the key from the innkeeper, and exits the reception. The building closest to the edge of the cliff, the innkeeper said earlier. Biggest room and best view for Your Highness. She makes a beeline for the little villa, painted in eggshell white with a red brick roof.

The front porch is furnished with a wooden table and two chairs with thin pillows as cushions, and the door is marked with a metal plate engraved with Honeymoon Suite.

She wants to rip the plate off the door with her bare hands and fling it into the lake behind her. The innkeeper definitely knows that she is the Princess and he is only her knight attendant, but still. Even if the implication is made by an inanimate object—by a house and a table with two chairs overlooking the picturesque vistas—it still makes her blood boil and turn cold simultaneously.

She tries to keep her face blank, however—ripping out a page straight from her knight’s book. Calm and composed. Keeps her hands steady as she inserts the key into the lock, turns it, then swings the door open.

This time, she doesn’t ask or stand in his way as he drops her pack by the bed and does his whole ‘checking for weak points’ routine around the room. Fingers on the windows’ hinges and latches, then doing the same to the door.

A question makes it past her lips before she can assess it carefully.

“Were you truly going to let that man die, if I didn’t ask you to help him?”

He turns around, and everything is blue blue blue. His tunic, his eyes, his earrings. The color that her heart takes each time she looks at him. The color that’s impossibly brighter than the lit candles that adorn the room.

“He was going to defeat that bokoblin, Princess,” he answers. “Maybe it was going to take him more time, but I didn’t think that he wouldn’t survive the fight.”

“And if he ended up getting killed by that bokoblin?” She pauses. “Would you mind having that on your conscience, Sir Knight?”

He blinks once, twice. A flicker of thoughtfulness passes through his eyes—thoughts she wishes she could force out of him, but she won’t, because she has tried and failed and she will never beg for them again. And she simply watches as his lips press into a thin line, as if debating whether to answer her or not.

She isn’t sure why she asked him such a question, either. Some part of her knows he’s just trying to do his job, but Goddesses above—can he just display an ounce of humanity, of flaw and imperfection while he does so?

His silence is deafening and she aches to shatter it, so she says, “Please know that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself even just for a few minutes, despite your belief. You may be fine with having blood on your hands, however indirect, but I am not. So next time, when you are in my company and we encounter a troubled citizen that requires your… expertise, I expect you to help them.”

Her gaze stays on the wisps of wheat blonde across his forehead and on those brows that crease ever so slightly.

In the end, he merely nods.

“Okay, that settles it, then.” She exhales through her mouth, and hopes the disquietude that has nestled in her throat is expelled through the breath.

A beat, then he bows, closing the door behind him, leaving her in the villa all alone.

Unsurprisingly, the disquietude stays, and Zelda gives trying to kill it another go by eating supper served by the innkeeper’s wife, delivered straight to her room. She slowly consumes the grilled trout over rice (‘sourced straight from Cephla Lake,’ the innkeeper’s wife said,) and does her best not to glance out the window, where her knight keeps watch at the front porch.

When eating, too, proves useless, she walks to the window, takes the curtains in her fists, and draws them shut.

She retrieves the sheets of schematics for Vah Rudania from her pack and studies them intently. Her eyes read the words, scan through the drawings, but none truly register in her head. Her brain is scattered in pieces, stuck on those hinges and latches where his fingers once pressed and pushed.

Though she supposes, if she were even more scattered and truly out of her mind, she’d storm out of this room and grab him by the shoulders. She’d have to endure the painful jolt of electricity that would surely spark from touching him, but she’d weather through it just to tell him that he’d never need to check for weak points ever again.

Because the fault in this villa is not the possibility of an intruder; it’s his presence.

She gives up studying for the moment, and walks to the bed—queen-sized, two quilts draped over it. She stares at them for a moment until something she cannot name seizes her limbs, puppeteers her hands into taking one of them, and her legs to bring her to the door. Her mind wails—stop, don’t do it, stop—but her fingers finally wrap around the door handle, pushes it down then pulls—

She faces him.

“They gave me an extra blanket,” she says, extending her arm to offer the bundled fabric to him. “You should take this.”

He shakes his head.

She pinches her eyes shut for a moment and tries to keep her voice steady. Opens them again to find his blues, smoldering in the cloak of the dark night.

“Please, just take it.” Be human, be imperfect. Please.

A few seconds pass. Seconds that she’s letting him use to harpoon her sanity with his unforgiving azure gaze.

Then, just like earlier, he nods and takes the blanket from her hand. She’s careful to not let their fingers brush.

Before she can stop them, the words bleed through the cracks of her exhaustion, the crevices of her small relief—

“Good night, Sir Link.”

Oh, the tip of her tongue burns from where it pushes against the back of her teeth to form the sound of his name. His name. A name that feels like a thousand people upbraiding her at the same time.

“Good night, Princess.”

Despite the harsh effect of his name, his voice lands softly in her ears. Familiar.

She doesn’t want to think about why it sounds familiar.

Zelda returns to her room and leans her back against the door to shut it. Inhales, exhales. Does it all over again until her heart stops its violent pounding against the confines of her chest.

When she eventually gets ready for bed and slips beneath the sheets and falls asleep, his name continues to linger in her mouth, like the thin fishbone still stuck between her teeth that she must brush and brush away until her gums bleed.

She promises herself to never say it again.

In the morning, Zelda rouses and dons her traveling clothes again. Though the curtains are still drawn, the early dawn light has begun to leak into the room, and she exits the villa to find her knight already up and about, a waterskein up to his lips. Part of her wishes she’d find him asleep, wrapped in the blanket she had given to him last night, but she squashes that part and clears her throat.

“Good morning, Sir Knight,” she greets him coolly.

He inclines his head as a reply.

“We should take the fireproof elixir before we start our journey up to Death Mountain,” she says. “Nora has packed more than necessary, so you should have some of mine, too.”

“I already brought some for myself, Princess.”

One step forward, two steps back, she thinks. He may have accepted the blanket the night before, but that does not mean he isn’t still the perfect soldier she knows and loathes.

Wordlessly, she takes a vial from her pouch, uncorks it, and downs the dark red liquid in one go. The acrid flavor makes her grimace, but she quickly regains her composure and returns the veil of regality upon her expression.

She can be like him. She can be impassive, too.

After checking out from the inn and properly stowing everything back onto the saddles, they once again find themselves atop their steeds, trotting steadily and heading north. The moment they cross the Maw of Death Mountain, the air immediately turns heavier and scorching, prickling her skin. Zelda has been in Eldin once before—with her former knights she much prefers, to officially recruit Daruk as a Champion—but the sheer heat still catches her off-guard.

They ride through a cavernous passage between Lake Intenoch and Gero Pond and emerge on the other side of the hill, where the rivers bleed glowing orange.

Zelda breathes in the humidity. Pushes past the sweltering heat and rides and rides because she’d rather burn here on the foot of Death Mountain than rot away in her bedchamber. Progress, she tells herself. Forward, forward, forward. Always.

They only stop once to take a short break near Gortram Cliffs, and then it’s onwards for a couple more hours until they reach the underpass of Stolock Bridge, where Daruk waits in front of the local stable.

Her Goron Champion waves his enormous hand at her. The sash she had sewn for him encircles his extremely broad torso.

“Princess! Little guy!” he calls out, and Zelda flashes a smile at him. Grins at the rather silly nickname for her stalwart knight.

She dismounts Ares and silently hands the reins to her knight. He leads both Ares and Epona to the paddock, where they’d wait and sleep tonight—only tonight, thankfully. Zelda is excited to take a look at Vah Rudania, but she is still a mere Hylian and can only keep on downing fireproof elixirs for so long before her body begs to be taken to a milder climate.

Then it’s Zelda and Daruk walking into Goron City, with her knight faithfully trailing behind.

“I hope the journey here hasn’t been too tough, Princess,” Daruk says. “I’d pilot Rudania myself to Central Hyrule if I could, but I don’t think the residents there’d appreciate it.”

Zelda laughs. “No, I don’t think they would,” she says. “And don’t worry about it—I’ve brought a ton of elixirs with me, and we’ll get Rudania working for you quickly so I may journey back home tomorrow.”

Daruk claps his hands. “Right! Speakin’ of, lemme take you to the jewel of my city—the Rollin’ Inn! I’ve told Korso to make the room there as cozy and as Hylian as possible.”

“That’s lovely. Thank you, Daruk.”

They cross the bridges that hover over the ponds of lava, into the hub of the city, where Daruk’s fellow countrymen roll about as merchants fill the hot air with their yells of ‘Goron-mined rubies! Only 250 rupees per piece!’ and ‘Fireproof elixirs! Buy one get one!’ She also eyes the few Hylians and Gerudo wandering about the rocky streets, shining with sweat.

Daruk waits outside of the inn as she and her knight are greeted by Korso the innkeeper, leading them to one of the only three rooms built within the inn. It’s bare-bones and very humble—with a small bed with a metal frame and a nightstand. It’s still pretty warm in here, but Zelda notices the jars of activated sapphires that lay in the corners. She picks up one of the jars and draws it close to her face, letting the icy breeze billow onto her skin.

Her knight drops her pack by the bed and stands by the door.

He won’t be sleeping at all tonight, she already knows. He’ll stand out there, right outside her room, leaning against the wall and braving the heat himself. And though she itches to later tell Korso to ready another room for her knight and manhandle him straight into a bed to force him to rest, she bites down the urge.

He always seems impervious to things that would affect normal people. So she’ll let him be.

As Zelda makes her way back outside, she hears him.

“Princess,” he calls out, stepping closer to her. “You should take the elixir again.”

She turns around to glower at him.

He fishes out one from his pouch and proffers a vial to her. “It must be taken every three hours.”

She extracts one from her own pocket and unstoppers it in front of him. “I have my own stash, remember?” she says before tipping her head back, draining the vial in one go. She doesn’t grimace at the taste this time, and she’s rather proud. She’d be prouder if that at least elicited some semblance of reaction from her knight, but as always, he appears inexpressive as he returns the vial of elixir into his pouch.

Daruk shows them to a staircase behind the inn that leads directly to the top of Stolock Bridge, built especially for non-Gorons to reach the bridge quickly without having to roll on the outskirts of the city. Daruk bids them a temporary goodbye and rolls away, leaving Zelda and her knight alone once again, climbing up and up, muscles burning.

Thankfully, the ascent isn’t that long, and Daruk is already waiting for them at the end of the bridge. Zelda has half the mind to ask him how fast her Goron Champion can roll on the ground.

It takes a bit of walking from the bridge to reach the beginning of a mining railway that will take them directly to the Bridge of Eldin, and Daruk tells them to hop in the cart.

“Isn’t this commonly used to transport rocks?” Zelda asks.

“Yeah, but it also works for, erm, Hylians. You guys just need to hold on tight,” Daruk says, standing right in front of the cart and fastening the metal chains around his waist. All the contraptions look rather complicated (even though they look old-fashioned,) so Zelda merely nods and sets her gloved hands on the railing to climb into the cart. Her knight offers a hand to aid her, and she wants to laugh; he truly has learned nothing from the countless times she has declined his help.

When they are both finally settled in the cart, Daruk yells, “Remember! Hold on tight!”

Zelda swallows, tightens her grip on the cart’s railings, and then Daruk is no longer Daruk but a giant ball of rolling rock heading forward, and the cart jolts into motion.

Nothing can be as frighteningly thrilling as being on Revali’s back and soaring over Tabantha, but this sure as Nayru comes close. The cart picks up speed and her long tresses are blown back by the force of the wind. Her hair is surely all mussed up now, and her braids probably have loosened, but she can’t let go of the railing so she resolves to fix it later.

Through the smog, Zelda looks around to marvel at the peak of Death Mountain, all orange and black and smoke—lava pouring like honey into the molten rivers that flow below them. She cranes her neck to the left to see her knight, hands still and relaxed beside his thighs, unfazed by the ride.

Of course, she thinks.

After fifteen minutes or so, the cart finally slows and comes to a halt, and she can see the Bridge of Eldin, just some distance away from the end of the railway. And there, stationed right next to the bridge, is Vah Rudania, its salamander-shaped body lying prone atop the rocky fields.

Daruk ruffles his wild white mane, shaking off the pebbles that have stuck throughout his roll, and grins at his Hylian passengers.

“Not a bad ride, eh?”

“That was pretty thrilling, actually,” Zelda replies as she hops off the cart. “Does that not hurt you, though? To continuously roll like that for almost half an hour?”

“Nope.” Daruk shakes his head. “I got a rock for a body, Your Highness. Besides, it’s my honor to be rollin’ for Hyrule’s princess!”

“Thank you, Daruk.” She smiles. As they draw closer to Vah Rudania’s entrance, she asks, “How have you been finding the Divine Beast?”

“To be honest, it ain’t been good, Princess,” Daruk says. “Seems like it won’t… heed my commands, no matter what I do.” He scratches at his nape, looking crestfallen. “I know I’m the only Champion who’s struggling with the Divine Beast, so I’m sorry for that, Princess.”

Zelda stops in her tracks and turns around to face her Champion. “Daruk—please don’t apologize. These machines are very, very complex and ancient, so it’s completely understandable that it might take a while before you can pilot it with ease,” Zelda replies. “Besides, between you and I—you’re not the only one who’s struggling. Revali did, too.” She smirks. “He’d never admit it, though.”

Daruk barks a laugh. “Hah! That he wouldn’t.” The dispiritedness starts to melt away from his visage, and the sight makes her warm. “Thanks, Princess. I appreciate it.”

It’s actually quite refreshing to see someone who appears so strong and indestructible like Daruk be vulnerable. She wishes she could see that more from other people, but, well. Wishing for such things can only disappoint.

They step onto the ramp that leads to Rudania’s tail and enter the main chamber of the Beast. The air is less aggressive inside, and Zelda finds herself silently thanking all those Sheikah engineers from ten thousand years ago for somehow creating a machine that can also regulate temperature.

She retrieves the scroll containing the schematics for Rudania (using parchment coated with fireproof solution, courtesy of the Royal Tech Lab,) and unfurls it before her.

“All right,” she says, fighting a wide smile from forming on her lips. Here, she is a scholar first and foremost. “Let’s get started.”

The hours quickly pass. She pays a visit to each terminal scattered throughout the Beast, and makes adjustments according to Daruk’s experience. Each terminal calibrated is one step forward. A pawn advancing on the chessboard. Progress.

That progress is slightly thwarted upon the realization that the last terminal is located on the vertebrae of Rudania’s body.

Beneath the arch that holds the terminal, Zelda tilts her head up and squints from the glaring sunlight.

“How do I get up there?” she muses.

“Hmm, I think…” Daruk scratches his beard. “Ah! Do you have a good balance, Princess?”

Zelda thinks it through—there was that one time when she tried to climb a tree in the castle garden but fell and sprained her ankle.

“Sure,” she lies.

“Okay, great! Then you can hop on my palm and I can boost you up,” Daruk says.

“No.”

They turn to the knight.

Steady breaths, she tells herself. Don’t lose your composure.

“She’ll be fine, little guy!” Daruk tries to assure him. “You know me. Arms as steady as a rock. I ain’t gonna let her fall.”

“There must be a ladder somewhere,” the knight replies.

“Oh, for Din’s sake—” Zelda faces Daruk once more, and nods at him. “Forget him. I’m ready.”

Her heart suddenly leaps to her throat, and she’ll admit—the idea of being propelled upwards seems a bit daunting, but it’s that or bending to her knight’s notion about her fragility, so she chooses the former.

Daruk opens his palms flat and sets them in front of his torso. “You can do it, Princess,” he says softly.

Zelda takes a deep breath, and hoists herself up and plants her feet on Daruk’s palm. In her periphery, she sees her knight jogging closer to Daruk—anticipating her fall, no doubt—but she pays no mind to him.

“All right, boost me up!”

And then she feels the momentum, up and up and up as Daruk raises his hand and her body along with it. She tries not to look down and bends her knees to center her balance. Extends her arms upwards until she feels the groove of one of Rudania’s arches.

“Just a little bit more!” she yells down at Daruk, and her Champion replies by stretching his arm further and further and—

Finally, the flat surface of the arch is aligned with her hips. She swings her left leg up and holds on tight to the groove of the arch, and the next thing she knows, she’s sitting on Rudania’s vertebrae.

“Amazing!” She’s laughing. “Thank you, Daruk!”

“You did great, Princess!” Daruk yells back. Then she hears him speak in a lower voice, “See, what’d I tell ya, huh? I wasn’t gonna let her fall. Don’t worry so much, Link.”

No answer.

Somehow, the urge to apologize to Daruk burgeons within her, because he’s been the perfect host and to be met with silence by her knight infuriates her to no end. But then she remembers that her knight has been here before, has trained in Eldin with the Goron Champion himself before he had drawn the Sword, and suddenly, heat roils in her gut at the realization.

Daruk puts up with his silence because he knows him. And she’ll never know him like Daruk does—like Mipha does. And she has to accept that because it will stay this way until the end. She knows.

Zelda wipes the sweat from her forehead for the hundredth time, crumples the thought and throws it far, far away, and gets to work.

In no time, the final terminal is recalibrated, and Zelda hangs her legs off the ledge, eyeing the floor below her. Daruk cups his palms and extends his arms upward. She draws a breath and drops onto his hands.

Gently, he sets her on the ground, and her knees wobble a little as her feet find a solid surface once again. She dusts off her pants, feeling slightly guilty that her Champion has to help her —rolling a cart and boosting her up and carrying her—when the day should have been dedicated to training him.

“Thank you again, Daruk. I’m afraid that wasn’t very princess-like of me,” Zelda says, apologetic.

“Oh, Princess. Everythin’ you do is princess-like ‘cause you are a princess,” Daruk laughs. “Now, I can’t wait to get my hands on the controls! Imma nail it now, I can feel it.”

“Yeah, let’s.” Zelda smiles.

They walk to the center platform on Rudania’s back, which boasts the enormous hub that houses the main terminal. Daruk stands before the control boards, giant hands hovering above the control wheel at the center, surrounded by a myriad of switches and levers.

He’s hesitating. Nervous. She can see.

“Just as we’ve talked about before—relax and try to be… one with Rudania. If she resists some movements, try to approach it in a gentler manner,” Zelda says. “You can do it, Daruk.”

Daruk gives her a small smile, presses the main switch, takes the control wheel between his hands, and pulls.

Rudania lets out a guttural roar, and begins to move forward.

“That’s it!” Zelda says in the midst of her euphoria, gripping at the edge of the control board to balance herself as the Beast shakes in its motion. “Now try to turn to the right—towards the mountain.”

Daruk nods, and with that, Rudania’s head turns to the right, its long, metal limbs following.

“This is what I’m talkin’ about!” Daruk shouts in joy. “Give me another challenge, Princess!”

“Hmm…” Zelda pouts. “Let’s take her along the mountain range, how about that?”

“I like the sound of that!”

“Princess.”

That voice slices through her excitement.

She faces his way, finding those blues that relentlessly bore through her.

“You should take the elixir again,” her knight says.

“Just wait a moment,” she replies, focusing on Daruk’s hands on the control board once more. “I’ll take it soon.”

“The effects will soon wear off, Princess. You’ll get burnt—”

Something ugly wells up on her tongue and snaps.

“Can you just stop for a second?!”

At her sides, her fingers curl into fists. Rudania stops moving. Its pilot cranes his head to look at her.

Anger immediately makes way for shame and guilt and they all brew and boil in her head, steaming her eyes.

“My apologies, I think I need a moment to myself.” She breathes out her mouth. “Daruk, I trust you can pilot Rudania on your own for a bit?”

Daruk, though surprised at the change of atmosphere, has a knowing look in his eyes. “‘Course, Princess. Rudania’s warmin’ up to me now, so don’t you worry.”

Zelda swallows, nods, and walks off the platform, heading towards the staircase leading back to the inner chamber.

Downstairs, she finds a spot near a wide window overlooking Death Mountain. Leans onto the wall and lets her back slide down as her knees fold. Breathes and breathes, pressing her palms onto the floor, grounding herself.

Every inch of her is smarting, and she wants to cry but somehow her body can’t find any tears to be shed, and that makes her skin burn even more. It pricks and pricks at her brain and scalp and fingertips, pokes at her equilibrium. Makes her mad.

Heat means progress, yes—but heat also means sweat on her forehead and her back, her traveling outfit getting uncomfortably damp, and everything is on fire and Gods why does it have to be so damn hot—

Zelda sighs and retrieves a vial of the fireproof elixir from her pouch. Unstoppers it, then it’s down the hatch.

She doesn’t bother to hide her grimace from the bitter taste, but her skin immediately stops stinging as soon as the liquid makes it to her stomach. But the dread and anger still coat her mouth all the same, because she was burning and now she isn’t.

Because her knight is right. Goddess damn it, he’s always right.

Zelda finally feels it—the tightness in her cheekbones as tears gather in her eyes and roll down her cheeks. A little bit of her frustration, her loneliness, brimming and spilling over. A fraction of the violent ocean in her.

Rudania is moving again, and she feels the floor beneath her rumble and shake as it crawls atop the mountain range that surrounds Eldin, but she only looks down at her dusty boots, trying her damndest to stop the tears.

It’s stupid. It’s ridiculous that she’s down here, curled up in a corner instead of being up there with her Champion, witnessing him finally overcome his struggles. But how can she be up there and stand and pretend that her knight isn’t always there, isn’t surveilling her and waiting for her to slip up?

She digs the heels of her palms into her eyes, wills the tears to disappear. Rises to her feet, rolls her shoulders. Looks out the window, where the summit of Death Mountain protrudes from behind the rocky hills, smoking, brooding.

She wonders what it will take for it to erupt.

And then, as if Hylia Herself is listening to Her descendant’s musings, everything begins to quake. Zelda holds on to the wall and peers through the window to see rocks raining down around Rudania, straight from Death Mountain’s peak.

The avalanche stops as quickly as it started, and a mix of adrenaline and relief swirls within her; relief that it has stopped raining rocks, relief that Rudania seems to be able to withstand such a force.

Then she realizes that Daruk and her knight are still up there.

Zelda bolts towards the stairs and ascends the steps, and finds them standing far away from the control hub, on one of the four circular platforms on the Beast’s back.

“Princess!” Daruk waves at her, and she jogs to join them. She’ll have to eat crow for losing her composure earlier. “Are you okay? That was some rock rain we just had!”

“I’m fine, Daruk,” Zelda replies, scanning her companions. She’s not surprised to find Daruk unscathed—he is of the mountains, after all, and he has a power that allows him to create a forcefield around himself.

And so Zelda’s eyes roam all over her knight, from the top of his head to the tip of his boots. His body appears unmarred, unharmed. Wrapped in the still-pristine tunic that she stitched herself, bathed herself.

May this sacred piece of clothing shield him from harm, she had prayed a month ago. And now she bites her lips in vexation—irritated with herself—because somehow, it’s relief that floods her heart upon realizing that the Hero, too, came out unscathed.

“It’s a good thing you were down there, Princess!” Daruk is saying. “It got a bit crazy up here—I had to shield Link from a ginormous boulder coming our way. If I didn’t, it would’ve flattened this little guy for sure. Hah!” He barks a laugh.

Her knight says nothing, but Zelda replies, “Well, I’m relieved to hear that you’re all right.”

Both of you, she does not say.

It’s well into the night when they make it back to Goron City, with Vah Rudania properly stationed and powered off near the Bridge of Eldin, where they first boarded her earlier today.

In front of the Rollin’ Inn, Zelda pauses and faces Daruk. Thankfully, her knight is still some paces away from her, so she seizes the opportunity to speak honestly.

“Daruk, I’d really like to apologize for what transpired earlier today, on Rudania.” She fidgets at the hems of her blouse but her eyes stay staring into Daruk’s. It is the least she can do after her display of petulance. “That was truly… unprofessional of me. So I am sorry.”

Daruk, surprisingly, huffs a laugh. “Princess, seriously, you don’t gotta worry about it,” he says. “I get that you have a lot on your plate. Plus, anyone who isn’t a Goron would turn cranky from all this heat and lava. It’s totally understandable.”

Zelda can’t help but smile—though very different in personality, this sort of understanding is something she can only find in Urbosa. And Mother, a long, long time ago.

(And Father, too, but to be quite frank, she can’t even remember when that was.)

“I—” Zelda’s throat suddenly feels tight. “That means a lot to me, Daruk. Thank you.”

Daruk grins. “Don’t mention it, Princess. Just get some good sleep, and then I’ll see you tomorrow morning before you leave!”

Zelda nods and watches as her Goron Champion rolls away, cutting through the still-bustling crowd. She inhales, and enters the inn. Steps into her room.

Her knight is already there, and she observes him quietly as he inspects each jar of activated sapphires, making sure that they are still emitting the cooling effect. There are no windows in the room (it is built into the mountain, after all,) so it’s a pretty quick sweep around the room.

It’s a blessing, she supposes.

He finally turns around, expression blank, not even a noticeable bead of sweat on his face.

The perfect soldier, forever.

“I want to sleep now,” Zelda says flatly. She’s aware that it’s only eight in the evening, and she usually doesn’t sleep until at least ten, but anything to get him out of this room. “You should go out to the shops. Eat.” Be human.

“I am to guard your door, Princess,” he replies, in a tone even flatter than hers.

“Will you sleep at the door, too, then?”

“Yes.”

Zelda exhales. It’s a battle she doesn’t have the strength to fight tonight. “All right,” she says. “Please close the door behind you.”

Her knight nods and does as he’s told, leaving her in a damp hole in the mountain, all alone, with only candles and glowing sapphires to illuminate the room.

She thinks that the room could be filled with hundreds and thousands of pieces of sapphire, but they would do nothing to alleviate the burning of her skin, the inferno that rages in her brain.

Not when there’s a perilous fire stationed right outside her door, all blue and quiet.

Chapter Text

In the middle of the Royal Gallery of Hyrule Castle, Zelda stands in her battlewear—royal blue dress and white pumps and golden diadem—with her head tilted up. Her eyes are stinging. Her heart is where her stomach is supposed to be, and her stomach has lurched up to her throat.

There, on the wall, among portraits of the various Queens of Hyrule, is a painting of the Goddess Descendant and the Chosen Hero, finished and varnished to perfection. Its ornate frame gilded gold, carved with patterns of Hyrulean floras. On the canvas, she is unmoving and unflinching as she stares into his eyes for eternity; an untruthful, inaccurate representation of the reality. And he—

He pierces her with his azure gaze. The wrath of his blues immortalized. Inescapable. Inexorable.

And that, unfortunately, is true to life.

But such pieces of art do not need to imitate reality, Zelda tells herself. This is a portrait for Father, so that he might gain some ounce of confidence in his efforts to ensure victory against the Calamity. For the nation, because there is power in imagery, in symbolism, in ritual. Most of all, it is for Hylia—to appease Her, so that She may grant Her descendant Her golden power.

“What do you think, Your Highness?” Veno says from behind her.

“This is amazing, Veno,” Zelda says, mustering whatever enthusiasm left within her into her voice. “Splendid job, truly.”

She isn’t lying; Veno has done an excellent job, no doubt the product of hours and hours of work and sweat. Each brushstroke appears intentional, purposeful—the dark colors that fill the background, emphasizing the sea of blues and gold that decorate the center. Her gown, his tunic. The Sword. His eyes. His honey blonde hair.

No matter how distasteful she finds the main subject to be, it is an objectively beautiful painting.

“The Princess is right,” Impa adds. “Stunning work, Veno.”

“I am so very pleased to hear that, Your Highness, Lady Impa,” Veno replies. “I do hope that the Goddess thinks the same way, too.”

Zelda supposes Hylia would like the painting—if only for the sole reason of taunting and tormenting her. To have Her beloved Hero depicted all glorious and perennial, while staring down at the Princess who has nothing but her title and her regalia.

“I think She does,” Zelda says quietly.

The Sheikah painter takes it as the highest compliment, of course, and Zelda doesn’t despise him for it.

He doesn’t understand. No one does.

Veno then leads them to the other side of the gallery, leaving the large portrait of the Princess and the Hero to where the individual portraits of her Champions hang, and Zelda is thankful for it.

She also finds it easier to sing praises of Veno’s artworks.

Eventually, he bids the two women goodbye (after reminding them that he would be more than happy to fulfill other commissions.) The moment he crosses the threshold, the poise and regality immediately melt away from Zelda.

Impa laughs softly. “Not a huge fan of the portrait, I take it?”

“No. Not really,” Zelda sighs. “Has Father seen it?”

“I don’t think so, Princess.”

Of course he hasn’t seen it. Father only cares about the tradition in itself—whether she has fulfilled her part of it. And never has he come to pat her on the back or kiss her temple for each tradition carried out, each procession executed—because none have bore any fruit. All she’s met with is distance and criticism and do better next time.

And this wretched portrait might be the most fruitless ritual of them all, and she knows she would never receive that kiss on her temple or even just a few words of encouragement, but still it pricks her. Paper-cuts her heart.

All those treacherous, lasting minutes she spent being speared by the Hero’s gaze—all for nothing.

Zelda shakes away the thought; lamenting can be done later—in the confines of her chamber, beneath the canopy of her bed. But it has been three weeks since she returned from Eldin, and now, she has work to do. Purposeful work, unlike the painting that looms large behind her, ridiculing her, mocking her.

“Well, I must prepare for tomorrow’s journey to Tabantha,” Zelda says. Impa seems fazed by the change in subject, but says nothing about it. “Do you have the additional research notes for the shrines from Purah?”

“Right! That I do.” Impa fumbles for a scroll of parchment in the pocket of her coat, and hands it to Zelda. “Good luck tomorrow, Princess.”

Something inside her tells her that good luck won’t be enough, that she would need some sort of divine intervention for those shrines to unlock, but she smiles anyway and utters her thanks.

Zelda walks towards the heavy doors, pulls them open—

And finds two gloved hands hovering in the air. Ivory gloves that blind her; navy blues and reds that make her nauseous.

As much as she loathes to notice it, Veno didn’t quite capture the precise warmth of his wheat blonde hair.

He bows his head. “Princess.”

“Sir Knight,” she replies coolly. He steps aside, and she walks past him. Pushing her dread back down to her stomach, where it belongs. Begins to make her way down the hall.

Then she realizes he’s there. In the gallery.

She stops in her tracks, heartbeat in her throat. Perhaps she should be better than this; somehow, she can imagine the disappointment on Mother’s face—Darling, aren’t you above eavesdropping?

She also imagines Hylia frowning at her. Shaking Her divine head.

But she is not Mother and she is not Hylia, so she walks back to the gallery, her careful steps muffled by the carpet, and stops just before the door. Listens.

“—beautiful painting, isn’t it?” Impa’s voice.

Silence.

“You know you are allowed to voice your opinion, Sir Link.”

“Sure,” Zelda hears him say after a beat.

“Sure what?”

“It’s— it’s beautiful.”

Zelda has to bite down a scoff. Of course he finds it beautiful—it paints him as the unassailable hero that he is, in his cerulean splendor and godly grandeur.

“Are you aware of the tradition behind this painting?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well,” Impa starts. Zelda imagines she has an expression that she so often dons when speaking in a council meeting. “The ancient text says that a portrait of the Princess and the Hero from ten thousand years ago was painted to appease the Goddess.” She pauses. “Perhaps you should familiarize yourself with the legends, Sir Link. You are a part of it, after all.”

“I try not to concern myself with things like that, ma’am.”

Now that burns right through her, because that—that is the broth boiled down into its essence. He follows nothing, chooses to follow nothing, and he’s still led straight to his destiny anyway. Pulled the Sword as easily as one would pluck out weed from the crevice of cobblestones. Loved by the Goddess without having ever to ask for it, beg for it.

Meanwhile, she bows and bends and breaks at every altar, absorbs every tome chronicling every legend, offers herself to the Gods every day, and still the very thing that she is—that she must be—eludes her.

“I’d like to think the legends are there to teach us something,” Impa replies. “It can be a guide, a blueprint.”

“I… I just do whatever I’m put here to do.”

“And what is that, Sir Link?”

Zelda almost wants to applaud Impa, because it must take some mental fortitude to want to poke and prod at the Chosen Hero that way. And Impa has managed to pry something out of him, even if the result is just a few curt sentences slipping past his lips.

A twinge of jealousy bites her on the edges of her composure, too—for her friend has managed to do something she’d never be able to do.

But even then, his hallmark silence falls over the room once more, and thus Impa’s line of questioning is inevitably foiled.

Zelda decides that it’s finally time to listen to Mother’s phantom voice; the sight of the Princess of Hyrule with her head craned towards the wall, hiding behind the heavy door, isn’t something that can be easily explained.

She leaves as quietly as she came, each step calculated so as not to alert the people left in the gallery. Goddess knows how observant he is, how aware of everything he can be.

She counts his lack of answer to Impa’s question as a blessing. The answer would only serve to disappoint her anyway.

Everything that comes out of his mouth tends to do that.

Surprisingly, in the morning, Father awaits her at the gates leading out to the stables. It’s the first time this year that he makes the time to send her off before her expedition, and Zelda can hardly stop her lips from curving into a smile.

It had been a tumultuous battle, getting Father to permit her to be away from the castle for three weeks—to visit Tabantha and then Gerudo Desert. Impa was there as Zelda made her case—‘It is the most efficient route, Father. By the time autumn is fully here, I will have done my research on all but one of the Divine Beasts. The findings from the shrines would also greatly help the Royal Ancient Lab, too—otherwise, it would take them two months before they could make their way to the shrines in Tabantha.’

Father had looked at Impa, then, and Zelda almost found it offensive—he would trust anyone else in this whole kingdom before he would start to trust his own daughter. And while Impa isn’t just anyone else, the gesture was enough to sting.

But then Impa had said, ‘I believe this is the best course of action, Your Majesty. It saves time and it will accelerate our progress in making sure that all of the ancient technology we have excavated is in order,’ and Father finally nodded in assent, and Zelda deemed herself victorious.

“Father,” Zelda greets him with a slight bow.

“Daughter,” Father greets her back. “Ready for your journey?”

Zelda glances sideways, out the door, to find Nora stowing her traveling pack onto Ares while her knight fastens the bridle around her white stallion. It’s a sight that never fails to make her head swim, but it’s the price she has to pay to do the things she wants most. And she’ll keep on paying that until there’s nothing left in her pocket, until the currency of her forbearance towards him runs out.

“Yes, Father,” Zelda says. “Thank you, again. For letting me do this.”

“Just…” Father exhales. “Do not forget your duty, Zelda. Your true duty.”

Zelda swallows. “Of course.”

Father lands a kiss on the top of her head, and Zelda almost chokes. There’s something so terrible and wonderful in the way Father can cut through her and mend the wound in just mere seconds.

“Safe travels,” Father says, something warm passing through those green eyes—something familiar—and its impermanence weighs a ton on her chest. “And be careful. You’re heading to the desert, which means—”

“I know, Father,” she cuts him off. She knows that there are people out there who want to inflict harm upon her, who want her dead. But progress can’t be made from only the confines of the castle.

With that, Father turns around and disappears at the end of the grand hallway, and her feet carry the rest of her body to the paddock.

Blue floods her vision again, more and more of it—of him—as she steps closer towards Ares, and words begin to balloon inside her mouth—What do you think of the painting? What do you see in it?—but she keeps her teeth clenched, wills the words to deflate and dissolve on her tongue.

They leave the castle grounds just like any other time—enveloped by silence, only accompanied by the sound of their steeds’ hooves against cobblestone which soon turns into hooves against dirt path once they cross the moat.

Zelda recognizes the route; they were here a month ago, passing through the Breach of Demise and West Hyrule Plains to make their way to Rito Village. A few short breaks taken in between, a couple of bokoblins shot by her knight’s bow, and then it’s sundown and Tabantha Great Bridge Inn is just ahead of them.

Though the excitement rattles inside her, Zelda opts to begin her shrine research tomorrow instead. Subjecting herself to the surveillance of her knight isn’t something she wants to do well into the night. Besides, the evening can be spent theorizing in her field journal in the privacy of her room. To breathe and rest before morning light comes bearing his quiet judgment upon the back of her head yet again.

When he finally leaves her alone after inspecting almost every inch of the room, she locks the door and sits by the desk. Busies herself with her notes, and when her eyes begin to droop, she kneels by the bedside in supplication, eyes pinched shut and hands clasped in front of her chest. She prays for her power, as always, then prays for the research tomorrow to go well. When her voice turns hoarse and her knees hurt, she rises and slips beneath the sheets.

Her eyes land on the linen curtains that cover the windows, and she thinks of the last time her body lied in this very bed frame, when she heard soft laughter coming from the yard outside.

She can’t recall the exact sound of it, now—it’s too long ago, and it’s a sound far too infrequent for the brain to be able to summon back. Perhaps she hallucinated it, then, and that laughter never once leaked into this room and into her ears, because how could it ever do so? The man who is now resting in the common room downstairs isn’t a man who can laugh at all. Those vocal cords that layer his larynx are only ever capable of obeying. And commanding, if her life depends on it.

Still, as she falls into the abyss of her sleep, the ghost of that laugh echoes in her ears.

Reminds her of the lack of it.

After a simple breakfast of mushroom omelet and apple juice served by the innkeeper, they exit the inn and make their way on foot to Shae Loya shrine. It sits atop a hill near the inn, and there is no proper path that leads directly to the shrine, so they must do a bit of climbing.

Zelda feels her knight’s gaze searing her back as she sets one foot on the rocky surface and hoists herself up, her hands clutching at the ledge. She tries with all her might to keep her balance, because she cannot fall and falter—not in broad daylight, not underneath his watchful eyes that perpetually expect her failure.

She makes it up the hill just fine, thankfully, and part of her is grateful that he didn’t offer to help her climb up. Maybe he’s starting to understand that she isn’t as fragile as she appears to be. Maybe.

Zelda has seen the ancient shrines from afar but never this close, and her breath catches at the strange beauty of it, at the thought that each swirling groove on its surface is carved by people. Her ancestors. And it has survived the first Calamity and time, standing proud on this hill for ten thousand years, awaiting the hands of the next Hero. Hands that do not look all that different from hers, though those hands are much more capable, much holier than hers.

Which has to mean that it can be unlocked by her, too.

“The texts say that the shrines are unlit when dormant, which is the case here…” Zelda muses as she unclips the Slate from her belt, “so I expect that it will light up upon contact with the Slate.”

With the Slate in her hands, she steps onto the platform and stands before the pedestal. Draws a breath, then places the Slate atop the engraved Sheikah symbol.

Nothing.

She taps the Slate onto the pedestal again.

Still nothing.

She flips the Slate so that its back faces towards the pedestal. Another tap.

And when that proves fruitless, she tries different positions, different angles. Presses the Slate perhaps with too much force than she’s supposed to, and then hovers it above the pedestal instead. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

The sun continues to beat on her back, burning her through layers of fabric. His gaze, too.

Her hands begin to tremble with each failed attempt. Her cheeks feel tighter. Something pricks at the back of her eyes but she blinks and blinks because this is not the time to unravel and fall apart, not while he’s there.

She drops to her knees, tilts her head up, and inspects the underside of the pedestal, abandoning her methodical examination for a desperate game of trial-and-error. She runs her fingers along the ridges, the grooves—searching for a button, a switch, a lever, anything—to no avail.

In her periphery, she sees him ten paces away, standing still as a statue, eyes trained on her—ever vigilant, ever scrutinizing—and she can’t help but crane sideways ever so slightly to stare at his hands.

Those are the hands of the Hero, of a man who can do just about anything, and she is a fool for ever thinking that her hands are not that different from his, because those hands can pull the holiest sword known to man. Can bring hundreds of his opponents to their knees, as many around the land have testified.

Hers, however, are slender and pale and incapable. No light surging through those blue veins that weave around and over her metacarpals. Only dermis and muscle and tendons and blood.

Sure, it’s the Goddess’ blood, but that doesn’t count as anything, does it? Because she has Her blood, but he has Her love.

The thought turns to acid inside her. Corrodes her tongue.

Zelda stands back up, knees sore and mind aching, and in the midst of it all, she calculates. She can stay here for hours, attempt to find some kind of hidden button that she knows does not exist, or go full hysterical and try to claw her way in. Past the metal panels adorned with the strange letters, punch and punch with all her might until her knuckles bleed and her bones poke out and her knight must pull her away and drag her back to the castle.

(Though a part of her thinks that bleeding and hurting might just be the very thing Hylia wants to see.)

But she does not do such things. She wipes the sweat away from her hairline, the tears that precariously hang by the corner of her eyes, and swallows the bile climbing up her throat.

“I shall return to the inn,” Zelda says quietly. She’s careful not to meet his eyes. “We will set out for Tena Ko’sah shrine tomorrow morning.”

He nods.

She musters all the power in her and says, “You should take a break today, from your duty. I will stay at the inn, so I do not need an escort.”

“I can’t do that, Princess.”

Her patience is wearing thin—it always does around him—but she must try. The last thing she wants on this green earth as she digests the day’s failure is his company.

“I will be staying at the inn for the rest of the day,” she tries again. “You can come back tomorrow morning.”

He shakes his head, and her hands curl into fists.

“Sir Knight, I—” beg of you, she does not say. Will not say. “—I mean it. You should take a break.”

He’s utterly blind, she thinks—unable to see that what she’s doing right now is a mercy. Because she must sit down, alone, and collect some more forbearance and put it in her pocket before she can face his quiet judgment yet again. And they’re only one day into their weeks-long trip, and she doesn’t want to find out what sort of wrath might erupt out of her if that last reserve of tolerance truly runs out.

“I shouldn’t. I’m here to guard you.”

Oh, she truly wishes she could just punch and claw her way into the shrine behind her now.

Wordlessly, she storms off and walks away from the shrine, cautiously trekking down the hill until she enters the inn’s property again. Behind her, she hears the soft rustling of grass—his sure footsteps—and the sound thunders through her mind.

Not for the first time in the inn’s room 001, she sits on the edge of the bed, breathes and breathes and digs the heel of her palms into her eyes. Her eyes burn but she can’t cry, she shouldn’t. She won’t allow him to have the satisfaction of making her cry, regardless of whether he knows of her tears or not. He already holds so much in his hands—those hands that have been blessed and kissed by the Goddess—and she will not let him have her tears.

When the late morning eventually bleeds into noon, someone knocks on her door.

“Your Highness?” A woman’s voice, muffled. The innkeeper’s wife. “Lunch is now served. Would you like to have it in your room or downstairs in the dining hall?”

Zelda looks at the Slate. Three hours have already passed since she returned from the shrine—three hours that she has spent staring at her journal until the words and sketches blur and blur in her eyes.

There’s a ninety-nine percent chance that he will be downstairs, but that leaves a sliver of hope that he will be outside instead, tending to their steeds. There’s still an ounce of optimism left in her, so she takes the chance.

“I’ll come downstairs!” Zelda replies. The footsteps at her door recede to return to the staircase. She rises, attaches the Slate to her belt again, then makes her way downstairs. Squares her shoulders, ignoring the rapid pulse that beats in her neck, and crosses the threshold into the dining hall.

The room itself is small; there’s a buffet table lined alongside the wall where patrons can help themselves to their meals, and a few roundtables here and there. There are only a couple of people in the hall—two Hylian women—and they all rise to curtsy, and the sight makes her even more nauseous. Failure after failure after failure, and still they are obligated to bow to her, express their non-existent reverence to her. Zelda has half a mind to tell them to instead wait for the man dressed in blue with the caramel hair, because if there is a person in this kingdom that’s worthy enough to receive such gestures, then it should be him.

Which reminds her—he isn’t here.

The innkeeper’s wife is by the buffet table, pouring mushroom soup into the communal pot, and Zelda creeps behind her.

“I’m sorry— do you perhaps know where my knight is?”

“Your Highness!” The woman gasps from surprise, and for a split second Zelda is afraid that she’ll spill all that scalding soup. “I think I saw him go into the lavatory just before you came, Your Highness.”

An idea begins to simmer in her head.

“All right.” Zelda pauses. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind— I shall have lunch in my room instead.”

“Oh, then let me prepare a plate for you—”

“No need, please.” Zelda smiles at her, fingers twitching at her sides. “I’ll prepare it myself.”

She takes a bowl from the pile on the shelf above the buffet table, ladles as little soup as she can into the porcelain, but not too little that it might be questioned by the innkeeper’s wife. She cradles the bowl in her palms, exits the dining hall, then bolts for the stairs.

There are only a few minutes to execute her half-boiled plan—five, if she’s lucky—so she climbs the stairs, two steps at a time, and dashes towards her room. She settles the bowl on the desk, makes sure to lock the door behind her, and runs back downstairs. Goes out to the yard, jogging to the paddock where Ares awaits.

Somehow, despite all the losses she has endured today, she has earned a small victory in the form of her steed already fully saddled up. So she mounts Ares, slams her heels against his flanks, and rides away.

Her hands grip the reins, hard, and urges her stallion into a trot, then a canter, then a gallop. The afternoon wind blasts at her face and blows her hair back, and she leans further forward, lifts her haunches, and rides and rides and rides. Feeling her heartbeat in her throat. Gaining more and more distance between her and the inn, between her and him.

A desperately needed reprieve.

Once she crosses the Tabantha Great Bridge, she pulls at the reins and falls back into a canter, not wanting to exhaust or irritate Ares, but still eager to gain just a little bit more distance.

At the base of Piper Ridge, Zelda looks up to her left to see the tops of the broken pillars that decorate Rayne Highlands, and feels a hint of pride. Even without a map, without her knight’s direction, she still knows where to go.

After a few minutes in a canter, she slows Ares into a trot, and keeps a steady pace towards the base of the highlands, towards the path leading to the Ancient Columns. Once the hill becomes steeper, she lets Ares into a walk instead, and prays that there won’t be any monsters or wolves lurking nearby. Or worse, the Yigas. Because she may have known the way to the Columns, but she doesn’t know how to fight, and the thought stings her.

Even with sprawling hills and a canyon between them, the shape of him shadows over her. Stays and refuses to leave.

The grass soon makes way to stone steps, and Zelda rides slowly between the fallen pillars and columns, heading up and up, where she can see the top of Tena Ko’sah shrine peeking from the hill.

At the last set of steps, she stops Ares and dismounts. Walks towards the shrine with the Slate in her hands, and the dregs of hope swirling in her chest.

Instead of directly tapping the Slate onto the pedestal, she kneels before the cylindrical structure and examines the underside. Perhaps if she interacts with the pedestal in a different way, a different order, it might finally relent and open up.

When her fingers find no switches and buttons on the base of the pedestal, she stands up, holds her breath, raises the Slate with trembling hands and places it upon the mark of the Sheikah eye.

The device clanks against the stone surface. The sound slices through the silence. And the lack of noise that immediately precedes it chips away at the last vestiges of her hope.

“Nothing,” she says to the wind. “Just as I thought.”

She looks up at the shrine that looms large before her. Tries her damndest to ignore the mockery that it quietly spits at her with its lack of light.

“It appears that this structure was designed to be exclusively accessed by the Sword’s chosen one,” she thinks out loud, and it stings to admit it out of the pages of her journal, to voice the simple truth into the air.

Still, that hope still beats and throbs, albeit faintly.

“But designs can always be worked around. At least I hope…”

It’s not unlike the various battles that she’s fought against Father, when she tries to power her way through and resist and soldier on even though she knows he already holds the trophy. Even though he has won and she has lost.

Zelda is no stranger to such a feeling.

“How do I get inside?” she asks to the four winds, to the ghosts that built this shrine that might still linger around. To the grass and trees and stone pillars that surround her. To the Three. To Hylia.

The answer presents itself through the clops of hooves sounding from behind her.

At last, her hope runs dry. Shrivels in her mouth.

She turns around. Does nothing to hide the frown that breaks through her visage at the sight of the Hero atop Epona, quickly hopping off his mare and jogging closer to approach her.

She attaches the Slate back onto her hip, and when she realizes that there’s nothing that she can hold to hide the shaking of her hands, she curls them and lets her nails dig into her palms.

A painful breath fills up her lungs. Then, she marches forward.

“I thought I made it clear that I am not in need of an escort,” Zelda says, and is expectedly met with silence and that impassive face. “It seems I’m the only one with a mind of my own. I, the person in question, am fine, regardless of the King’s orders,” she spits, because she knows that that is a language that he understands as a knight, as a soldier. Her wishes and desires are nothing under the weight of Father’s command.

More silence.

She swallows and walks past him. “Return to the castle, and tell that to my father, please.”

The moment she walks ahead of him she knows she has made a grave mistake, because now she feels it again—that gaze that bores through her skull, unflinching, scrutinizing, but the opposite isn’t any better either, for if he were to walk in front of her then it’ll just be the Sword that she sees. A reproach glinting purple and gold.

There is no way she’ll ever have peace, not when his presence continues to envelop her, suffocate her.

So she turns around. Lets it burst past her lips.

“And stop following me!”

“Princess,” he finally speaks, locking his eyes with hers. It spears her through her spine. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I have to do my job.”

“Your job—” A huff of a laugh escapes her, and oh, it sounds ugly. “Gods, it’s always about your job, isn’t it? Your duty. What you have to do.” She bites the inside of her cheeks. “Like it’s so difficult. Like you ever had to bend and break and—” She inhales sharply.

And beg. And cry and lose so many times and be reminded that the person you share your destiny with is everything that you are not.

He stays quiet. His hair sways in the wind, shining bright beneath the afternoon sky. Golden, blinding.

He is a sun in his own right—she understands, now. And ordinary people cannot stand this close to the sun because it scorches. Hurts.

And what is she but ordinary?

So her currency of forbearance runs out, and there’s nothing left in her pocket, and she simply can’t pay the price anymore.

She must break away.

“You don’t know,” Zelda says, shaking her head. Tears are forming in her eyes but if they should fall, then she’ll let them. He already has everything, and what does it matter if he has her tears, too? They’re worth nothing, anyway.

“You don’t even know half of the things I have had to endure, and yet you stand there and talk about having to do your job…”

“Princess—”

“You know what? I will make it easy for you, Hero.” The title rings painfully in her teeth, but she pushes through it. “I will be the docile charge that you so clearly deserve. I will not run away, but you must do me a favor,” she says, because they have reached an impasse, and the only way out of it is to compromise.

Something flashes in those blue eyes of his, but she knows not what it means.

So she presses on.

“Never make yourself known to me anymore, unless it is absolutely necessary. I will regard you as if you do not exist,” Zelda says, her voice even despite everything. She’d tell him to keep quiet, too, but quickly realizes that it’s something that she definitely doesn’t need to ask for.

“When we are out and about, keep yourself at least twenty paces away from me. Because I can’t—” her voice crackles. “Goddess, I can’t stand it any longer.”

There’s a slight furrow to his brows, and she accepts it as a small win in this grand stalemate.

“Do you understand me, Sir Knight?”

For the first time, the Hero casts his gaze downwards. On the green grass instead of the green of her eyes. Then he looks at her again and it shoots through her like a thunderbolt and finally, he inclines his head. Offers his concession.

Surrenders.

“I need you to say it,” she commands.

If there is a threshold to be crossed, a locked door that separates them, she knows now that it will stay locked forever. With her own hands she barricades that door, brick by brick by bitter brick, never to see the light of day.

There, among fallen pillars, in front of an ancient shrine, it dawns on her that she’s about to hear her knight’s voice for the last time.

And though it’s for her own good, the realization still knifes her.

“I understand, Princess.”

The ride back to the inn was quiet. And to his credit, he rode as far away as possible from her.

Now, Zelda stands before the desk in her rented room. Stares at the bowl of mushroom soup that is now spoiled. Though she’ll never get to taste it, she thanks it anyway; it has done her a great favor, providing her a window to escape.

That bowl is soon taken away by the innkeeper’s wife and replaced by one filled with prime meat and rice. Amidst the sounds of the wooden spoon hitting the concave of the porcelain bowl, she hears soft noises coming from outside her window, from the yard. Familiar whickers and no laughter at all.

She’s grateful for it, she tells herself.

Before she sleeps, she kneels by the bed again and prays. Asks Hylia for forgiveness, despite everything, because she did just yell without restraint at Her beloved. She prays until her knees hurt again—an offering for the Goddess—then finally lays her body on the mattress.

As she falls into her slumber, something claws at her lungs, at her heart, wails and screams and cries, but she ignores it.

Chalks it off to exhaustion.

Once again, beneath the planes of her consciousness, she dreams.

In her hands is a fire iron, and she pokes at the bundle of wood on the hearth, stoking the burning kindling to grow into flames. Her maids haven’t lit up her fireplace, but she does not mind. She can do this. She can start something with her own hands.

She pokes and prods, but the more she does so, the more the wood turns soft, pliant. Like flesh. But the flames still refuse to grow, and frustration takes hold of her so she shoves the iron again and again—come on, light up, light up—

The fire explodes. Whitens her bedchamber. She pinches her eyes shut from the sudden brightness, grips tight the fire iron. When the back of her eyelids aren’t red anymore, she opens her eyes.

Her fingers have wrapped around something else entirely. Something indigo crisscrossed with green.

The sight punches her chest.

Somehow, she’s sitting on her ankles atop the carpeted floor, and there’s a weight in her lap that bars her from getting up. So she lets her eyes journey downwards, from the hilt, down to the ornate cross guards and the yellow gemstone that adorns its center, then further down to the glowing blade.

From the middle, however, the glow stops and stains of red begin.

Blood.

She inhales, exhales, and fully looks down.

The tip of the Sword is buried into its master’s chest, right in his heart. His hand lies limp on his side, and she watches as it rises to wrap around the blade and drives it further into his breast.

She cries. Her tears fall onto the blue of his tunic. She tries to pull the blade out, but his grip only tightens.

Her eyes land on his face, and despite the blood that bubbles in his mouth, his eyes are crinkled. His lips are parted and slightly curved.

He’s smiling.

She sobs and sobs. Drops her forehead onto his. Her breath gusts over his pale cheeks.

Stop. Stop this, she not-tells him. This is not what I meant. Not what I wanted. Please.

But he only continues to smile, even as his eyelids droop to hide those brilliant blues, even as blood continues to trickle from the corner of his lips.

It’s all right, he whispers into her mind so softly. Thank you, Zelda.

She breaks alongside the sound.

Chapter Text

Zelda wakes with a tear trailing down from her face onto the pillow and a gaping cavity in her chest. However, just as quickly as she realizes the wetness on her cheek, the remnants of her dream wash away, gone with the waves, never to be found.

She supposes she should count it as a blessing.

She gathers her things—nightclothes, journal, the wooden case containing her inkwell and quill—and stuffs them into her pack. Dons her traveling outfit. Thanks the innkeeper’s wife when she comes to the room bearing a tray of breakfast foods and offers to take her pack away.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Zelda says, smiling. “You can just leave the pack near my horse—it’s the white stallion. I will stow it myself after I am finished with my breakfast.”

“Ah, thank you, Your Highness, but your knight was the one who asked me to take the pack from your room.”

Zelda swallows. “Oh.”

He will always be there, no matter what. And while that still sends something bitter through her, credit where credit is due—he is actually heeding her words. For the first time.

Zelda thanks her nonetheless—for her and her husband’s hospitality—and the woman beams at her, enthuses over the Princess’ stay and declares that they shall be waiting for the next one. She takes the pack from Zelda’s bedside, curtsies, then leaves the room.

The scrambled eggs and potatoes are devoured rather quickly; she’s eager to start her journey to Gerudo Town, to Urbosa. Once finished, she heads downstairs, bids farewell to the innkeeper at the front desk, and heads outside.

Ares is already there, stationed in the middle of the yard, all tacked up and ready to go. She peeks around the paddock and finds that Epona is no longer there, but then she follows her stallion’s line of sight and it falls on the familiar brown mare in the distance, past the fences that encircle the inn’s property, with her rider atop the saddle.

Keep yourself at least twenty paces away from me, she had said yesterday. And it is at least twenty paces that now stretches between them.

She much prefers it to be miles and miles, but it is still a victory in its own right.

She mounts Ares, takes a deep breath, and taps her heels against his flanks. Pulls at the reins to turn to the right, and urges him into a trot once she meets the dirt path.

Begins the long ride south, to the desert.

The clops of Ares’ hooves are too loud for Zelda to be able to hear Epona’s, trailing far behind her, and it makes her feel light and heavy at the same time. She knows not what to make of it, and the not knowing puts her at unease, so she shelves it for later examination.

The route is familiar; it’s the same way she’d taken to reach the Great Plateau last month, but that’s as far as the familiarity goes.

Back then, he had ridden right behind her; she had felt his presence, branding her back. Now, as she rides through Seres Scablands and West Hyrule Plains, over Jeddo Bridge and into Nima Plain, she can almost pretend that he’s not there.

That he doesn’t exist at all.

By noon, she stops by Sanidin Park and takes a much-needed break. She retrieves her lunchbox—already filled with mushroom skewers by the innkeeper’s wife from this morning, Goddess bless her—and sits by the horse statue as she eats. She throws a glance over her shoulder to find him tending to his mare in the distance—hands upon her muzzle—and immediately looks away. Trains her gaze on the horizon instead. Past the metal railing and sprawling pastures of Hyrule Field, beyond the villages and townships that dot the land before her, lies Mount Lanayru, forever white with ice and snow. Its peak scrapes the sky, scratches at her fear.

She prays she’ll never have to make her way up there.

With her belly filled and bladder emptied, she mounts Ares again and continues her journey. Watches as Safula Hills makes way for Dalite Forest. Watches the woodland she’s passing by, recalls that late afternoon when she witnessed her knight speak softly to Epona.

If he were to do such a thing again, she’d never be able to hear it. Twenty paces is far, and the winds simply cannot carry his quiet, low voice into her ears.

It matters not. His voice has never meant to be heard by her anyway.

She rides past Aquame Lake, past the copse of trees by the lakeshore where her tent had once stood—layers of canvas that had housed her aching body and tempestuous mind as she dreamt of a dream that should have never taken root in her brain. Past the Coliseum, then south to the small islands jutting out of the body of water where the River of the Dead meets Regencia River. The suspension bridges that connect the islands are rather small—and seem quite precarious, she notices—so she slows Ares back to a walk and carefully steers him to the mouth of the bridge.

But then she hears the plodding clops of Epona from behind her, the sound finally flooding her ears, and she swallows the dread rising up from her stomach as she watches her knight dismount his steed.

He doesn’t look at her. Only looks ahead, where a sleeping hinox snores as it lies supine on the largest island. His footsteps are deliberate and quiet as he approaches the giant.

Never make yourself known to me anymore, unless it is absolutely necessary, she had commanded.

Well, a hinox counts as absolutely necessary, doesn’t it?

Zelda continues to watch as he slowly advances, and when his fingers reach for the purple hilt above his right shoulder, her blood runs cold. Her eyes burn.

And her hands—her hands remember.

Fire iron turning into that iconic hilt. Her forehead pressed onto his own. Blood in his mouth.

She clenches the reins hard and shoves the image away.

Lightning fast, his movements. The hinox growls loudly in the throes of its quick death, as he slices its neck with the Sword. Black blood spurts out from its jugular vein, spatters the grass, but the Hero comes out unstained. Tunic still pristine blue.

In Zelda’s mind, the grass is painted red, his tunic turns crimson, and those images that she tried to shove away come back. Rolling violently in one single wave that rages to crash on the shores of her awareness—impending, ineluctable—but she fights it, not wanting to remember that dream, not wanting it to even graze the edges of her comprehension.

Thankfully, it flattens, recedes. Gone with the water once again.

Only when she exhales does she realize that she’s been holding her breath this whole time.

Her knight jogs back to Epona, only a few paces next to her, and says nothing as he hoists himself up and settles in the saddle once more.

Zelda nudges Ares with her heels, urges him to move and restore the blissful stretch of distance between her and the knight.

Carefully, she crosses the islands atop the suspension bridges, and fights a grimace from forming on her visage at the sight of the dead hinox, its limp tongue sticking out from its maw. She steers Ares to circle around the corpse and continues forward, and in no time, she begins the winding journey through Gerudo Canyon.

By sundown, the air has turned cooler and there’s a stable just up ahead, before the gateway to the desert, and she stops to rest and sleep the remainder of the night.

Somehow, the news of the Princess of Hyrule’s visit to Gerudo Town must have reached the canyons, too, because the stable is guarded by two Gerudo soldiers—golden spears ready in their hands.

Zelda slides off Ares, hands the reins to the stableboy, and greets the women.

“Sav’saaba, Your Highness,” one of them says. “Allow me to introduce myself—I am Captain Pamela, and my colleague here is Captain Sari. The Chief has sent us here to help your knight guard you throughout the night. There has been a lot of Yiga activity as of late, and the Chief wants to make sure that you are well-protected around these parts of the desert.”

“I see.” Zelda purses her lips. “Well, thank you very much for coming all the way here, Captain Pamela, Captain Sari. I hope it isn’t too much trouble.”

Captain Pamela laughs. “Not at all, Princess,” she says. “Tomorrow morning, the Chief will send a cart and a sand seal so you can leave your horses here.”

Zelda smiles, a thank you on its way to leave her lips, but she finally hears the unmistakable whickers of Epona and the stableboy bidding her knight welcome.

She grants him the error of less than twenty paces this time. The stable is quite small, after all.

But then Captain Pamela suddenly exclaims, “Oh Heroines! Link, boy, how are you?!”

His name—without title and uttered with such warmth—sends something icy down Zelda’s spine. She watches as the woman approaches the knight, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He looks up at Captain Pamela, and there’s a hint of a smile on his lips, though he remains silent.

“You’ve grown very little since I last saw you, huh?” she smirks, his cheeks turning pink.

A crack in the wall, Zelda thinks.

Captain Sari must have noticed her gawking at the reunion, because she says, “Ah, yes, Pamela is rather fond of Link— she helped him train a few years ago.”

“Train?” Zelda says, dumbfounded.

“Yes, he stayed at the inn in Kara Kara Bazaar for a month. Spent all those weeks just training, sparring with us captains.” Captain Sari looks on at her colleague and the knight, still engaging in what appears to be a one-sided conversation. “I must say, he’s quite extraordinary, that boy. The only voe to have ever defeated all six of us. In the sand, nonetheless—with a weapon that’s not even his forte!”

“Was that—” Zelda’s voice comes out hoarser than she thinks it would. She clears her throat. “Was that before he got the Sword?”

“Yes. And he was quite the feisty fighter even before the Sword,” Captain Sari replies. “Heavens, I can’t imagine what it must be like to fight him now.”

A question claws its way out of Zelda’s throat, and even her gritted teeth aren’t enough to stop it.

“What was he like, then?” Her voice is small.

“He was really determined, Your Highness. Truly the best fighter Hyrule has ever seen. At first, we all thought that his father was just talking up his son, but it turned out to be the truth after all,” Captain Sari says, and bitterness immediately floods Zelda’s mouth. It’s nothing she doesn’t already know.

She spits it out. “He is, isn’t he.”

The night turns chillier, and she doesn’t know whether to blame it on the desert or the conversation. She figures it’s time to retreat into the warmth of the pavilion, but Captain Sari speaks up once more.

“He was very kind, too. Such a nice kid. Always helping the captains to our Noble Pursuits.” Captain Sari laughs. In front of the paddock, Captain Pamela still gesticulates wildly, talking to her former student. “Oh, you can never let the younger vais near him—they all would swoon. Pretty sure my daughter was one of them.”

Zelda isn’t sure if Captain Sari is still talking to her or merely talking to herself, but there’s a chain ball on her tongue that bars it from moving, so she only listens.

“And my daughter is very beautiful, mind you, but he’d turn down all these girls, and it was just such a horrible time to be a mother to a teenaged daughter, that month. All of them were either sulking or crying about being turned down by that ‘super handsome Hylian voe’,” Captain Sari shakes her head. “One might think that he has a girl waiting for him at home! But no, I think he just has no room in his heart for anything except his duty to the kingdom.”

At her sides, Zelda’s hands turn clammy. They curl and uncurl, grasping at air, itching to crumple something with all their might until it turns to ash, then vanishes.

For almost two years she has asked and asked and asked, has tried to chip away at his marble exterior to find the very meat of him, reveal the guts and shine a light on any weakness or detriment, but all she finds is gold and more gold.

It would be for the best for her to never attempt to do such a thing ever again.

“I’m afraid I must head inside, now,” Zelda says, hugging her arms around herself.

“Oh! Apologies, Your Highness! Look at me, rambling on and on and on.” Captain Sari smiles bashfully.

“It’s quite all right.” Zelda smiles back at the woman, though she doubts hers actually appears like one. “I’ll see you in the morning, Captain Sari.”

With that, she pushes past the curtains that cover the entrance to the pavilion, and finds that the room is empty despite there being five beds. The front desk is also unmanned.

Urbosa, Zelda thinks fondly—she has rented the entirety of the stable’s sleeping area so that the Princess of Hyrule may rest in private.

An hour later, Captain Pamela comes in with a wooden bowl filled to the brim with mushroom stew and Zelda’s traveling pack.

“Link cooked it, Your Highness,” Captain Pamela says matter-of-factly when Zelda thanks her.

Zelda swallows. Curves her trembling lips into yet another inauthentic smile.

Alone, she eats the stew. Slowly fills her stomach with it. Acquiesces to the warmth that it brings.

She hears feminine laughter from past the tarpaulin sheets; the captains chatting—most likely with her knight, too.

The soles of her feet ache to rise and drag her outside, to seek warmth from the companionship that lingers there—but she plants them firmly onto the wooden floor.

There may be fire and laughter and even more hot stew to swallow down, but none of it would be enough to combat the cold that percolates through her whenever he’s close.

Twenty feet apart serves her well.

In the morning, the sun rises over the desert, and the cold soon makes way for scorching heat.

It’s last night’s leftover stew for breakfast and a vial of chilly elixir, and Zelda downs them rather quickly. After that, she throws her things haphazardly into her pack and hands it to Captain Pamela, who tells her that the sand cart is now stationed in front of the gateway, ready for the long ride through the vast desert.

Outside, Zelda sees her knight talking to the stableboy, probably giving him instructions on how to best take care of their steeds. She waits until they finish their conversation, and once her knight walks away, she walks up to her white stallion. Puts one hand on the bridge of his nose, and one on his jaw.

She’s never been good at bonding with her steeds—not Ares and not the ones that came before him—but she figures she should try. She pets him, smooths her palms over his head, and he replies with a soft blow from his nostrils.

Suddenly, a muzzle emerges in her peripheral vision—Epona drawing her head closer, seemingly wishing to be petted as well.

Zelda freezes.

I can’t, she wants to say. You’re a part of him. I can’t touch you.

But there’s something so pure and sweet in those dark eyes, so she draws a breath, prays he doesn’t see, and lays her gloved hands on the mare’s forehead.

She nickers at the touch, and Zelda can’t help but smile.

With that, she leaves, joining Captain Pamela and Captain Sari outside the stable premises and beginning their walk towards the gateway.

She throws a glance over her shoulder—still there, still at least twenty paces—and quickly looks at the path ahead once more before he can catch her gaze.

Then, just past the gateway, as Captain Pamela has promised, is a cart attached to two sand seals with another Gerudo soldier at the reins. The cart itself is quite large—made out of wood, painted green and varnished, and the inside is equipped with light padding for both the driver and the passenger. Zelda climbs in and settles on her backside, right behind the driver, and Captain Pamela stows the traveling packs in the small leftover space behind Zelda.

“Sav’otta,” the steerer says, looking behind her to face Zelda. “I’m Amina, Gerudo Town’s master seal-keeper.”

“Nice to meet you, Amina,” Zelda replies, smiling. “How long does it take to get to Gerudo Town?”

“Less than half an hour, Princess,” Amina answers. “It’d take other drivers more than that, but I’m very good at driving these babies.”

“Oh, lucky me.” Zelda grins.

Amina lets out a yell, flicks the reins, and the seals yelp and nosedive into the sand. Then the cart moves.

The gust of wind blowing on her face is a welcome sensation—despite the royal-grade chilly elixir, Zelda can still feel the beads of sweat on her forehead, underneath the fabric of her outfit. She takes a mental note to ask Urbosa if she can borrow a pair of sapphire earrings later.

Zelda looks around to find Captain Pamela and Captain Sari riding their respective sand seals, trailing the cart. Behind them, her knight follows along with another seal—kindly lent by Amina, no doubt—feet firmly planted on the wooden shield underneath him, hands gripping the rope. His sure posture shows proficiency.

Perfect soldier, forever—but at least now he is more than twenty paces away.

She turns away to marvel at her surroundings—arid but still a sight to behold nonetheless. Miles and miles of pale orange that meets crisp sky blue at the horizon line. Cacti stand atop the shifting sands, some of them bearing voltfruits, and she makes another mental note to try voltfruit wine this time, since she was too young to consume alcohol the last time she was here.

In no time, they ride past Kara Kara Bazaar, where she can see freewheeling merchants lounging nearby, and then it’s further and further until she begins to see the walls—the same shade as the sand—and the tall rocky structure in the middle that streams water into the city.

Then, as they draw closer to the entrance into the town, Zelda sees Urbosa standing underneath the grand archway—scimitars sheathed at her hips and glinting gold, her hair even more flaming red under the rage of the desert sunlight.

Zelda waves her hand as Amina pulls at the ropes, slowing the sand seals.

Once the cart stops moving, Zelda immediately surges up from her seat and her knees wobble—forgetting that the last half an hour had been spent sitting still—but she pushes past that and hops out of the cart. Jogs to Urbosa and wraps her arms around the older woman, any ounce of formality or tradition melting away.

Urbosa laughs, embracing her back. “Well, good day to you, too, little bird.”

Royal decorum soon bleeds back into her muscle, however, as Zelda withdraws, clears her throat, and shoots the Chief a regal smile. “Thank you for the warm welcome and sending the Captains to aid my journey here, Urbosa. I hope that it wasn’t too much of a hassle.”

“Oh, don’t give me that.” Urbosa tsks. “You’re always welcome here. Always.”

Something warm shoots through her heart at that. Zelda smiles, mouths a thank you.

Behind her, Captain Pamela greets Urbosa and excuses herself to put Zelda’s belongings in the guest room of the Chief’s residence. Further away, Captain Sari converses with her knight, and Zelda sees him nod in assent at whatever she’s saying.

“Still not on speaking terms, I assume?” Urbosa asks.

In Zelda’s mind, Tena Ko’sah shrine looms overhead, the very place that had witnessed their last words to each other—

‘Do you understand me, Sir Knight?’

‘I understand, Princess.’

“No,” Zelda replies quietly.

“Well, he can’t come inside the town, so I guess you’re pretty pleased about that.”

Zelda huffs a laugh. “Yeah— Yes, I’m pretty pleased,” she says. “Will he be sleeping in Kara Kara Bazaar, then?”

Urbosa throws her a pointed look at that, and Zelda is about to ask what it means, but the older woman just sighs and says, “There’s a dormitory ten minutes of walk away from here for male visitors.”

Zelda nods and turns to finally cross the archway. And then it’s Gerudo Town with its lively crowd and various shops and its luxurious hotel and palm trees. Tall walls that cocoon the city. Guards that stand at the ready at every entry point, barring any man from coming in.

Layers of concrete and stone and sharp spears separating her from him. A fortress.

She’ll never feel completely light—that, she knows.

But this sure as Din comes close.

The first evening in Gerudo Town, Zelda does little else but eat and talk. She finds it refreshing to sit on a long table, shoulder to shoulder with other women, devouring meat skewers and drinking iced hydromelon juice.

Urbosa, the approachable, easygoing Chief that she is, sits with her people, her mouth still full of food as she chats and laughs, and Zelda merely watches, admires the woman. Revels in the stark contrast between the Gerudo Chief and Father, because Father would never do such a thing with his subjects.

If Zelda were to be a monarch—somehow, after all of this—she aspires to embody Urbosa’s graceful geniality.

In the morning, Zelda spends her time studying in the comfort of the guest room, drawing up the scrolls containing Vah Naboris’ schematics and taking notes of where to go, which terminal to visit. Urbosa doesn’t seem to be struggling with the Divine Beast—of course she wouldn’t, Zelda thinks fondly—but there is always room for improvement, and she intends to fulfill it.

She leaves her usual traveling outfit in the guest room, and wears the Gerudo top and sirwal provided by Urbosa. It’s made of thin linen dyed in dark blue, and Zelda feels as if she can breathe and move for the first time since she arrived in the desert. Urbosa also left her sapphire earrings on the nightstand, which Zelda immediately puts on.

During lunchtime, Urbosa excuses herself to ‘quickly run some errands in the outskirts of the town’, and leaves Zelda in Captain Pamela’s company. They sit at the canteen again, chewing on grilled bird skewers glazed with honey, and it’s not long before Captain Pamela brings up the subject that Zelda dreads the most.

“He’s grown up, that knight of yours,” Captain Pamela says. “Doesn’t speak as much as he used to.”

Zelda continues chewing, though the honey glaze doesn’t taste as sweet anymore.

“Wonder if he’s still not taken.” The Captain hums thoughtfully. “I might finally set him up with my daughter. That is if the other mothers don’t beat me to it.” She laughs.

The thought of the Hero as a lover is perhaps a thought better not to be dwelled upon, because how could he be one, really? He does not speak up, does not share. Does nothing except follow his duty, that cursed job of his. But if he were to be one, Zelda does not doubt that he would excel at it—he is Hylia’s beloved, after all.

If a woman were to successfully push past the impenetrable layer of his skin and fat and muscle, she’d find gold and more gold, and maybe, just maybe, she’d like what she finds.

Zelda stops her musings before they devolve into something even more dreadful.

“I think that’s a lost cause,” she replies to the Captain. She hates talking about this—about him, but she must try to shake some sense into the woman. “I don’t even think he’s capable of feeling things. Let alone love.”

“Oh, but it’s usually the silent ones that tend to surprise us, Princess,” Captain Pamela replies. “Honestly, I think I just want him to be my son-in-law. What a sweet, talented boy.”

Zelda’s grip around the skewer tightens. She wants to say, ‘What is it exactly that everyone and their damn mother see in him?’ She wants to say, ‘Please stop talking about him lest I start to vomit my lunch all over the countertop.’ She wants to say, ‘Do you know of his weak point? Do you know if there’s a human underneath all that?’

But she learned her lesson two nights ago, at the stable; it would serve her well not to chase roads that lead to the same ends.

So she washes all the questions crowding her tongue with apple juice, and for good measure, pushes them so far down her stomach with more grilled bird, where they’ll sour and shrink.

After the canteen, Zelda wanders around the shopping district, letting the indistinct murmurs and shouts of merchants vying for the attention and rupees of potential customers. It’s bustling and hectic in a way that doesn’t make her chest feel tight, because the eyes of these Gerudo women expect nothing of her, expect no proper decorum nor good news about her power. They are aware of her title and her position, but most of them treat her as the Chief’s very important guest—nothing more, nothing less.

Between a jewelry store and an herbalist stand, a Hylian woman lounges on a quilt, though she’s dressed in Gerudo attire from head to toe. In front of her is a set of cards with strange drawings printed on them, crystal ores in different colors and sizes, and a sign that says ‘Madame Katarina — Traveling Fortune Teller’.

“Something caught your eye, Princess?” the fortune teller wags her brows.

Zelda sighs. Hylian and fortune teller, when combined, cannot be good.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to yammer on about prophecies, Your Highness,” she says. “You see… I’m here to spread love.”

Now that’s intriguing. “Love?”

“Yes, love. I can look into the future, Princess. The future of your romantic life. I can see a place, give you a time frame… a face, even… for the price of one hundred rupees.”

Zelda rolls her eyes. “Is that it? I give you money and suddenly you’d be able to tell me about the future of my love life?”

Even if the fortune teller wasn’t just bluffing, she’d find nothing, Zelda thinks. Perhaps an older man from another kingdom, another realm. It has to be Father’s pick, of course—what His Majesty wants, His Majesty gets, after all. She’d spend the rest of her life comfortably, amiably—if there is even a life after all is said and done—beside a man she does not love at all.

“Well, a woman needs to eat and live, Your Highness,” Madame Katarina says. “But you can ask around all of southwestern Hyrule—I have helped many find the love of their lives. Men, women, all.”

Oh, Zelda knows she’s about to be scammed out of one hundred rupees, but Urbosa is still away, and she’s rather bored, so she says, “All right, I’ll bite.”

Madame Katarina grins, and holds her hand up dramatically, wiggling her fingers. “I can already see it, Your Highness…”

Zelda merely snorts and fishes out an orange rupee from her pouch. Lays it on the fortune teller’s hand.

“Yes, yes…” the fortune teller shoves the rupee into her top, and Zelda has to hold back from laughing at the woman’s comical gestures. “Thank you, Your Highness. Now let’s see…”

Her hands—covered in black tulle gloves—begin to wave wildly around her face, then hover over the pieces of crystals on the ground. They sway, and her body follows along with the motion.

She shuts her eyes, then draws an audible breath. “I see, I see…” she says. “You’re not a very easy heart to decipher, are you, Your Highness?”

Zelda laughs. “Perhaps not.”

“Your future lover isn’t very easy to decipher, either, Your Highness… It shall take mountains to reveal your hearts to each other, yes…” Madame Katarina hums. “His face is too… obscured for me to see… but I can feel his soul, his spirit… Oh, beautiful spirit. Very, very beautiful. You are very lucky, Your Highness…”

“I’m lucky now?” Zelda raises her brows.

“Oh, so very very lucky, Your Highness,” Madame Katarina says, her eyes still closed. “I see a place, too… A desert…”

“Oh, a desert. Can’t find that anywhere.”

“A desert… a beautiful spirit… You are very lucky, Your Highness.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that a few times before,” Zelda says. And all of those instances had been from you.

Madame Katarina’s eyes fly open. Her lips curl into a smile. “Most beautiful spirit I have ever had the fortune of seeing… I cannot wait for you to meet him, Your Highness.”

“Well.” Zelda shrugs. “I can’t wait to meet him, too. In the desert.”

Perhaps she’ll go to the dunes out west tomorrow. Maybe this beautiful spirit Madame Katarina is talking about is a molduga.

Madame Katarina, unaware of the sarcasm that might as well be brimming from her patron’s voice, just nods and nods her head. “Yes, yes… Now go, Your Highness. Catch that beautiful spirit!”

Zelda bids her goodbye and walks away from the fortune teller. Shakes her head in mirth, in disbelief that she just willingly gave up one hundred rupees for words of nothing.

Oh, she can’t honestly call herself a scholar after this, can she?

She’s still reeling from her recent idiotic mistake when she sees Urbosa in the town’s central plaza, talking to another Hylian woman, though her face is obscured by a veil.

As Zelda approaches them, the woman leaves, and Urbosa turns around to greet her.

“Who was that?” Zelda asks.

“Ah, just a lost tourist,” Urbosa waves her off. “How was your day, little bird? Did you do anything fun?”

Zelda laughs. “Oh, you would not believe it.”

Two days after being scammed off one hundred rupees, they finally journey southwest to Palu Wasteland where Vah Naboris stands dormant.

After lunchtime, Zelda prepares her traveling pack for an overnight stay aboard the Divine Beast, makes sure the Slate is secure and snug on her hip, and opts to wear her usual traveler’s outfit in royal blue.

There is power in one’s attire—it is a ritual in itself, and rituals, whether they’re rooted in myth or factual truth, can provide reinforcement. Can provide strength, provide confidence.

And she needs all those things more than ever.

So in the sand seal cart, seated behind Amina once again, with sweat rolling down her nape and stomach roiling with chilly elixir, Zelda clasps her hands and prays. Every inch, every mile of sand that the cart parts, every incline and downslope—she prays for its safety, its prosperity.

Urbosa, with her Thunder Helm on, rides with her own beloved sand seal Miranda, surfing the sand just next to the cart, along with Captain Pamela and Captain Sari.

Some of the most formidable fighters in this corner of the kingdom are right here with me, Zelda thinks. One simply doesn’t need more than this.

In the distance, Vah Naboris towers above the wasteland even as it’s kneeling; its four legs spreading out atop the sand. It’s dauntingly golden and tall and ancient, but it appears as if it has been a permanent fixture in the desert for centuries instead of just a couple of years, when it was first unearthed by the Sheikah.

Perhaps it’s the sheer size of it, perhaps it’s because of her personal bias towards its pilot—but Zelda can almost swear that Naboris might just be the most beautiful Divine Beast out of the four.

It takes about half an hour until they reach the base of the Beast, dismounting the seals and heading towards the ramp leading onto the platform hanging on the Beast’s underside. Amina places the traveling packs on the mouth of the ramp and bids Zelda goodbye, promising to return at ten on the dot tomorrow morning to take her back to Gerudo Town. As Amina rides away, Miranda the seal follows the moving cart, yelping as it swims through sand.

Zelda is surprised to see that the two Captains still stay put behind their seals, about to join Amina back to the city as well.

She raises her brows. “Won’t you both be staying the night on Naboris, too?”

The two women give a look at their Chief.

“No, they have matters to attend to,” Urbosa says. “Don’t worry, I’ll send for some extra security in the evening.”

Urbosa alone is more than capable of guarding her, Zelda knows—but company is company, and she has never had the luxury of partaking in mundane activities such as a sleepover, and, well. She was looking forward to chatting with the women well into the night, just as she had overheard at the stable a few nights ago. But this time, she’d be able to join, to lounge around and drink and laugh, without the heavy presence of the Hero.

With a reluctant smile, Zelda waves at the Captains, watches as they ride away.

She picks up her traveling pack, mirroring Urbosa, and climbs the ramp up to the platform.

“Don’t you wish you had someone to carry your pack?” Urbosa asks.

Zelda squints, clenching the straps of her pack. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind.” Urbosa sighs.

In the middle of the platform is the terminal to activate the Beast, and Urbosa drops her pack on the floor before laying her hand on the mark of the Sheikah engraved into the pedestal. The eye lights up blue, and suddenly Naboris lets out a howl as everything begins to shake.

Zelda bends her knees to keep her balance as the Beast wakes up, the plates of its legs pressing in to finally stand up on its four feet. In no time, Naboris is fully risen, unmoving and casting a large camel-shaped shadow over Gerudo Desert.

Zelda stares at Urbosa’s hand as it rises and falls limp at the woman’s side once more. The hand that can turn on the ancient mechanical beast with just a touch of the palm.

She rakes her fingers through her hair. Shakes the thought away. “How have you been finding Vah Naboris?” she asks.

“Why the rush, little bird?” Urbosa smirks. “Come on. Let’s put our packs in our rooms first. Stretch your legs—you’ve been sitting in that cart for a while. Then you can begin your survey.”

Zelda swallows the disquietude that begins to coat the back of her teeth, and smiles. “Great plan.”

They walk past the terminal and climb another ramp until they find themselves in the cylindrical main chamber of Naboris—the electricity circuits on the ceiling glowing green. There are more ramps (there seems to be an abundance of steep ramps in this Beast, Zelda thinks sourly,) but finally, they enter a small chamber with a circular platform that automatically lifts them to a higher level within the Beast.

Once there, they step off the moving platform and walk down a long hallway where there are two doors on either side. Urbosa beckons for her to come enter the one on the right, and opens the door to reveal a small room equipped with a thin mattress on the floor, some pillows and a blanket, two oil lanterns, and a large metal bowl containing chunks of rubies for heating.

“It’s no royal suite, but it should do,” Urbosa comments. “The rubies are there to warm you up—the chill of desert nights is no joke,” she says. “I hope you’ve brought some warming elixirs with you.”

Zelda drops her pack on the mattress and rummages through her belongings. Five vials of cooling elixirs and—

Oh, crap.

“I only brought the chilly ones,” she says quietly.

Urbosa sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. “You know what? That’s fine. I brought two, so you can take one of mine. The extra security that will come tonight will have some more, too.”

Zelda furrows her brows. “How would they know to bring some?”

“They will have it, don’t worry,” Urbosa says. “But Zelda, you should be a bit more prepared next time. I said yes to Link not coming earlier because you promised me you would be all set without his help.”

Oh, Zelda would rather freeze to death than have him join today, but Urbosa’s tone denotes seriousness—she is my second mother, after all—so she nods apologetically and says, “I’m sorry.”

Urbosa smiles and shakes her head. “It’s okay, little bird.”

With that, they walk back to the elevator room to return to the main chamber, and make their way up even more ramps to reach the main control unit. They stand before the control boards, and Zelda takes out her field journal from her pouch.

“Now, please tell me everything about your experience so far.” Zelda grins.

As the day progresses and Urbosa gives her a series of demonstrations of what Naboris can do, it’s immediately clear to Zelda that the pilot and the Beast have synchronized well with each other. Every purposeful flick of Urbosa’s wrist on the control wheel is directly replied with precise movements of Naboris’ many limbs. Each maneuver she executes is completed, each command is obeyed.

Urbosa steers the Beast around the southern portion of the desert, where it’s mostly empty and barren.

“How many moldugas do you think we’ve stepped on?” Zelda asks.

“Hah!” Urbosa barks a laugh. “I think we’d know if we stepped on one. Especially the molduking.”

It takes around an hour or so for Naboris to complete a full circle and find itself in the exact same spot where they first boarded the Beast. Zelda keeps a log of the trip, writes down Urbosa’s testimonies on the parchment.

“For the most part, I find no problem with her at all,” Urbosa says as she switches off a few buttons on the control boards to stop the Beast from moving. “I do, however, find her left back leg a bit problematic. Sometimes it drags a little whereas the other legs lift and step forward just fine.”

Zelda hums. “I can try to take a second look at the schematics, see if there’s anything we can recalibrate—”

“It’s not really a problem, per se; I can still control everything just fine,” Urbosa replies. “I don’t want to trouble you too much, little bird.”

Zelda has no qualms that Urbosa can control Naboris just fine, but there is so much uncertainty, so much still unknown about the Calamity, and if there is anything that can be done, no matter how large or minute—a cogwheel that needs a little grease or a screw that requires a little bit of tightening—she will try her damndest to fix them.

“You won’t, Urbosa,” Zelda says, closing her journal. “Let’s go to that leg, yes?”

They go back to the ground floor and enter a small chamber located in the backside of the Beast which houses a winding staircase that leads them to the two raised platforms right above the Beast’s legs.

Zelda pulls out the scrolls containing the schematics of Naboris and unrolls them across the floor.

“Found anything?” Urbosa asks from behind her.

Zelda traces her finger over the blueprint, over the detailed drawings of each mechanical part. Nothing, nothing, and then—

“Wait,” she says, “the schematics show that there is a small button on the underside of the raised platform above the left back leg, but not the right one.” She rolls up the scrolls, stows them away in her pouch, and steps off the dais. Kneels once more and runs her fingers on the underside, and finally finds it—a rather small switch. She pushes it.

The platform lets out a hiss, rises, and then opens, revealing the interior of the leg. It’s hollow, but on the side is a metal ladder that seems to lead all the way down to the foot of the Beast.

Urbosa mutters a surprised ‘Heroines’.

Zelda laughs. “It’s a hidden passageway!” she exclaims. “I assume there is a door down there that allows one to exit Naboris without having to make her fully kneel on the ground to access the main ramp,” she says. “Those people ten thousand years ago… they truly thought of everything.”

Urbosa steps closer to the platform—or rather, the open hatch—and peers through the large hole. “Is this what’s been causing the leg to sometimes drag?”

“It must be,” Zelda rises and dusts off her pants. “That means we cannot really fix it, since it’s due to this leg’s different construction.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, Urbosa.”

“Zelda, no need to apologize—you’ve solved the mystery nonetheless, and found an additional passageway that can serve as an emergency exit!” Urbosa lays a hand on her shoulder. Squeezes. “This is great, little bird.”

Zelda looks up at the older woman and smiles. Lays her gloved hand atop hers. “Thank you, Urbosa.”

She pushes the button near the hinge and watches as it lowers and shuts once more, closing the passageway. She takes notes of the finding and reminds herself to share it with Purah and Robbie; they must scour through the other Divine Beasts’ schematics—perhaps these hidden entryways also exist in the other three.

They return to the main chamber and Zelda takes the time to quickly look at each terminal, making sure that each is recalibrated to compensate for the occasional dragging of the Beast’s left back leg, and when she is finally finished, the sun has long set over the horizon, and her stomach is grumbling from hunger.

They go back to their rooms on the upper level to pick up their food boxes packed with mushroom skewers, waterskeins, an oil lantern, a quilt and some pillows, and make their way down to the outer pathway of Naboris which boasts an unrestricted view over the Gerudo Desert. Before the high metal balustrade, they set down the quilt and the pillows—a rather unconventional place for a picnic, considering that they are aboard an ancient mechanical creature—and finally, sit down after a full day of research.

Zelda trains her eyes on the line where Gerudo Highlands meet the twilit skies, and takes a skewer from the box. They eat and laugh and talk, and eat some more. Urbosa tells her of the gossip around the town, and Zelda indulges her by telling stories about the gossip within the castle. When there are no more gossips to be exchanged, they settle in comfortable silence and gaze at the horizon, now dark blue.

With all skewers eaten, Urbosa takes the vials of spicy elixir from her pouch and gives one to Zelda. They clink the small bottles together and down them in one go.

It’s spicy, as the name suggests, and it immediately simmers in her stomach, but Zelda doesn’t fight off the cringe that quickly blooms across her visage. With Urbosa, she doesn’t have to hide anything. Doesn’t have to appear perfect and faultless.

Urbosa leans back on the pillows, draws up one knee, and offers her left arm as a cushion.

Zelda smiles, warm familiarity seeping through the fabric of her being. It’s a position she’s come to know and love so well since she was a child. And years later, as she finally leans on Urbosa’s side, she knows it is the closest she’ll ever get to feeling wholly safe. Secure. Like there’s no necessity to put up a front or keep her armor on at all.

So she yawns, and Urbosa laughs.

Zelda shrugs against her in reply. “It’s been a long day.”

“It has, hasn’t it?” Urbosa muses. After a while, she asks, “How have you been since we met at the castle, really?”

Everything flashes before her eyes—Rito Village. A dream of a touch, a soft voice. Prayers that remain unanswered, again and again and again. The swell of strings on stage, a song that sings of the end of times. The scorching heat of Death Mountain, the burn in her throat and the heat upon her skin. His perilous gaze, blue, blue, blue. The finished portrait—his gaze once again. The breakaway among broken pillars, in front of a dormant shrine.

They all claw at the insides of her throat, begging to be spilled free. But there’s an ounce of resistance in her left, even after all this time, so she bites them down. Keeps them in, where they have always belonged, for letting them out certainly means making a mess, and such a mess can only slow her down.

“It’s all right, you don’t have to answer,” Urbosa eventually replies to her silence, and Zelda takes it as a mercy. A blessing.

In the midst of it all—the warmth on her side where she’s pressed against Urbosa, the fill of her belly, the exhaustion that slowly but surely creeps and envelops her—Zelda lets herself begin to slip away.

“I love you, my little bird. We have always loved you,” Urbosa says softly. “And I wish for you to know that— that you will always have people who love you. Who care for you, who want nothing but the best for you.”

An I love you, too is on its way to leave her lips, but it never made it out, engulfed by her sleep.

A violent thunderclap is what jolts her back into life.

Zelda surges up in her seat, tongue dry as a sandpaper from her short slumber. Urbosa’s visage gives nothing away, and she’s starting to think that she must’ve dreamt the thunderclap after all.

“Urbosa— what was that?” Zelda asks, the remnants of sleep immediately vanishing from her body. “Did you feel that?”

She looks around to find the source of the lightning, perhaps somewhere in the dark sky—but there’s not a single cloud in sight.

Then something pokes at her periphery, something cerulean blue and honey blonde, and despite the chilly air that gusts outside, her blood boils.

With dread and panic and fury coiling around her lungs—please, Gods, not him not him not him—Zelda turns to look behind her, and sees the very thing she has tried with all her might to evade all week.

Her appointed knight stands there—the agreed-upon rule of at least twenty paces clearly broken and violated. The hilt of his Sword stays impossibly purple and bright even in the darkness. His blue gaze spears right through her chest once again. Slices through her composure until there’s nothing to do but give in and crack.

“What are you doing here?!”

Beside her, Urbosa laughs and laughs, so Zelda snaps, “What’s so funny?!” She pauses, and when the realization dawns on her, her mouth falls open. “Oh, Goddess— this is the extra security you told me about. It’s him.” Her eyes sting. “Urbosa, how could you?”

Upon seeing her face—no doubt twisted in real anger—Urbosa quiets. “Zelda, please—”

Zelda shoots up to her feet. “I’ve told you. I’ve told you how I feel about him. I’ve confided in you, trusted you—”

“Zelda, you can’t be this way forever,” Urbosa says as she rises, her verdant eyes etched with concern. “It isn’t sustainable.”

“Me?!” Zelda knows she’s practically yelling now, but she couldn’t care less. “Why does everyone always think that it is solely upon me to better things between us?!” She points at him. “What about him? Does he not play a part in all of this?”

Urbosa sighs in exasperation. “Zelda, I know about what happened in Tabantha.”

“Oh Gods—” A laugh boils over from Zelda’s throat and it’s a hideous sound. Finally, she faces his way. Speaks to him. “You spoke to her. You spoke to her behind my back. What makes you think you have the right to do that?”

His lips press into a thin line. Urbosa lays her hands on her shoulders, but it isn’t warmth that Zelda feels anymore, so she recoils from the touch.

“Don’t— don’t touch me,” she hisses.

Urbosa tries again. “Zelda, love—”

“Don’t ‘love’ me—”

“Zelda!” Urbosa exclaims, her firm, loud voice reminiscent of the thunder that reverberated through the ground just a moment ago. “Listen to me. All I have ever wanted since the day you were born is for you to be happy and at peace and safe. Can’t you see how this is tormenting you?”

“I know it’s tormenting me—that’s why I don’t want to have him near me!”

“Zelda.” Urbosa inhales deeply. “Look at him.”

Oh, Zelda refuses to do so. She stays put, locking her eyes with Urbosa’s.

“Zelda, please,” Urbosa says. Zelda has never heard her voice break or falter, but this time, she hears a crackle on the edges that signals desperation. “Look at him.”

Zelda takes a deep, painful breath, lets it fill her lungs until she can’t possibly take in any more air, then turns around. Looks at the Hero.

Looks at everything that she is not.

“What do you see, Zelda?” Urbosa asks softly.

Zelda realizes that for the first time since he invaded her drawing room a year and a half ago bearing the Master Sword, she now holds some kind of power in her hands. It isn’t the golden light that she’s spent her entire life praying for—she knows not of that power, so she has no reference point or precedent to go from—but she suspects that this power feels just as mighty. Almost as brutal.

Because now, she has the power to possibly and finally shatter his façade once and for all. To reveal Hylia’s beloved’s weakest point.

“I see a boy who was chosen by the Goddess,” Zelda says, not letting her voice waver. “I see a boy who ‘simply pulled the Sword’, as he told me. Someone strong, someone unassailable. Imperishable.”

Urbosa turns to face the knight. “Link, your turn.” She pauses. “What do you see in her?”

In the lantern’s light, Zelda sees his throat bob, perhaps attempting to swallow all the words back inside him. And she wishes she could slice open that neck just to coax those words out with her fingers. Gods, she’d take anything at this point—ridicule, contempt, criticism, reproach—as long as it comes out from his mouth. But she can no longer take silence or indifference—she simply can’t.

“I…” he inhales, then says at last, “…I see my duty.”

Tonight, Zelda knows she has both won and lost—lost, because again, she has failed to truly break through him, and won, because she was right all along—the problem does not lie in her. It lies within him—in his inability to share, his refusal to be human.

Urbosa sighs and looks up at the ceiling, as if in prayer. “I have tried,” she mutters under her breath, “you know now that I have tried.”

Zelda pays no attention to her, and decides to raise her victory count this evening to two. “Sir Knight,” she spits his title at him, “we will stay on Naboris tonight, and tomorrow, we will cut our stay in Gerudo Town short and journey back to the castle. And when we arrive, so help me Goddess—I will beg for the King to relieve you of your appointment to me.”

“Oh for Heroines’ sake, Zelda,” Urbosa starts, “you can’t possibly mean that—”

“No, no, I do mean it,” Zelda replies. Somehow, the delirium caused by the wrath of her emotions has dissipated, and a strange calmness takes its place. “I will threaten to never leave the castle, to never pray if Father does not reassign him somewhere else,” she says. “I have never been able to focus on my prayers whenever he’s around anyway.”

Because he is so clearly loved by Her while I am so clearly shunned.

Urbosa stays silent. Her knight—no, the knight—like always, stays silent, too. But it’s no matter, because everything has finally been laid on the table to be gored into its bloodiest and bitterest bits, and there is nothing left to dissect. To talk about.

So Zelda walks back inside with phantom blood all over her mouth, where the words had exploded from her.

In the morning, after a sleepless night, Zelda rises from the mattress. She washes her mouth with water from her skein, swishes it then spits into the bowl of rubies, where it sizzles and steams upon contact with the burning ores.

She procures a cooling elixir from her pouch and downs it. Puts on her boots, shoves her things inside her pack—so that whoever shall find it can quickly pick it up and bring it to her later—then softly turns the knob on the door, swinging it open.

There’s no one outside. Urbosa is still asleep behind the closed door across from her, and the knight is someplace else within the Divine Beast, nowhere near her.

Last night, she won twice. This morning, she wins once again.

She quietly makes her way to the main chamber, then into the backside of the beast. Descends the spiral staircase that leads into the lowermost chamber, where the secret passageway awaits. Just like yesterday, she presses the button on the underside of the hatch, and steps back as it lifts and opens, revealing the long ladder down.

The knight doesn’t know of this passageway, and she takes that as another win.

With a deep breath, she holds on to the metal railing, and makes her way down, down, down. Refuses to look below her feet, where one slip of the foot can mean a broken bone or worse. Down, down, and further down, and finally, she lands on the base inside Naboris’ left back hoove, where a door is carved onto the wall. She turns the metal spindle on the door with all her strength and sees as the bolts around the doorframe retract and unlock. She opens it, and is met with miles and miles of sand. She steps out.

In the distance, she sees Miranda the seal, rolling around lazily in the sand, so she makes her way there. She doesn’t know how to surf with a sand seal and her balance isn’t the best, but she’s seen enough people do it to understand the mechanism, the physics of it, so she detaches the Daybreaker shield on Miranda’s back, grabs the rope, then puts the shield face down on the sand.

She ties the rope around her waist, bends her knees, then flicks the rope against Miranda. Miranda yelps, nosedives into the sand, and the next thing Zelda knows, she is parting the sand herself.

She laughs, feeling the morning breeze beat against her face, blowing her hair back. With her foot she presses slightly to the left, heading north towards Kara Kara Bazaar.

It’s simply exhilarating. A final act of retribution for last night’s slaughter on Naboris’ outer balcony.

The Bazaar, though still a few miles ahead of her, is finally visible, so she continues to ride. She rides and rides until Hylia Herself decides that Her descendant has had enough fun, and sets a sandstorm upon the path ahead of her.

Unable to see, Zelda grabs the rope and flicks it against Miranda once more, stopping the creature in its course. She steps off the shield, reattaches it to Miranda’s back, and unwinds the rope from her waist. Her eyes sting from the dust, but she pushes past it—she must—and continues to make her way forward.

Forward, always, Zelda thinks. Every step, progress. Closer to freedom. Closer to proving to the rest of the world that she can do just fine without him.

In the distance, far, far away behind her, a mechanical howl echoes throughout the desert. The cry of Naboris as it’s being turned off, lowering to the ground. They must have noticed her absence now.

But she’s got a head start, so she carries on.

The sandstorm turns milder. And though it’s still quite difficult to see, she walks on anyway. Ignores the sand that starts to find its way into the crevices of her boots, dirtying the soles of her feet.

She walks and walks. Clenches Miranda’s leash a bit tighter.

She feels her long locks pasted across her cheeks, sticking to her nape. She takes the Slate off her belt, taps at the screen to check the map and the weather, but there is no signal here in the middle of the storm.

Kara Kara Bazaar is so close, she’s certain. So she continues to walk.

Beads of sweat roll down her forehead, caught by her brows. She wipes them away with the back of her gloved hand.

Suddenly, a voice calls out from amidst the orange haze.

“Your Highness!”

Zelda turns around to find the fortune teller that made her waste one hundred rupees.

She has never been so happy to find a scammer.

“Madame Katarina!” Zelda exclaims, jogging towards the woman’s way, pulling at Miranda to come along. “Are you lost, too?”

“Yes. I’m trying to head to Kara Kara Bazaar, but the sandstorm… So bad…” Madame Katarina sighs, raking her fingers through her jet-black hair.

“Well, me too,” Zelda replies. “Shall we head there together, then?”

“Splendid idea, Your Highness.” The fortune teller smiles. “Are you all alone?”

“I am. It’s a blessing, really—if it weren’t for this wretched sandstorm.”

“It’s quite important to get a moment of solitude.” Madame Katarina nods. As they walk further north, she asks, “Tell me… have you found that beautiful spirit in the desert?”

“No.” Zelda huffs a laugh. “I still have a few hours left here before I set out to return to Central Hyrule, though. So, anything could happen.” She gives a sardonic grin.

“Your Highness, I—” Madame Katarina suddenly stops in her tracks. Then turns to face Zelda. “I just want to say… I quite like you, Your Highness. You have a sense of humor… Better than what I expected.”

That’s rather a peculiar thing to say, Zelda thinks, but she supposes she should take it as a compliment, so she says, “Well, thank you.”

“It’s a shame…” Madame Katarina says, shaking her head. A troubled look flashes across her face. “Such a shame…”

Zelda frowns. “Are you all right?”

A beat.

“You’re so gullible, too, aren’t you, Princess?” The lady smirks, and Zelda’s blood runs cold. Gone is the warmth and whimsy from the fortune teller’s voice, and all Zelda hears is something sinister. She begins to step back.

Then, from her Gerudo bustier, Madame Katarina pulls out a knife, still in its leather sheath, but the mark painted on it is unmistakable.

An upside down eye in red.

In the span of a few milliseconds, Zelda tries to calculate everything. If she were to take the shield off Miranda’s back and fasten the rope around her waist and place the shield on the ground, it would give Madame Katarina—the Yiga—an ample amount of time to attack her. If she were to leave Miranda and make a run for it, even through the dust, she might just be able to make it to Kara Kara Bazaar.

It can’t be that far, she thinks. Hopes. Prays. It must be just a few meters north, now.

So Zelda chooses the latter.

She runs.

Behind her, Katarina laughs and yells, “Get her, boys!”

Zelda ignores her. She runs and runs and runs. She looks back, but realizes, stupid, focus on ahead, Zelda, you stupid, stupid girl—and continues to run.

Then, out of nowhere, two Yiga foot soldiers intercept her, a sickle in their hands. They gleam underneath the sun.

She stops, staggers. Turns around to find Katarina—now in her full Yiga gear—with a sickle in her hand, too.

Zelda falls backwards, lands forcefully on her hand. Her left wrist twists and pain immediately shoots up her body, but that is the least of her concerns.

The three assassins close in, surrounding her, and she knows—she knows that it certainly isn’t love that she should find in the desert, but death and only death.

Because she’s blind. She has been so very blind.

As Katarina raises her sickle high, high, high, Zelda looks away in resignation and closes her eyes.

In that still, quiet second between life and death, she prays.

Mother Goddess, forgive me for I have not been a good daughter, may Your beloved and his Sword be enough to vanquish the darkness—

The swing of metal rings in her ears, and she braces for the killing blow to her neck.

It never comes.

She opens her eyes.

There, one pace in front of her, is the Hero of Hyrule—his back to her, his feet wide apart and firmly planted in the sand, the Sword of Legend in his right hand. Sunlight shines upon the silver of the holy blade—stained red with his foe’s blood, upon the golden details of his scabbard. Upon his wheat blonde hair that now glints gold, a natural crown bestowed by the sun.

Zelda was once blind.

But now she sees, attends with open eyes.

Chapter Text

When the two Yiga footsoldiers cower in fear and disappear into thin air, a breath leaves through her mouth. A breath that she was so sure would stay in her lungs until rigor mortis set in and her muscles began to stiffen and rot.

She takes another breath. The dust finally settles, and all that’s left and extant in the desert is them.

Princess and Hero.

The hand holding the Sword rises to sheathe it in its scabbard. Blood collects on the scabbard’s mouthpiece—crimson on gold. It continues to glint, flashes light into her eyes, but she does not look away.

He turns around to fully face her then drops to his knees. It sends a rumble through the ground like the shift of tectonic plates.

His hands are shaking—it’s impossible, she thinks, those hands have never wavered—but it becomes clearer, more true, as they rise and hover above her lap.

Then he speaks up, and the novel roughness of it thunders through her brain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

His eyes roam all over her body, hands flitting around her, no doubt searching for injuries, wounds, cuts—anything. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel the electric warmth shooting from his bare fingers. His head is bowed, wisps of honey blonde swaying in his motion—eyes downcast, long lashes fluttering against his reddened cheeks. His lips tremble.

The sight of it tilts the earth off its axis.

She tries to put it to rights. “I’m not hurt, please, it’s all right.”

Still, he says it, again and again and again. There’s a tremor in his voice, laced with guilt, and it further shakes the core of the earth, shakes her. “I’m sorry—”

“Please, Sir Link, I’m all right,” she tells him, but he only continues to brokenly mutter apologies—I’m sorry, Princess, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—so she pushes past the pain in her left wrist and stops his hands with her own.

She brings them to her lap. Holds them tight as one would hold a lifeline.

He freezes, his hands curled limply in hers, but she can still hear his ragged breaths, see the clenching and unclenching of his jaw, so it brims on her tongue—four letters, one syllable—and she lets it spill.

“Link,” she calls him by his name. “Look at me.”

At that, he obeys her.

Brilliant blues meet her greens, and she sees the one thing she swore she’d never see in the Hero:

Fear.

His gaze is sharp and it spears through her, from the top of her scalp to the base of her spine, rooting her to the ground—but she lets it.

Under his gaze, she is alive.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, though her stomach churns and churns. “I’m all right.” Her left wrist continues to pulsate with pain, but still, she holds him tight. “I’m all right.”

He presses his lips together, voice small— “Are you sure?”

She inhales, exhales. Pays attention to the rise and fall of her chest, the strain of her tight-fitting blouse against her ribcage. “I am.”

She sees him swallow, sees something flash through those eyes—something akin to relief, though not quite fully there yet. On her lap, his fingers uncurl in her grip, pulling gently.

Oh.

She relaxes her hold, but doesn’t move. Finally, he extricates his hands from hers, and splays them on the ground to sustain his weight as he stands up. He offers a hand to her and she takes it; allows him to pull her to her feet.

She lets go and wraps her right hand around her left wrist—applying pressure to ease the pain. His brows knit in concern again, so she says, “It’s just a sprained wrist.”

“I’ll—” he squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again. He clears his throat. “I’ll try to get some cool safflina.”

When she inclined her head, her eyes finally lay upon the fake fortune teller on the ground—limp and lifeless, mask askew, blood flowing freely from where her forearm had been sliced clean by the Sword and from the hole in her chest—the final blow carried out by her knight.

It isn’t black blood from moblins or hinoxes—it’s red. Human.

Blood of someone who had talked to her. Blood that could have been hers.

Zelda averts her gaze, nods at him, and begins to walk away.

Kara Kara Bazaar turns out to be quite close, after all—only a couple of hundred meters or so from where she fell. As she draws nearer to the Bazaar, she sees a band of Gerudo soldiers, spears in their hands, running towards her.

“Princess Zelda!” Captain Pamela exclaims once they are within earshot. “The Chief is on her way here— but what happened?”

I almost died, she wants to say. I’ve taken things for granted.

But the words simply die on her tongue as the reality washes over her consciousness—that she did almost die, that she almost jeopardized the entirety of the kingdom because of her foolishness, that she allowed herself to be deceived which nearly led to her end, that if it weren’t for her knight—for Link—she would not be standing here.

Her pulse hammers in her throat. The back of her eyes burn.

In her periphery, she sees Link, jaw still set, standing less than twenty paces away from her—but it’s still too far, a small voice within her says, so she meets his eyes and hopes he understands what she’s unable to speak aloud:

I can’t do this.

And somehow, somehow—he understands.

He steps closer and turns to Captain Pamela, and with each step he takes she sees the rift through the earth—made by his broken whispers on the sand earlier—merging and closing. Another step, and she sees the thin crevice that provided a glimpse into his insides being refilled, then paved over.

When he speaks, his voice no longer wavers.

She knows this voice.

“There were three Yiga footsoldiers in pursuit of the Princess. An assassination attempt was made,” he says. “I dispatched one of them, and the other two ran away and vanished. Most likely to their hideout.”

“All right, we will dispose of the body,” Captain Pamela replies. “We’ll have soldiers patrol around the desert, too,” she says. “Amina and the seal cart are ready at the Bazaar, so the Princess can return to the city—”

“No,” Zelda interjects. She pays no mind to how hoarse she sounds. “The assassin was the fortune teller in the shopping district.” Jet black hair—how could she have missed it? “She was an undercover Yiga all along.”

“Heroines,” Captain Pamela breathes. She turns to the women behind her, and says, “That means we must also do a thorough sweep through the city. Which leaves Vah Naboris as the safest place for the Princess to stay while we ensure the desert is secure.” She pauses. “Princess, is there anything you require from the city? I will bring it to you—just name it.”

“I still— I still have some clothes there, and some scrolls on the desk in the guest room,” Zelda replies. “And— and I need some cool safflina.”

Captain Pamela nods. “I’ll get them for you, Princess,” she says. “I will meet the Chief and tell her to meet you at Vah Naboris post-haste.”

With that, they part ways with Captain Pamela and the other soldiers, and continue their way to the center Kara Kara Bazaar, where Zelda can already see Amina and the cart, and an additional sand seal, no doubt for her knight. Every step feels light as if all the blood has been drained from her body, as if she is walking on clouds and will soon fall through to meet the brutal ground.

She feels the eyes of the merchants and tourists and patrons in the Bazaar bore through her—frowning, questioning, and suddenly she staggers sideways, her left hand meeting the rough trunk of a palm tree and agitating her injured wrist, and a whimper escapes her.

“Princess?” she hears Link say, but then something else rages to escape her, too, and she tries to fight it until it simply floods her mouth, the dregs of her adrenaline, her terror—

She vomits.

Murmurs of ‘That’s the Princess! What happened?’ and ‘Oh Goddess, is she all right?’ fill up her ears, but they’re quickly eclipsed by the sound of her knight’s rushed footfalls to be at her side, placing himself between her and those prying eyes as he offers her his waterskein and handkerchief.

Zelda wipes the sick off her chin with the back of her hand. Shakes her head as she rasps, “I’ll get my sick all over them.”

“Please,” Link says. There’s a slight crackle at the edge of his voice, so she meets his eyes, mutters a thanks, and takes the handkerchief from his hand and cleans her lips with it. Takes his waterskein, sips from it. Lets the water trickle down her throat, washing down all the bile and acid and fight-or-flight that have risen from the pits of her stomach.

Some of it’s still there, coating her throat, stinging, but as she returns the skein to his hand and their fingers brush, a charge of electricity releases and it jolts her awake.

I’m alive, she thinks. I made it out alive.

When her legs finally feel solid enough, Zelda straightens up. A hand extends towards her, hovering before her—another offer of help or maybe a just in case—but she doesn’t take it this time. She has already taken a lot from him today.

Oh, there’s so much to parse through later when it comes to him, she knows. Debts she must pay, imbalances she must correct, wrongdoings she must offset—and Goddess knows how much time she has to do so, so she intends to start now.

They walk up to Amina and the sand seal cart, and he offers his hand again to help her into the cart, and she’d decline it but Gods, her left wrist is still throbbing and there’s no way she can sustain her weight with only one hand to climb into the cart, so she takes it.

As she settles on the backseat, behind Amina, she looks up at him.

“Thank you,” Zelda says quietly. A very, very small fraction of repayment in her gargantuan debt to him.

He inclines his head in reply, expression blank and placid, and it’s unfortunately familiar, but it doesn’t vex her. Not anymore.

When they arrive in the middle of the barrens where Naboris is stationed, the Beast is already lying prone on the sand—asleep once more, likely powered off by Urbosa upon finding out that the Princess was missing earlier today.

The ramp leading to the first terminal is wide open, so Amina pulls at the ropes and stops the cart right next to the walkway. Zelda watches as Link unwinds the rope from his waist, dismounts the borrowed wooden shield, and jogs to the cart’s side.

She lets him help her climb out, and thanks him again. Amina asks if she should stay as an additional guard—though a seal keeper, she is still a fierce Gerudo soldier, after all—but Zelda refuses to keep her. She’s burdened enough people today.

So the driver bids her goodbye, tells her knight to take care of the sand seal she has lent to him, and rides away, back north towards Gerudo Town.

Zelda sits down on the ramp. Applies pressure around her left wrist again in an attempt to alleviate the pain, though trying with all her might not to wince audibly as she does so. Link stations himself in front of her, on the mouth of the ramp.

She waits. Watches his back, the subtle rise and fall of his squared shoulders as he watches the horizon. Recalls the times she has seen him this way—an unobstructed view of purple and gold and blue before her eyes. Two months ago, at the castle’s eastern assembly yard, a pot lid on his left arm and a destroyed Guardian in front of him. Three hours ago, out there in the sand.

Silence grows thick in the air, but she endures it. If silence is what he requires, what he wants, then she’ll give it to him. She’ll pour it into a crystal jar and tie a bow around it, proffer it to him. She’ll take his silence and sangfroid, promises not to poke and prod if that’s what he desires. It’s the least she can do after what he’s done for her—after everything.

However, that silence finally snaps upon the sound of a sand seal yelping, and Zelda rises from the floor to see Urbosa behind Miranda, riding through the sand.

Once she dismounts, she strides towards Zelda, fists clenched at her sides, green eyes all fiery.

Zelda feels a lump grow in her throat. Steels herself for a reprimand, a dressing down. A well-deserved one, she thinks. But Urbosa stops right in front of her, takes a thorough look at her face, and then sighs in relief.

She wraps her arms around Zelda tightly.

“Please do not do such a thing ever again, little bird,” Urbosa says. There’s a real plea in her voice. “Please.”

In the crook of Urbosa’s elbow, Zelda nods frantically, shuts her eyes in earnestness. “I won’t, I promise,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

When they part, Zelda swears she can see the shine in Urbosa’s eyes—the small promise of tears. The second rarest sight she’s seen today aside from the crack in her knight’s façade.

Goddess, there is a lot of restitution she must do.

Urbosa walks towards the terminal, hovers her hand above the pedestal just like yesterday, and Naboris shakes once again as it rises on its four feet. Once it’s fully upright, they make their way inside, up the Beast’s numerous ramps and through the small hallways, to the small room on the upper level.

Her traveling pack is still right there, on the mattress—exactly where she left it this morning. The evidence of her recklessness.

She sits next to it and eats crow.

Urbosa enters the room, leaving Link standing beneath the threshold. “Pamela will arrive here soon with your things and herbs for your sprained wrist,” she says. “Do you have a first-aid kit in your pack?”

Zelda pulls at the laces of her pack with her uninjured hand and sifts through her belongings. There isn’t a proper first-aid kit, but there is a roll of bandage on the bottom of the pack. She pulls it out.

“That should do,” Urbosa says. She takes the roll and sits next to Zelda on the mattress, gently taking the injured hand in her calloused ones, carefully taking the glove off before inspecting it. “This doesn’t look too bad—should take just a few weeks to fully heal.”

She begins wrapping the fabric around Zelda’s wrist, then pulls it in between the thumb and the forefinger before wrapping it around the wrist again. Zelda feels it pulsates and hisses a little.

“It might feel uncomfortable now, but keeping your sprain wrapped helps reduce the swelling,” Urbosa says. Deft hands work the bandage, over and under, again and again. “I get sprains all the time—my wrists, my ankles… It’s become more of a nuisance at this point, but the first one usually hurts the most. Unfortunately, it comes with the job.” She pauses. “I’m sure Link has had his fair share of sprains, too.”

Zelda looks at her knight, still standing by the door. He nods.

“Pamela told me you requested to be brought cool safflina,” Urbosa says. “That’s smart. You usually apply ice on the sprain for the first two to three days to reduce the swelling, and then you apply heat after that to increase blood flow and help it heal naturally.”

“Yes, I—” Zelda wets her lip. “Sir Link told me.”

Urbosa smiles ever so slightly, at that.

One more wrap around Zelda’s wrist, then Urbosa slips the end of the fabric into the bandage to keep it from unfurling. She brings the now-wrapped hand up, examines her handiwork.

“There you go, little bird. Try not to use it a lot for the next few days.”

Zelda nods. “Thank you, Urbosa.”

With that, Urbosa rises and leans against the wall, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Faces both Zelda and her knight.

She means business now, Zelda knows.

“We have to talk about what happened,” Urbosa starts. “Because we will have to make an official report that we must submit to the Council, considering that it was an assassination attempt on the Crown Princess of Hyrule and the only living descendant of the Goddess,” she says. “An assassination attempt that was nearly successful.”

Zelda shudders at assassination and nearly successful, but she swallows and says, “The optics won’t look good. Father—” Gods, she can’t imagine Father’s face upon finding out the truth. “Father would be very angry. The people would lose their faith.” If they hadn’t already lost it. “Father would never let me out ever again. He’d lock me in the castle and assign an entire army at my doors.”

It’s truly sinking in her now—that the hardest part isn’t surviving the blades of the Yiga, but it’s what comes afterward. The consequences of her grave mistake. The realization bites through her mind, wraps around her lungs. Makes it hard to breathe.

It feels like she’s falling onto the sand all over again, a sickle looming above her. “I can’t—” she rasps, “Father—”

At that, Urbosa steps towards her again and kneels before her. Takes Zelda’s hands in hers. “Zelda, your father may be the King, but you are your mother’s daughter. I will always put you first and foremost. Your best interests.”

“But Father will know.” Zelda feels her breath hitch. Looks down at her hands, one bandaged and one bare. The proof of her failure, her powerlessness (in the most literal sense), her stupidity. “He will know that I put myself at risk.”

“Have you learned your lesson?”

Zelda looks up to meet Urbosa’s eyes. “What?”

“Now that you know,” Urbosa says, “have you learned your lesson?”

In the corner of her eye, to the left, her lesson stands still underneath the doorway, brilliant blue and honey blonde.

Zelda swallows. “I have.”

“All right, so that settles it.” Urbosa nods. “You were with your knight in Kara Kara Bazaar, and you saw the fortune teller, and thought that you’d say hello. She led you to the outskirts of the Bazaar, and the other Yiga footsoldiers appeared, and the pursuit ensued. Link stopped them rather quickly.”

Zelda frowns. “But that’s not what happened.”

“It is to the rest of the kingdom,” Urbosa says. “The full truth shall stay in this room between the three of us.” She turns to face the doorway, and Zelda follows her line of sight. “Do you agree, Link?”

There’s a slight crinkle to his eyes, Zelda notices. Something kind, and it makes her ache in shame.

“Of course,” he says softly.

“Good,” Urbosa replies. She rises once again and walks towards the door. Stands next to Link. “I will wait for Pamela and my other women at the hidden entrance. Get some rest, all right, little bird? No more escaping, please.”

Zelda gives her a wry smile. “I will,” she says. “Rest, that is.”

She watches as Urbosa faces her knight and says, “There’s a portable cook pot in my room across the hall—you can use it.” He nods in reply, and Urbosa lays a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of her.”

Link looks up at the Chief. Nods again, a certain solemnity etched in the set of his brows. The perfect soldier, forever, even if his charge doesn’t deserve that kind of perfection at all.

Then Urbosa disappears into the hallway, the heels of her pumps clacking against the metal floor, receding and receding until silence falls over the room, over them once more.

He’s the first to break it, and it makes her head swim.

“I’ll cook some food, Princess,” he says. “Should I leave the door open or closed?”

Zelda inhales and looks into his eyes. Lets all that blue flood her vision, for now, it is the sacred color of her lifeline.

“Open,” she replies, and before she can stop it— “please.”

At sundown, the other Gerudo soldiers arrive, and they all convene on the outer balcony of Naboris. The same balcony that witnessed the butchering carried out by her venomous tongue.

Urbosa lays it all on the table for them, sets the record straight with the truth she, Zelda, and Link concocted together in the small room upstairs. There were no reliable eyewitnesses around the crime scene, and no one would dare to question the Chief’s words anyway.

Contrition takes a hold of Zelda—guilt coiling deep within her gut, because it finally dawns on her that this isn’t a trivial lie that Urbosa will tell Father. It’s her reputation on the line, her diplomatic relationship with the Royal Court that is at risk.

And her knight? He will be committing treason. Perhaps his life isn’t on the line due to his primordial destiny and Goddess-given status as the Chosen Hero, but he could very well lose his knighthood, his prominent rank within the Royal Guard. Be banished to distant outposts or fortresses like Akkala Citadel.

The thought burns through her conscience.

In the midst of it all, Captain Pamela reports that the soldiers have swept through the entirety of Gerudo Town twice over, and have covered most of the desert and found nothing out of the ordinary—no lurking assassins, no undercover fortune tellers.

“Amina will also be ready to take the Princess and her knight back to Gerudo Canyon Stable tomorrow morning,” Captain Pamela says. “Captain Sari and I will join the convoy along with a few other soldiers, just as a precaution.”

“Very well,” Urbosa replies. “I’ll stay here on Naboris tonight, so you all can get some rest after this rather long day, and I’ll also be joining the convoy tomorrow.” The women nod in response. “Sarqso, ladies. You are dismissed.”

The soldiers disperse, heading back into the main chamber to exit through the hidden passageway. Urbosa follows to see them off, and her knight disappears into some hallway, though Zelda tries not to look, to watch.

As she walks inside to return to her small room, Captain Pamela approaches her in the grand cylindrical chamber.

“Your Highness,” the Captain says. Zelda inclines her head in acknowledgment. “I gave your belongings from the guest room and the healing herbs to your knight.”

Zelda smiles. “Thank you for your help, Captain Pamela. I really appreciate it.” She purses her lips. “I truly apologize for everything that happened today. I don’t— I don’t know how I can ever repay you and Chief Urbosa and all the Gerudo soldiers.”

“It’s no problem at all, Princess,” Captain Pamela replies. “The Yiga Clan has always been a thorn in our side. Perhaps we should be the ones to apologize to you for letting that damned fake fortune teller slip through the cracks.” She sighs. “Apparently, she had been camping out at the shopping district for a few weeks, anticipating your visit. And then she waited until you were far enough from your knight.”

Zelda thinks of Madame Katarina’s jet-black hair (if that indeed was her real name), reflecting almost no light even underneath the bright and scorching Gerudo sun. Her gloved hands swaying in the air and hovering above her crystals and cards, her husky voice breathing out lies, promising the discovery of love and a beautiful spirit in the desert.

Zelda knew—and still knows—that that promise had been a lie, but what she didn’t know was just how drastically opposite the truth had been from it.

“Speaking of,” Captain Pamela starts, “I just want to say that— that you’re truly lucky to have Link as your appointed knight, Princess. We always knew that he was, and is, the best swordsman in all of Hyrule, but I don’t think we ever got to see the sheer dedication to his duty on full display until today.”

Her eyes turn distant—perhaps recalling the time when he was just a teenage boy training in the desert, and Zelda finds herself wishing she could step into the Captain’s body and see it for herself. Know him beyond his notable swordsmanship, his knighthood.

But she isn’t Captain Pamela, or Daruk, or Mipha, who all knew him before the Sword. She isn’t Urbosa or Impa, who seem to be able to pry something out of him organically, naturally.

All she has is her own body and her aching mind and her lightless hands.

So she swallows and replies, “I know.”

When they finally part ways, Zelda makes her way back to the room, and finds her knight sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her door, a wooden bowl in his lap and a spoon in his hand, apparently grinding something. Upon noticing her presence, he quickly puts the bowl aside and stands up, bowing his head.

Zelda wants to scream, wants to shake him by the shoulders. Wants to tell him, you don’t ever have to bow or kneel for me again, if indeed you ever had to.

But the words die on her tongue, dissipate. She looks down at the bowl and asks, “Are you making a poultice?”

He nods.

“Oh.” She frowns. “Are you injured, too?”

“No, I—” he shakes his head. “It’s for your wrist, Princess.”

“Oh.” Goddess, where has her arsenal of vocabulary gone today? “Thank you.”

He nods again, and she finally steps into her room and closes the door behind her this time. She finds everything to be in place, although the oil lanterns are now lit up, the bowl of rubies are glowing again and emanating heat, and the rest of her belongings from the guest room back in Gerudo Town are laid neatly by the wall—scrolls containing Naboris’ schematics, her clothes, her hairbrush.

There’s already a plate of mushroom skewers, too—leftover from lunch—laid on the floor next to the mattress. She takes the plate with her good hand, places it atop the mattress and touches the food with her fingertips. It’s warm, reheated.

She takes a bite, lets the spice simmer in her mouth before it leaves a trail of warmth from her throat, down into her stomach. Then she realizes that the skewers weren’t spicy earlier today, and that he must have drizzled some spicy elixir on them just now to ensure that she would be well prepared for the chill of the desert night, and suddenly her cheekbones sting and her eyes well up and she finds herself eating while trying to hold her tears at bay.

With all the mushrooms eaten, she brings the dirty plate outside into the hallway.

He’s still sitting there and immediately rises once again, and it makes her want to cry even more, but she fights it all off. Smiles at him instead.

“Drizzling spicy elixir on food,” Zelda starts. “I never thought of that. I was never particularly fond of the taste of spicy elixirs, but somehow you made it delicious.” She draws a breath then lets it slide off her tongue—intentional, honest— “Thank you, Sir Link.”

“You’re welcome, Princess,” he replies. He takes the dirty plate from her, then hands the bowl of poultice to her. She brings the bowl to her nose, smelling the aromatics.

“Cool safflina…” She sniffs again. “Ginger, and…”

“Turmeric and oil.”

She cradles the bowl tightly in her hands. “How should I put it on?”

“You can apply it on the area of injury, Princess,” he says. “And then wrap it with the bandage again. I can h—” he draws his breath, loud within the quiet hallway, “I can send for the Chief to help you with it if you wish.”

Trying to wrap a bandage with one hand sounds like a difficult challenge, but she can’t possibly ask for more help from anyone. Not after what has transpired today.

“It’s all right,” Zelda replies. The tip of her tongue burns—not necessarily from the spicy mushrooms. She pushes it against the back of her teeth, wills that burn away. “I can apply it myself. And then I shall retire for the night.”

He inclines his head. She presses her lips together.

There’s a weight sitting atop her chest that makes it hard to breathe and a voice that chants and chants in her head—coward, coward, coward—but she manages to say, “Good night, Sir Link.”

He meets her gaze. Eyes still blazing blue even in the dim lighting of the hallway.

She’s half convinced they’re another source of light in themselves.

“Good night, Princess.”

Exhaustion comes and goes—brushes the edges of her wakefulness, but not enough to send her to sleep.

Her boots are off, though the rest of her outfit is still on. She’s certain some of the sand from where she almost lost her life still dusts the cuffs of her pants, but she pays no mind to it—undressing is too much work with her injured hand.

Part of her also thinks that she deserves to have the reminder, somehow.

The bowl of poultice still lies on the floor, untouched. She knows she won’t be able to rewrap the bandage without another person’s help, and she’s simply biding time until she’s ready to eat more crow.

Because there are words that must be said, she knows. She’s said it to Urbosa, even said it to Captain Pamela, but there’s one more person who deserves to hear it more than anyone else, and that person is stationed right outside her door, quiet and steadfast.

But she’s never been the brave one, and her tongue feels like lead, so she takes her journal from her traveling pack. The private one that rarely sees the light of day, where she bleeds and pours all her ache into.

She unties the leather-bound and hastily flips through the pages. Whereas she reads the entries in her field journal over and over again, revisits them and refers to them whenever possible—she doesn’t dare to reread the previous entries in her diary.

The thoughts inked into this particular book are hers and hers alone, meant for the parchment within the folded flap of worn calfskin, for a specific moment in time. Thoughts that she’s shelved for later examination although she knows deep down that she’d never retrieve them for further inspection, because she simply fears the results more than anything.

And now is no different.

Her sprained wrist continues to hurt, but she disregards it and the bowl of poultice and the bandage that now starts to loosen around her left hand. She holds the book steady in her lap, and the tip of the quill hovers above the parchment for ages before the remnants of today finally metabolize into written sentences.

…He saved me. Without a thought for his own life, he protected me from the ruthless blades of the Yiga Clan…

In the end, all she’s written are words that should have been breathed into life by her vocal cords.

But still, she waits. Looks at the door, then looks away.

She returns the quill and inkwell in their wooden box, and ties her journal before putting it back into her pack—where the words will settle and fade into the darkness of the canvas.

With a sigh, she lays herself down on the mattress. Stares at the grooves carved into the ceiling, akin to those she has seen on the other Beasts, on the other Sheikah relics. Her eyes follow the swirling design, tries to let them lull her to sleep.

When that proves futile, she gives up and takes the Slate from her pack, and checks the time. 23:02.

Her mind continues to rage with a million thoughts, though they simply stream too fast for her to make anything out of them. Her left wrist, too, continues to rage. She ignores them until the words on the Slate’s screen blur in her eyes, until the minutes bleed into the next into the next.

Eventually, as the pain refuses to cease, something blooms slow in her. Takes hold of her legs, her spine, so they move until she sits upright.

She stares at the ceiling once more, and imagines her gaze piercing through the layers of ancient metal and prays. For what, she doesn’t really know, but it matters not at the end, because now she’s standing up and her good hand is reaching for the doorknob.

A breath drawn, then she turns it. Swings it open.

He’s already on his feet, a question in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I—” Come on, you can do it. You can form words. “I don’t think I can apply the poultice myself, what with the bandage and everything…” She paws at her hair. Tries her best to smile. “Would you kindly help me with it, Sir Link?”

“Of course, Princess.”

She opens the door wider and cranes her head to the side, beckoning for him to enter. She sits cross-legged by the edge of the mattress again, and watches as he crosses the threshold, the Sword in his hand. One step, two steps. Then carefully leans the Sword on the wall, by the door.

Such tentative movements coming from the best swordsman in the entire kingdom.

“Should I leave the door open or closed?” he asks, not for the first time today.

Her answer, however, is different. “You can— you can close it. Thank you.”

The moment the latch clicks into place and the door is fully closed, the quietness multiplies in its intensity, so much that she can hear the pulse that batters in her ribcage.

Her tongue continues to feel like lead, so she merely extends her left arm outward, gingerly, timidly—offering her hand.

Courage, she thinks. I was praying for courage earlier. I need courage now.

He descends and sits on his ankles, his clothed knees ghosting against hers. His hands do not waver nor tremble as they reach for her left one, and her addled mind wonders how those hands could truly be the same hands that she had held earlier today.

The lead is removed from her tongue, replaced by a thousand different questions—Why did you break? What made you break? Why are you still here?—so she takes it between her teeth and bites. Begs it to stay still.

He drags the bowl closer, takes a pinch of the poultice, and slathers it onto her wrist. It immediately cools upon contact with her skin, slowly drowning out the sharp edge of the pain. Through the herbal paste she feels the pads of his fingers, hardened and somehow familiar—though she doesn’t want to remember how or why—and they chip and chip away at her hesitance until all that’s left is remorse.

When it bursts past her lips, it does so quietly.

“I really do not know where to begin,” she starts. Pinches her eyes shut. Inhales, exhales. Opens her eyes to find his still gazing at her hand, though his fingers have stilled. “There’s so much I want to say—” So much I want to ask you, so much I want to know, “—but above all, I want to apologize.”

At that, he tilts his head up and meets her eyes.

The kindness in those sapphires knifes at her heart.

“I have acted so horribly to you, sprayed so much vitriol at you, even though you were only trying to do your job.” Shame grows viscous in her mouth, nearly barring her from speaking further, but she fights through it. “You didn’t deserve that, you never did. So I’m sorry,” she says.

Though the hardest part—his reaction—is still impending, a certain lightness starts to alight on her.

So she breathes it into life once more. “I am truly, truly sorry, Sir Link.”

A beat, then he shakes his head. It’s so subtle, but his face is closer than it has ever been so she sees it—the hint of a smile on those lips that usually stay sealed. “There’s no need to apologize, Princess.”

Zelda frowns. “But I do. Gods, I do have to. It’s the least I could do, after, after…”

“It’s okay,” he says softly, then casts his gaze downwards again. Starts to wrap the bandage around her wrist. Over, under, then in between her thumb and forefinger. Again and again, over and over. Wrapping tightly, keeping her wrist compressed.

Keeping her together.

“It’s not—” she sighs, “It’s not okay. You saved me. You’ve risked your life for me, even though I explicitly told you that I want—wanted—nothing more to do with you.”

“It’s all right,” he says again, and she tries not to curl her hands into fists in frustration, because he’s holding one of them and is now tying the bandage.

“Please.” Her voice crackles, and he looks up at her again. “Out there, in the desert, you must understand— I thought I was going to meet my death. And I had… I had given up. I looked away and shut my eyes and prayed…” she bites her lip, holds herself back from reciting that desperate prayer—may Your beloved and his Sword be enough to vanquish the darkness— “I prayed. And I thought no one was going to come for me. But there you were,” she whispers. “There you were.”

At last, the bandage is wrapped neatly around her left wrist, the poultice cool and moist and comforting against her skin.

His work is done, but she doesn’t let him go. Keeps his hands on her lap.

“So allow me to apologize, please. And though I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” or your kindness or your protection or your perfection, “I shall… I shall hope for it.”

Something flashes through his eyes, indecipherable, untranslatable, and she wonders if she’ll ever find a guidebook to help her with him. Wonders if he'll ever allow her the privilege of learning the language.

But then his lips curve into a smile—a real smile, wide enough to dimple his cheeks and crinkle the corners of his eyes, and that she understands, and it’s so very human and vulnerable that it hits her like lightning.

“I forgive you, Princess,” Link says. In her hold, his fingers flex slightly. “I still don’t think you need to apologize, but of course, I forgive you.” He pauses, and she watches his throat bob in the lamplight. “And I’m sorry, too.”

“Goddesses, for what?”

At that, his lips close again, clearly holding back his tongue from uttering more words, and she nearly begs—please we are so close just talk to me talk to me—but she can only wait. She can only take what he wants to give her.

Eventually, he gives it to her.

“My silence,” he says quietly. “My… reticence. It can’t have been easy on you.”

Oh, she can’t keep it dammed anymore—her face twists and twists and tears finally spill from her eyes, rolls down her cheeks. Tries to stifle her sobs but to no avail. She holds on to his hands just like she did when he had just saved her life—tightly, urgently—but this time, his hands do not tremble; they’re just as firm as hers and they’re holding onto her, too.

Link’s smile falters a little, downturned with concern. “It wasn’t my intention to make you cry, Princess.”

Zelda half-sobs and half-laughs, grace and regality be damned, because for the first time in ages, she feels seen.

And this time, she’s seen by none other than Hylia’s Chosen.

Zelda shakes her head in mirth. “Sir Link, I have shed many tears in my life.” She sniffles. “Trust me when I say that these are the ones I’m glad to have shed.” She watches as some of those tears fall to her lap, onto the fabric of his gloves. Gloves that cover his holy hands.

Hands that have killed for her.

Suddenly, a peculiar thought percolates through her brain—that instead of kissing the feet of those Goddess statues, she should be kissing these hands instead, because this is surely as close as she could ever possibly get to Hylia. Because Hylia has never listened to Her descendant, but to him—

Well, he is Her beloved, after all.

The thought is still there, but she does not act on it, does not bend down to place her lips upon his bare fingers.

Her thumbs brush over them instead. Imagines them painted in red with someone else’s blood.

“Was that—” Zelda starts, looking up to meet his gaze once more, “was that the first time you ever… well, aside from all the monsters—was that the first time you…”

“It was,” he replies. Quiet.

She swallows. “Does that— does that bother you?”

There’s a stretch of quietness, and she focuses on the soft constant hum of Naboris’ machines, and prays that she didn’t just prod at the wrong place and have the door shut in her face.

But then his hands tighten around hers ever so slightly and he answers, “No, Princess. I simply did what must be done.”

There’s that incipient frustration creeping up on her again, because she’s heard this many times before. Heard it through his conversation with Impa at the castle gallery—‘I just do whatever I’m put here to do.’ Heard it through his silence, his impassiveness.

She wants to know what lurks behind that veneer of fealty. Wants to ease those cogwheels out of his brain and inspect them. Wants to ask: No, really, what went through your head as you drove your holy blade into the assassin’s heart?

But she crushes that frustration and those wants, for she can’t ask more of him. For he has done more than she could ever deserve.

So she wets her bottom lip and whispers, “How can I ever repay you, Sir Link?”

There’s a slight twist between his brows that signals amusement, almost. Like she just asked him something completely absurd. “You don’t ever have to repay me, Princess.”

Zelda sighs audibly. “Please.”

A pause.

“Maybe don’t run away again?” He smiles wryly.

A laugh bursts out of her, tearful, broken. Amidst the sound, she hears his, too—quieter and lower but existent nonetheless. It fills the small room, pushes at the metal walls, threatening to escape through the weak points within the architecture and into the wild world outside.

The laughter subsides, and all that’s left is them, in the heart of an ancient mechanical beast. Hands still in each other’s hold. Blues meeting greens.

At last, she loosens her grip and lets him go. Her hands are warm from the touch and that warmth renders the cooling poultice underneath the bandage nearly useless, but she pays no mind to it.

On the wall next to the door, the Sword still stands, the ornate scabbard gleaming from the lamplight. A cruel reminder of the lack of light within her, but she pays no mind to it either.

(Or at least tries to.)

Link rises, takes the Sword, and turns to face her one more time. Smiles at her.

“Good night, Princess.”

Her heart swells and swells and swells, up to her throat, her tongue. The aftertaste is a name with four letters. No title, no nothing—

“Good night, Link.”

In front of the Gerudo Desert Gateway, Zelda disembarks the sand seal cart. She thanks Amina for helping her traverse across the desert throughout the week. After that, she thanks Captain Pamela once more, thanks Captain Sari, and does her best to shake hands with all the other Gerudo soldiers until her right hand starts to tire from the gesture.

She walks toward the stable, where she can already see Ares and Epona waiting for them, bobbing their heads underneath the canopy of their paddock. Urbosa and Link follow behind her.

As Link stows their traveling packs onto their steeds, Zelda stands near the fences and watches as Urbosa approaches her.

“Was your visit to Gerudo Town and Naboris everything that you hoped for?”

Zelda laughs, dry. “Honestly? I could have done without the assassination attempt.”

But somehow, somehow—

“You don’t need to tell me.” Urbosa smiles. “I know.”

Oh, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? Urbosa knew even before Zelda managed to truly open her eyes.

She’ll pry it out of the woman, one day. Over a pint of voltfruit wine, perhaps—

Goddess, she’s forgotten about finally trying out voltfruit wine, too. Forgotten about checking out more stands in the shopping district, to try out the famous spa at Hotel Oasis. But in the middle of the things she didn’t get to do, she broke and raged and survived and hoped and opened.

Found something and, in turn, was found.

So she counts her blessings, lets her time in the desert come to a close, and steps forward to wrap her arms around Urbosa, though she’s careful not to strain her left wrist too much as she does so.

Urbosa kisses the top of her head. “Take care, little bird,” she whispers. “I love you.” She pauses. “We all do.”

Zelda smiles back at her, fighting tears again. Thinks of Urbosa, of Mother—of their unconditional love.

Thinks of Link and his kindness and his steadfastness, even if those things were born out of duty.

“I love you, too,” Zelda replies.

With that, she walks back to the paddock, stands next to Ares. Wordlessly, Link comes to her and offers his hand. She takes it, holds it tight as she hoists herself up and mounts her horse.

“Let’s ride slowly,” she tells him. “My left wrist is still killing me, unfortunately.”

He inclines his head in agreement.

Before mounting Epona, Zelda hears Urbosa call out his name.

So he makes a beeline to the Chief and talks to her. There are some words exchanged, though Zelda can only hear indistinct murmurs, very much to her chagrin. A few more seconds, then he nods. And again, just like in Naboris, Urbosa lays her hand on his shoulder. There’s a hint of warmth in her eyes, akin to that Zelda had seen in Captain Pamela’s eyes when she talked about her daughter, a few days ago at the canteen.

At last, he returns to Epona. Hooks his foot in the stirrup and climbs her with ease.

Zelda taps her feet against Ares’ flanks, and then it’s onwards. Exiting the stable, back onto the winding path through Gerudo Canyon, northbound towards Central Hyrule.

For the first few meters or so, Link rides behind her. Not twenty paces away, not anymore—but regardless, it’s still too far. So she slows down and looks over her shoulder. Looks at him. Cranes her head and not-tells him:

Be beside me, please.

Slowly, he catches up to her, and Ares and Epona whinny together when they are finally within each other’s vision, as if rejoicing the lack of distance between them.

They continue forth.

Throughout their long journey back home, her left wrist continues to smart; a souvenir from the desert.

However, she can see a blur of blue and honey blonde in her periphery, and that, too, is a souvenir from the desert. One that she never thought she’d bring home, never thought she’d want to bring home—

But now that she has it, she wonders how she even lived without it at all.

Chapter Text

In Hyrule, rumors and whispers spread like wildfire—fast. Absorbed by one ear, then immediately passed on to another—again and again until it echoes throughout the land.

And whispers about members of the Royal Family are the most flammable of them all.

So it’s no surprise that the eyes that linger on the main roads of Castle Town immediately frown upon the sight of the Crown Princess on horseback, returning from her month-long expedition.

‘How did she survive?’ they ask. ‘If she knows any better, she’d never leave the castle!’

More whispers. ‘If she’s dead, we’re all damned.’

‘Thank the Three for the Hero—she’s nothing without him.’

‘She doesn’t deserve him as her knight.’

The murmurs fill up her ears, settle like a boulder on the base of her brain, its phantom weight almost sending a real ache in her neck. Still, she keeps her chin up high, spine straight, eyes on the horizon—exudes confidence and poise, even if her insides are rather brittle.

These words are nothing compared to what Father would eventually spit at her, she tells herself. It’s nothing that she hasn’t heard a thousand times over, either.

But despite the divine blood coursing through her veins, she is still human—so terribly human—and boulders are heavy no matter what, so she turns her head to the right to look at the Hero in question.

Link, too, has his chin up high. Blank-faced. And Zelda tries to seek his gaze, somehow—find some kind of resonance or even something as simple as a knowing look in those blue eyes, though she quickly chides herself for such a thought.

Those words that jab at her—they have some truth to them. She’ll have to earn that look.

Has to repay him, even if he insists that there’s no need to.

So Zelda settles for staring at his hands—the hands that have quietly tended to her sprain for the past six days—which seem to be clenching the reins with great force, like he’s bracing for something. If she were to take those fingerless gloves off of him, she’s sure she’d reveal two white-knuckled hands.

In her mind, she takes note of this observation—the jarring contrast of his vacant visage and his fists—and saves it for later analysis. Perhaps she’d be able to decode this discrepancy one day, once she has gathered enough data on him.

Because, if there’s another thing that she learned from her time in the desert, it’s that he’s not empty inside. In fact, far from it.

She just needs to learn the language of him.

Thankfully, zeroing her attention onto his hands serves as an effective distraction from the tattling of the residents, and in no time, they’re crossing the moat once more, catching the stricken expressions of the men who stand guard at the castle’s entrance.

None of them say anything; merely look at her in pity, then look at Link in reverence.

Again, she watches her knight’s hands. Refuses to meet the eyes of any staff member of the castle until they arrive at the paddock, until he offers his palm to her again to dismount her stallion.

Zelda looks him in the eye. Finds nothing there.

She takes his hand and thanks him anyway.

In the castle, he restores the norm of walking five paces behind her, and it is then that she finally feels the full force of dread that simmers low in her belly. It climbs and burns its way up her throat as she ascends the myriad of staircases, and comes to a boiling point the moment her eyes finally lay upon the double doors leading to Father’s drawing room.

Behind those doors, judgment awaits. Castigation awaits.

It’s better to get it over with, Zelda thinks, but there’s a weight in her hands, barring her from raising them and lifting the door-knocker. And she finds that her feet are the heaviest of them all—weighed down by dunes upon dunes upon dunes, by the sand dust that still dirties the cuffs of her pants.

Her head, however, moves out of her own volition; she looks over her shoulder to find her knight standing at attention, with not a single wrinkle or knit etched into his face—unflinching even as he’s on his way to lie to the King he serves.

He doesn’t move but finally—oh thank Goddess, finally—he shifts his glance to meet her eyes, and she swears she can see it—the soft meat behind the tough veneer, because he nods his head as if to say:

I’m right here.

She feels her lips curve into a smile—small, trembling from nerves—but it’s there, for what it’s worth.

So she sets her eyes on the brass knocker, raises her hand to lift it. Taps it against the wooden surface.

Father’s voice booms from behind the doors: “Come in!”

Zelda pushes them open, the creak emitted by the hinges is almost as loud as the pounding of her heart.

Father is sitting down and unsmiling; there’s a knit in between his brows. Impa is stationed not far from his left, sheets of parchment in her arms, her crimson gaze laced with half-concern, half-pity.

The wildfire has spread to his ears, too, then.

Behind her, she hears the soft thud against the carpet—Link dropping to the floor to kneel. It knifes through her mind because he shouldn’t have to kneel before anyone, especially not after what he’s done for her, but the full extent of his valiance shall stay within the four walls of that small room inside Vah Naboris, so Zelda says nothing and faces Father head-on.

“Daughter,” Father starts, his voice unusually small. “Are you all right?”

Her left wrist continues to throb. She merely nods.

“Well then,” Father replies, the hint of concern quickly replaced by something cold and familiar. “I would like you to tell me exactly what happened.”

With a deep painful breath that inflates her lungs, she does.

She tells him that there was a Hylian fortune teller in the shopping district of Gerudo Town that she had talked to. And on the second to last day of her stay in the desert, she had been at Kara Kara Bazaar, accompanied by Sir Link, and was accosted by said fortune teller once more. She was lured out of the crowd into a clearing not far from the bazaar, where two other Yiga footsoldiers appeared. Sir Link dispatched the assassin fairly quickly, and the others disappeared in cowardice.

Once she’s done with her monologue, she steels herself for Father’s voice. Anticipates some kind of reprimand, a scolding for being so gullible and stupid enough to be lured by a stranger.

But what comes out of his mouth is much worse.

“And when your life was in peril… you did not feel anything?” Father asks, and Zelda understands that he does not mean the feeling of fear or helplessness, or that mighty relief when she laid her eyes upon the scabbard on her knight’s back.

“No, Father,” Zelda replies quietly. She refuses to look at him and resorts to setting her eyes on Impa, on the slight frown that starts to unfurl across the woman’s face.

A loud exhale leaves Father and he says, “Well, be that as it may, thankfully, you are safe and sound now. And this is a sign for us to strengthen our military presence in areas where the Yiga are most active.” He looks past Zelda, to the kneeling figure behind her. “Sir Link, please—you do not need to kneel.”

Finally, something we both can agree on.

She hears the shuffling of boots, and fights herself from turning back to look at her knight again.

“You have done well, saving the Princess just in time,” Father says, a certain fondness in his eyes. Such a rare sight; reserved for those he thinks are worthy of it. And she knows that Link deserves all the extolment and exaltation the King could possibly offer, but she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t hope for at least just an ounce of that praise. A morsel of that pride.

She finds herself hoping for that from Hylia, too.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Link replies.

“Now you know not to stray far from your knight, Zelda.” Father looks at her pointedly, as if she didn’t learn the bitter lesson herself. As if she didn’t hold on to his hands and begged the Three to give her another chance at being his charge.

“I know,” Zelda says quietly.

“I also hope that you know the weight of your life, and what can happen if anything should happen to you.”

“I know.” Her voice turns reedy. She clenches her fists at her sides and strains the muscles, lets the sharp pain that shoots from her left wrist distract her from the tears that start to pool in her eyes.

There’s a beat of silence, of Father scrutinizing her face to search for whatever it is that he’s looking for. Acceptance, perhaps—or concession.

When he finds it, he nods. “All right. I shall raise the subject during the Council meeting tomorrow,” he says. “Thank you, everyone. You are all dismissed.”

Zelda sees Impa bow at Father, then turns around to see Link doing the same, but she simply walks past and leaves the room with all the heartache in her mouth.

Once Impa and Link follow suit and those wretched double doors are finally closed again, Zelda takes a deep breath, balloons her lungs until her tight blouse strains against her chest. Hopes that the breath she exhales releases some of that heartache.

It doesn’t. So she sets her gaze on Link once more, tries with all her might to find the boy she had spent the last six days journeying with—the silent warmth that accompanied her through the desert and the canyon and the fields and every stretch of land in between.

She catches it in the soft curve of his eyes, the genial set of his brows, so she asks, “I guess you’d be returning to the barracks, then?”

“Yes, Princess.”

“Well, then I hope you have a good rest,” she says, lips trembling into a smile. “Thank you, Sir Link.”

He doesn’t reply to that, but he bows his head, his eyes fluttering shut as he does so—his long lashes fanning against the sunburnt skin of his cheeks. It’s not a kneel, but there’s veneration in the gesture that makes her burn in shame again because she does not deserve that kind of veneration from anyone, let alone from him.

Impa stands near the walls, confusion and suspicion carved into the slight squint of her eyes, and, well—the drastic change in atmosphere must’ve surprised her, for sure.

Zelda squares her shoulders. “Impa, walk with me to my chambers?”

The Sheikah nods, and they get away from Father’s doors and make their way toward the staircase leading to her private tower. Once inside her apartment, she leads Impa further into her quarters until they’re well within the four walls of her bedchamber.

Impa simply waits, anticipating.

Zelda purses her lips. Feigns obliviousness. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

At that, Impa smirks. “Come on, Princess. We’ve been friends for a while—I’d like to think I know you quite well,” she says. “Two weeks or so ago, you wouldn’t even acknowledge him by name. But now you’re smiling at him and bidding him good night.”

“He saved my life,” Zelda replies. It’s the truth, after all.

“He also saved your life two months ago, from that rogue Guardian. And that did nothing to warm you up to him,” Impa says. “Princess, you know you could always confide in me, right? I will keep my lips sealed for you, always.”

“I know,” Zelda says. “But you cannot let anyone else know, Impa— not even Purah. There are reputations and positions on the line, and I— I cannot let them down.” Her voice almost breaks, remembering the look on Urbosa’s face when she resolved to uphold the grand lie. Remembering Link’s solemn ‘of course’. “And when I am done telling the truth to you, you would be implicated in it, too. You would be guilty of keeping the truth from your sovereign.”

“Sure.” Impa shrugs. “But the Sheikah have always served the bloodline, Princess, not the sovereign. I could not care much if I were to lie to the King to better protect the Princess.”

Zelda shuts her eyes. Presses her lips. So it’s Urbosa, Link, and soon, Impa, too.

“All right, then.”

And with that, she tells her friend the truth. Tells her of the fallout in Tabantha and the silent journey to Gerudo Town. The venom she had spat at him on the balcony of Naboris. The hidden passageway in the Divine Beast that she had abused to escape his watch. The moments in the barrens that she had spent alone, braving through the sandstorm, lost, only to be found by the fortune teller before running for her life. The Hero, his Sword stained red, standing before her.

She doesn’t tell Impa about what comes after that, however—at least not in detail. Nothing about him dropping to his knees, his faltering voice that shook the earth. Nothing about holding on to his hands in her room in Naboris, about her tears that had fallen onto his bare fingers.

That, she will keep to herself, to be remembered and overthought and consumed by her and only her.

At the end of it all, Impa turns speechless for a good long while before she mutters, “Those sickle-carrying bastards.”

Zelda huffs a laugh. Grateful that her friend doesn’t attempt to elicit more than what she can offer. And there’s a certain strange freedom in voicing the truth outside of that room in Naboris—to let it chime in her bedchamber, too.

“Those sickle-carrying bastards, indeed.” Zelda smiles grimly.

The days begin to bleed into the other.

Everyday, rinse and repeat. A blur of gray, all the time—the old tomes that her tutors insist on her reading and memorizing, the Goddess statue at the chapel.

Zelda does little else except obey the schedule Father has set for her. Patiently waits for Impa or Purah to approach her and tell her that there’s more research to be done, new findings to be analyzed.

But sometimes, something warm and vibrant and full breaks through all the murk. Wheat blonde, down at the training yard next to the walkway leading to the chapel, in the hallway after Father’s weekly audience with members of the Royal Guard. Glimpses of his face—impassive and placid just like before. Wrapped in the standard Royal Guard uniform—the blue tunic she had stitched for him nowhere to be found, which sends a little pang in her chest.

She tamps that pang down. Prays and studies some more.

She hasn’t talked to him ever since they parted ways in front of Father’s drawing room a week and a half ago. And amidst the monotony of her daily routine, as she finds herself waist-deep in spring water yet again and more gray floods her vision—she thinks of him and the Gerudo sun and the crown of sunlight upon his hair.

At the end of the day, that’s all she has, really—imagination and remembrance to keep her going and push her through the chill, through the gloom.

Only when Purah sits in her drawing room do colors begin to trickle back into her day—the beiges and reds of the scientist’s traditional robe catching the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows.

Zelda sits across from her on the velvet sofa, fingers clasped tightly on her lap. Tries to hide her excitement and relief as Purah gives her a new assignment: another shrine to be researched, this time not far from the Military Training Camp.

“Why this shrine in particular?” Zelda asks, though frankly, she’d accept any assignment from Purah at this point. Din, she’d even go searching for shrines amidst the snow in the Tabantha Tundra if it meant venturing out of the castle.

“If the ancient texts we have been perusing are correct, the shrine next to Pico Pond seems to be the first shrine ever built by our ancestors, ten thousand years ago,” Purah replies. “Perhaps, the way to activate them is if we were to interact with the shrines in the order that they were built.” Her fingers trace the rim of her teacup. “Again, I can’t guarantee that this would be fruitful, but—”

“Say no more, Purah.” Zelda smiles at her, that familiar thrill already sparking through her fingers, itching to hold the Slate, itching for the outside. “I shall head to Pico Pond tomorrow.”

The next morning, the castle stable is almost a stark silhouette against the red dawn of the sky, casting warmth over the gray and damp cobblestones, but it isn’t until Zelda lays her eyes upon the blue that awaits beneath the roof of the paddock that all colors and vibrance and fluorescence finally erupt, rushing into her jaded vision.

She makes her way there, wrapped in her royal brown riding coat, Nora faithfully following behind her and carrying her traveling pack. Sees her knight fastening the various leather straps around her white stallion—all royal purple and shiny gold compared to the plain, dark saddle that’s already secured around his mare.

A greeting brews on the tip of her tongue, and she lets it slip softly.

“Good morning,” Zelda says, smiling. Link immediately stops his ongoing task and turns to politely bow to her.

And that’s all there is to the gesture—politeness.

It’s chilly out here, but something inside her quickly catches fire. Perhaps a week and a half were enough to revert him to the complete marble statue he once was. Perhaps during those days, he reassessed everything and concluded that she didn’t deserve his forgiveness—

“Good morning, Princess.” His small voice interrupts her careening thoughts. There’s no smile on his lips, but there’s something kind about the corners of his eyes, and it cleaves through the storm in her mind. Relief sprouting through the fissure.

She exhales before saying, “Ready for the journey to Pico Pond?”

“Yes, Princess.” Their eyes lock, and she finds herself wanting to say something—to let the conversation stretch—so she parts her lips in hopes that more words will come out of her mouth, but nothing does. His brows rise, anticipating her response, but still, her mind remains blank.

Eventually, his shoulders slump ever so slightly, and he says, “I— I should finish tacking up Ares.”

Zelda’s toes curl in her boots. She clears her throat. “Yes, of course.”

Once Ares is all dressed and ready, Nora steps forward with the traveling pack and proffers it to Link. He takes it, mutters a ‘thank you’, and Zelda watches as those nimble fingers fasten the bag to the saddle, as he tugs at the straps to make sure that it’s secured properly onto Ares.

When he’s finished and walks away to do the same to Epona’s saddle, Zelda walks up to her steed, hooks her left foot in the stirrup and hoists herself up, and almost loses her balance from surprise when she hears the rush of hurried footfalls and her knight suddenly appears behind her.

“Princess, your wrist—”

Zelda swings her right leg to press it against Ares’ right flank, foot into the other stirrup as she replies, “Oh! Don’t worry about it.” She drops her backside and settles in the saddle. “It has healed quite nicely, actually.” She lifts her left hand, pulls at the sleeve to reveal her bare wrist, and curls her fingers into a fist. No more swelling, no more bruising. “See?”

His blues stay glued on the skin of her wrist for a while. A few seconds more pass, and then he exhales audibly and nods. Leaves her side to mount Epona.

And with that, they head toward the castle gates, and Zelda has to ignore the unease that rattles inside her when he and his mare don’t appear in her periphery, when all she can hear is Epona’s slow clops against the cobblestones as he trails behind her.

It stays that way as they ride past the crowded streets of East Castle Town, as they exit beneath the stone archway next to the watchtower, and it isn’t until they’re hundreds of meters away from the stonewalls that line the outer perimeter of Castle Town that Link finally catches up to her side, both their horses steadily trotting together.

And just like that, that unease stops its rattling, then shrivels. The remnants of it expelled into the brisk morning air as she exhales, exhales, exhales.

This isn’t the first time they’ve traveled this route; a month or so ago, they were crossing Boneyard Bridge, cutting through Hyrule Forest Park to make their way to Eldin. But the landscape that stretches ahead and around them now appears different—brighter. As if things finally start to come alive now, despite the fact that it’s the middle of autumn and the air is drier and the greeneries have started to wither and die.

The difference doesn’t only lie in the landscape, Zelda knows; it’s in her, too. It’s in the way the knots in her shoulders seem to loosen and melt away the further she is from the castle. It’s in the disappearance of that heavy resentment she used to harbor towards the man now riding alongside her; in its absence, something else grows. Not lightness—there’ll always be mountains upon mountains on her back that she’ll never be able to shed so long as the Calamity looms overhead—but something heartening nonetheless.

She wonders if he feels the same way. Wonders whether the outside comforts him, too.

So, as they cross Helmhead Bridge, she calls out, “Sir Link?”

He turns to face her way in the span of a wingbeat—always at the ready.

“I think it’s better if we set up camp tonight, after the shrine,” she says. “I guess we can make it back to the castle tonight, but we probably won’t be able to get home until midnight, and I’d hate to fall asleep on horseback.”

He nods in agreement.

“Do you know a good spot to set up camp near Pico Pond?”

Her honest and direct question seems to have fazed him, like he’s genuinely surprised that she wants to know his opinion, and it makes her ache with guilt. But then the look of surprise makes way to thoughtfulness, and he diverts his gaze from her to stare at the road ahead, seriously considering the answer to her question.

A few meters pass, then Link replies, “It’s very close to Minshi Woods. The southernmost point of the forest should be a good place to pitch a tent there.” He pauses. “It’s pretty safe, too. The Military Training Camp is only a few miles north from there.”

“Ah, that’s great.” Zelda smiles. Again, that itch on her tongue persists, the indescribable want to draw out their fleeting conversation, so she continues, “Is that why you’re familiar with the area, then? I suppose you must’ve trained at the camp a lot when you were a squire.”

At that, his lips press into a thin line, and she knows that look—the sudden filling of the cracks through the walls, the withholding of thoughts—so she must’ve plucked a string that shouldn’t have been plucked.

Silence falls, and its familiarity is painful.

Fool, Zelda tells herself. Foolish girl. Poking and prodding like that.

So she stays quiet the rest of the way. Gently holds her tongue between her teeth. Clenches at the reins, hard. Heaviness creeping its way back to her.

Suddenly, things don’t seem as bright out here anymore.

It’s well in the afternoon when they finally reach the spot that Link told her about, where the main path branches out into different directions, and Pico Pond awaits just on the other side of the clearing. They dismount at the mouth of Minshi Woods, and she hands the reins to him so he can hitch both their steeds onto a tree. She quietly excuses herself to hide behind some tall bramble nearby to relieve herself, and when she returns, the tent is already erected, and the campsite is all set.

It falls from her lips before she could thoroughly calculate it—

“You’re always so quick with setting up camp. It’s impressive.”

There’s a short pause that stretches for eternity, and Zelda is half of a mind to run towards the pond right now and fling herself into the cold water to sober herself up until Link finally speaks again ever since her mishap on the way here:

“Thank you, Princess.”

There’s some semblance of warmth in his tone, and Zelda thanks the Three for giving her another chance. Promises not to pry into him anymore.

So they sit opposite from each other, on two separate logs, and Zelda opens her wooden lunchbox to find four fried rice balls. She takes a bite, and finds the center filled with sautéed mushrooms. It’s plain, but it’s one of her favorites—not for the taste, but for its simplicity; it’s quick and easy enough to eat—an efficient and convenient fuel for her body.

After three pieces, her belly feels adequately filled, and she looks up to find Link chewing through his last reserve of jerky (Goddess, are knights damned to always eating jerkies on the road?), so she musters up all her courage, holds the wooden box and extends her arm his way.

“I’m quite full,” she tells him. He looks up from the jerky in his hand. “You should have the last one.”

He wags his head. “It’s for you, Princess.”

Zelda swallows, and tries again. “It won’t stay fresh for too long—I’d hate to waste it.”

Link blinks once, twice—something flickering through those blues that she can’t quite put her finger on—but then he relents and finally takes the container from her.

“Thank you, Princess.”

She replies with a nod, and watches as he stuffs the rice ball—oh Goddess the entire thing—in his mouth, and fails to keep the amused grin from breaking across her face.

He stops chewing. Raises his brows in alarm.

“I’m sorry.” A breath of a laugh escapes her. “It’s just… you seem very hungry.”

He continues to chew. She sees his throat bob as he swallows his food before he clears his throat and replies, “Apologies, Princess.”

“What—” Zelda shakes her head. “Don’t apologize, please. It’s all right.”

In fact, she quite likes seeing him this way; he’s more boy than legend right now, more human than she has ever seen him. And if this is all that she can get from him—the occasional slip-up of his royal etiquette—then she’ll take it.

She says none of those things, however.

He takes a swig from his waterskein, stoppers it, then says quietly, “I like food.”

“I can see that,” she says, a smirk plastered on her lips, and surprisingly, Link replies with a smirk of his own.

She holds her tongue between her teeth again, begs it to just take the small victory in the form of those three simple words coming from him, and be grateful that he’s even smiling at all, no matter how faint that smile is.

But eventually (and unfortunately), her tongue wins.

“I like food, too, but I don’t eat that much.” Her fingers play with a loose piece of bark on the log. “There’s this saying in the castle… that us royals eat to live, whereas others live to eat. And there’s some truth to that, I guess; I eat mostly for sustenance, so I can go about my day.” When Link doesn’t say anything else, she sighs. “Well, all of this is for me to say that… you shouldn’t hesitate to take my leftovers. Like I said, I’d hate to be wasteful.”

There’s a stretch of silence, mottled by the sounds of birds chirping overhead, by the rustling from within the brambles that surround them. It grows a thick knot in her stomach until—

“Do you have a favorite food, Princess?”

Like an arrow through her head, that question. Or perhaps it’s because of who had nocked the arrow.

“I do.” She wets her lips. “It’s fruitcake.”

He nods twice, thoughtful. “Do you live to eat fruitcake, then?”

There’s genuine curiosity in his voice and a tinge of humor, too, and it spears at her because no one has ever asked her such a question before. And it’s a question she never expected to be voiced by him.

“Yes, I suppose I do.” She chuckles. “It’s just… such a delectable dessert, you know? Unfortunately, it’s not a dish for the road.”

Link hums, blue eyes cast somewhere other than her, though that’s as far as his response goes this time.

So Zelda gathers all her winnings in her arms and refuses to gamble any further lest she’ll finally lose this time—just like she did on the way here, when she poked and prodded and he closed.

“All right, then.” She rises to her feet. Smiles at him. “Time to head to the shrine.”

Link nods, rises, and stows away their food containers. Zelda takes off her riding jacket and throws it haphazardly into the tent. And then it’s onwards, crossing the small field to walk alongside the water of Pico Pond, the dormant shrine waiting just on the other side.

As they draw nearer to the ancient structure, something familiar coils inside her gut again—like dread but not really, because dread implies that she knows not of the outcome and fears it, and this—

This is chasing down roads that lead to the same destination.

This is knowing full well what will happen, but still stepping forward anyway.

So Zelda does; she steps onto the raised platform—the heels of her boots clacking against the metal flooring—and detaches the Slate from her belt. Walks up to the pedestal, and lets the Slate hover over the Sheikah eye engraved into its surface.

Still, she takes a deep breath before lowering the device. Then, she taps it against the pedestal.

Predictably, silence immediately follows.

She knows that there’s no need to give it another attempt, to search for nonexistent hidden buttons or switches or levers on the underside of the pedestal, because whatever she has tried at the other shrines will produce the same outcome:

Nothing.

But through her forlorn exhale (because disappointment still pricks no matter how much she’s tried to prime herself for it,) she hears the gentle sounds of grass crunching beneath the tough soles of boots, and realizes—perhaps a bit too late—that there’s just one more avenue she’s yet to set her foot on. Another method not yet conducted.

She looks over her shoulder to find her knight a few paces away from the platform, his back to her, the scabbard of the Sword gleaming gold. Standing at ease, eyes on the horizon. There’s a crown of sunlight around his head again, as if Hylia Herself has bestowed it upon him so that whoever beholds him shall know that he is indeed Her Chosen One.

And oh, Zelda knows this. Knows it like a fact—one plus one equals two; oxygen is required for a fire to start. But perhaps, for the first time since he graced her drawing room almost two years ago, she finally accepts it.

“Link?”

He turns around. Hands falling to his side to stand at attention.

“Could you—” she swallows, “could you come over here for a moment?”

He obeys her command—sure feet stepping onto the platform before stopping to stand next to her, facing the pedestal.

Her hands grip the Slate tightly and she looks him in the eye as she says, “Do you know the purpose of these ancient shrines?”

It’s quiet for a while before he answers, “I do.”

And so with acceptance, and concession and prayer and hope, she loosens her fingers around the handle of the Slate, holds it flat on her gloved hands, and turns to face him completely. Proffers the device that has always been meant for his hands to him.

“Then you should try.” Her voice comes out small, but she presses on. If it weren’t for the weight of the Slate on her hands, she knows her fingers would tremble. “This was all created to aid you, after all.”

His lips part so slightly. His gaze falls to the Slate—long lashes trembling against his cheeks from something that can only be discerned as utter disbelief, like she just carved her heart out of her chest and is now holding it in her palms—all gory and bloody and still beating—and offering it to him.

Frankly, it feels like she might as well have.

He raises his hands and cups them beneath hers, waits for her to let go of its weight, and the seconds extend and stretch before she does so—her bare fingers brushing his as she withdraws her hands.

At last, the Slate is in the Hero’s hands.

Zelda takes another breath and steps back the same time Link approaches the pedestal, holding the Slate the same way she did before: fingers curled around the handle on the left side of the device, two thumbs resting on the upper corners of the screen.

And then he lowers it, and the back of the Slate clanks audibly against the flat surface.

Nothing.

He holds it there for a few more seconds, and at her sides, her fingers curl into fists. Anticipating, waiting, bracing.

Nothing.

The shrine remains the same—unlit, all gray and stone. The metal panels adorned with ancient letters that make up its gate stay shut.

Zelda tilts her head up to the sky, imagines her gaze perforating through layers of atmosphere to reach the heavens—where Hylia surely is sitting and watching from Her celestial throne—and puckers her forehead into a frown.

This is Your Hero, and I have conceded to him, she not-says. What more could You possibly want?

But her mouth utters aloud, “I don’t understand.”

In front of her, Link turns around to fully face her, the Slate held at his abdomen. There’s no disappointment in his eyes; just faint surprise.

“I was so sure—” She shakes her head and steps forward to stand next to him again. “This was created for the Hero.” Frantically, she takes his hand that’s still holding the Slate and yanks it toward the pedestal. Presses his hand and the device against the Sheikah crest. “This was made for you.”

He stares at her. “Princess.”

“It can’t be.” Her voice crackles. She presses and presses, as if just a little more pressure—a little more force—is key to unlocking it. “What else are we supposed to do? It must work—”

“Princess,” he says more firmly, and it sends a sudden spark beneath her palms, causing her to jolt away and retract her hands from his. On the pedestal, Link pulls the Slate back to his side.

“Goddesses, I’m so sorry.” She paws at her hair. Casts her gaze anywhere else other than those flaming blues of his. “That was… that was not—”

“No, it’s okay,” he interrupts her.

Oh, but it’s not, because there is a cavity in her chest where her heart should be and she has given it to him for naught, has offered it to Hylia again and again only to be met with the same silence each time.

“I’ve tried.” Her voice comes out more high-pitched than she expected it to be. She digs her fingers into the meat of her thighs. “I’ve tried so many things.”

“I know,” he says quietly, earnestly, and at that, she meets his eyes.

Conflict glimmers through his visage—a crevice within the walls—and there it is again, that near-feral thing in her that wails in plea for morsels of his thoughts, but she grabs it by its throat and keeps her mouth shut. Further digs her fingers into her sides.

But eventually, that glimmer is gone, and Link opens his mouth.

“I—” he starts, his jaw grinding visibly, “I don’t know a thing about science or technology, but I think that if it won’t open now… Maybe it’s not meant to be opened now.” He pauses. “Maybe certain events must take place before it can be opened.”

Zelda blinks and frowns at him. Dizzied by the amount of words that just left him. “How do you mean?”

Link scratches at his nape sheepishly, suddenly looking smaller than ever despite the iris hilt that juts out his shoulder. “I— I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just a hunch.”

Hunch. She has never operated on a hunch because she simply cannot. Intuition has never led her anywhere, never provided her something concrete. Trust your inner voice, those priestesses have said to her ever since she was but a child, and where has it led her?

Right here. In front of yet another dormant shrine. Her hands as lightless as ever.

She needs empirical evidence. She needs something that she can observe with her naked eye, something that she can touch and probe. She needs certainty. But she understands that he’s merely offering his honest thoughts about the predicament, so she breathes and nods.

Accepts this irresolution—for now.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Zelda says.

His eyes fall onto the Slate in his hand as he returns it to her. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of any help, Princess.”

Now that—that sends little pinpricks in her heart.

“Please.” She squeezes her eyes shut. Shakes her head as she takes the device from him, their fingers brushing again. “You don’t have to apologize. Not when I’m not of any help to you either.”

And then suddenly it strikes her—

That something eludes the Hero, too. Although it’s not as detrimental as the lack of her power, it’s there; a missing piece.

A common ground.

And so Zelda attaches the Slate back to her belt, and the return of its weight on her hip is welcome and foreign at the same time. Like an organ her body has been missing, only to be replaced by someone else’s. And when she meets his sapphires again, there’s an understanding—one that does not need to be spoken aloud, for it is the universal truth that exists in the space between them:

Descendant and Chosen; two beings in the same rickety boat, for better or for worse, beating ceaselessly against the tides.

Her gaze falls to his lips, and she can almost see it—the words that his mouth holds but refuses to release—and she wonders if there is some kind of calefacient that she can hold against his jaw to warm up the muscles there, to loosen his tongue so that he may spill freely, but then those lips press instead and his brows furrow and his neck cranes to the side as if he’s listening for something—

“Link?”

In one swift, natural movement, Link reaches for the Sword’s hilt, and its bell-toll rings as he draws it out of its sheath.

The next thing she hears is a rumble through the ground and noises that sound an awful lot like—

“Princess.” His voice thunders through her. She meets his eyes again. “I’m going to draw them away from you; from the camp. Lead them to higher ground.”

She hears more of it, now—of them. There must be a lot. Hooves against the ground, growls and snarls crescendoing. Chaos incoming.

“But what about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. Hide behind the shrine and stay there,” he says, the tendons in his neck straining, peeking out from the neckline of his tunic. “Please.”

The slight crack in that last syllable catapults her back to the past, to a few weeks ago—the sands in Gerudo Desert. His lips trembling, his hands shaking. Desperation dammed so precariously beneath the rasp of his voice.

“Okay.” Zelda nods. Breathes through her mouth. “Okay.”

And with that, Link takes off running.

She watches as he sprints alongside the pond, the Sword catching sunlight at his right side, running and running until he meets the dirt path on the other side of the water. And lo and behold, hordes of monsters appear from the opposite direction—so many of them—mostly bokoblins, but Hylia above, there are at least two lynels in their midst.

Then she hears a loud yell and it pierces through the air—her knight’s attempt to keep those monsters focused on him instead of her and their camp—and she continues to helplessly watch from afar as he disappears into the copse of trees, the mob of creatures stumbling and rumbling and chasing after him.

Just like that, silence falls, restored, save for the loud punching of her heartbeat.

And with only Link’s command to root the soles of her feet to the ground, Zelda hides and waits.

It doesn’t take long until her veins jitter with so much restlessness and worry—unbearably so—that she has no choice but to shrug off the chains around her ankles formed by her knight’s urgent ‘please’.

She jogs toward where Link disappeared earlier, and in the distance, among lush trees and bushes, their camp stands unharmed—Ares and Epona still grazing on the grasses below them. Their surroundings, too, appear unmarred, but when she makes her way further into the forest, feet slowly climbing the inclined path, and narrows her focus to the minute details, she begins to notice the residues of a fight.

Tiny spatters of black blood upon grass blades. A trunk with a deep gash. An arrow halved, the blade on its tip dulled and crooked from impact.

She follows.

Further up the hill—more black spatters. An abandoned spiked club here, a fallen wooden shield there.

She follows.

Grass and soil soon make way to rock, and she spots the first corpse—a bokoblin heaped against a boulder, its limp tongue sticking out from its slackened maw. Not far to its left, another one lies still and twisted, its gnarled blue skin soon up for dung flies to feast upon.

She follows.

More dead bokoblins, more broken clubs. She climbs up, up, up—legs sore from exertion, hair damp from sweat despite the autumn chill, a throat full of unuttered prayers (Mother Goddess, please keep him safe, keep him safe, keep him safe). Up and further up, until she has ascended the flat ridges of Eldin Canyon, and she’s rounding the bend overlooking the fiery Goronbi Lake, leading her to the end of a cliff.

She hears it before she sees it—guttural growls that send dread down her spine to the tips of her ears, and she tries her damndest to keep her steps light and airy—like Impa had taught her ages ago—tiptoeing around dead monsters until the rocky hill turns flat and she finally sees her knight in the midst of it all.

She’s seen him fight before. A showcase in the training yard, a few days before she knighted him in the Sanctum—only in his chainmail and tabard and a standard-issue sword, freshly sixteen and besting the entirety of the Royal Guard. Seen him slay various monsters with ease, fingers wrapped surely around the hilt of the Sword, barely breaking any sweat. Seen him triumph many times over until his name is synonymous with victory.

But now there’s a rip on the sleeve of the tunic she had painstakingly stitched and blessed for him, and claret trickling from his forehead down to the side of his face. And across from him is a lynel—white-maned and teeth bared and eyes glowing red, one arm fashioned with a shield and the other holding a sword almost the size of its opponent.

Zelda’s mouth turns dry.

And the lynel roars and charges towards her knight, swinging the gigantic sword at its side as Link ducks and sidesteps—narrowly missing the sharp blade to his neck. The beast skirts forward from the sheer force of its momentum, and Link immediately takes advantage of it—slicing and striking at its hind legs, aiming to immobilize it. Ink-black blood spurts out from where its skin has been cut open by the holy blade of the Sword.

Then, with a maneuver that she thinks is more acrobat than swordsman, he jumps—gaining speed seemingly out of nowhere—and mounts the lynel like one would a steed, and strikes at its back with the Sword again and again and again. The lynel thrashes around, desperate to shake its foe off, and in some kind of last-resort defense that is eerily intelligent, it spins to slam its backside against a boulder, knocking Link off its back and sending him falling to the ground.

There’s a loud thud—back against dirt. His pained grunt plows through her ears.

A scream almost rips out of her, but she bites it down. Her feet rage to move, to do something, anything—help him up, or run towards the monster to finish it herself—and it feels like there are flames licking at her hands because right now they’re tingling and burning to the point of pain, but she stays put.

She’s powerless. And her interference could only be detrimental to him.

The lynel stills in its spot, its hind legs slightly dragging from Link’s continuous attacks earlier, but its eyes still glint with rage, ready to charge towards her knight once more.

But there’s rage in Link’s eyes, too—blues more wrathful than Zelda has ever seen them, like he’s annoyed more than anything else—and with another grunt, he rises to his feet. Staggers a little, but then regains his balance as quickly as she releases one ragged breath through her nostrils. He twirls the Sword once in his hold, the blue-silver blade refracting sunlight with violence, as if it shares its master’s fury.

She thinks it probably does.

A second passes, then two, then three, and the lynel roars once more as it surges forward, the harsh thumping of its hooves vibrating the earth. In a dizzying haze of cerulean blue, Link cries out and jumps onto the beast’s swinging shield to propel himself upward and plunge the Sword into the lynel’s skull—the crunch of metal-through-tough-bone shudderingly audible as it growls one final time in its death throes.

It slumps to the ground the same time Link lands back on his feet. The tension in his body finally melts away. He’s all grimed and haggard, but standing. Triumphant.

Relief floods her veins; warmth through ice. Out of her own volition, she moves closer to him, and it’s not until their eyes meet that his frame turns wire-taut again—his eyes wide and alarmed as he takes in the sight of her.

In a panicked move, Link sheathes the Sword back into its scabbard and strides towards her, his usual stone-and-steel exterior cracked clean by the frown on his face.

“Princess, you’re not supposed to be here—”

She continues to make her way to him. “I’m all right, Sir Link.”

They finally meet in the middle—among the lifeless beasts that he had slain, two paces away from each other. “You could’ve gotten hurt, Princess—”

“But I didn’t,” she interrupts him, perhaps with more force than she intended because his frown disappears and blankness takes its place.

Bile rises up her gullet. She swallows, and softens the edges of her voice. “I’m not hurt, I promise.” Her right hand rises, reaches out to him, but falls limp once her mind catches up to its trajectory. She exhales, and points out, “But you are.”

At that, Link stills for a moment before lifting a hand to his face—wipes the blood trailing down his cheekbone. Looks at his bare fingers, now stained copper-red.

Says, unperturbed, “Oh.”

She’d be amused by his nonchalance if it weren’t for the fact that she just saw him get slammed side-first onto a giant rock by a giant beast.

“I think I should take a look at that before we return to camp,” Zelda says matter-of-factly. “Wound infections are not to be taken lightly.”

Link blinks twice before he replies, “Okay.”

She walks past him to stand near the cliffside, away from the pile of dead creatures, and sits on her ankles. Link follows, expression impassive as he stares at the spot next to her. She taps it, beckoning him to join her.

He does; lowers himself a few inches away from her, the tip of the sheathed Sword dragging and slanting away to his left as he fully settles on the ground. He sits in a way that betrays his legendary reputation—shoulders slightly hunched, knees drawn up and elbows rested upon them, thighs parted wide.

Zelda clears her throat. “Could you take it off?” She pauses. Nods at his right arm. “The protective layers, I meant.”

Silently, Link starts peeling off the layers on his right forearm—the leather vambrace, then the patterned strip of cloth, revealing the sleeve of his cream undershirt—still pristine compared to the rest of his clothes which are covered in dirt and grime and black blood.

Her hand hovers above his still-clothed forearm. “May I?”

He stares at her hand, then looks up to meet her eyes. Nods his head as a go-ahead.

A deep, deep breath, and then she rolls the hem of the sleeve up to bare the skin underneath—carefully, so as not to hurt him in case his injury turns out to be grievous. Thankfully, it isn’t, but she can see large bruises that have already bloomed—dark red and blue upon the tan of his skin. With one hand beneath his wrist to keep his arm aloft, she traces the contusions with her fingertips—touch featherlight.

“Does it hurt?” she says, the words coming out a murmur.

He’s quiet, so she averts her gaze from his arm to look him in the eye and finds that his blues are already on her.

Now that their faces are so close, Zelda can truly see it—the cogwheels turning and turning in those ocean irises, jaw clenching as if to keep the words tucked behind his teeth, and she nearly sighs in resignation, but then his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip before answering,

“A little.”

She exhales. Returns to look at his forearm, turns it to study the tendons underneath his wrist, to observe the multitude of scars that mark his skin. A scintilla of familiarity scratches at the back of her brain—because she has seen his forearms bare before, once in a half-forgotten dream—though she immediately quells the image to nonexistence.

“I have some cool safflina salve in my pack that can help with this,” she says as she carefully turns his arm so his palm is facing down, then lays that hand to rest atop his knee once more—gently, like one would lay fine china atop a table. “I came prepared this time—just in case I get those pesky wrist sprains again.” She smiles wryly.

A corner of his mouth quirks up.

“All right— Now I need to take a look at your forehead.”

Link nods, then tilts his face to fully face her, and Zelda leans forward on her knees to better examine the gash. Brushes away the messy locks of honey blonde, and holds her hand right there—digits whispering against his temple as she takes a closer look at the injury.

It’s just a scrape—but deep enough to draw blood, though it has caked on the skin, soon to scab over.

“That cut doesn’t look too bad, actually.” She retracts her hand, curls her fingers into her knees. “You’re fine, for now. But you know…” She purses her lips, contemplating whether she should say it, but decides, to hell with it—

“There’s a fine line between courage and recklessness,” she finishes. His azure gaze turns sharper and even more indecipherable, somehow, but she stands her ground. “As brave as you are, that does not make you immortal.”

Sure, it’s mostly a reminder for him, but it, too, serves as a reminder for her—or perhaps, more accurately, a realization—that the boy in front of her may be chosen and Goddess-kissed, but at the end of the day, he’s still that—a boy. His skin can still cut and bleed, can still hurt.

Their mortality, too, is a common ground.

But that’s as far their similarity goes, because she’s looking into his eyes again and she still knows not what lies beneath, and if she cranes her head just slightly to the left, she’ll be served with an unobstructed view of the indigo pommel of the Sword yet again, and remembers just how far behind she is from him.

She inhales harshly, then exhales to dispel the thoughts before they derail her even more. Looks away from him to gaze upon the sight ahead of them instead—of the creatures that have met their end from her knight’s capable hands.

All it does is trade one headache for another.

“It seems that not only is the frequency of these types of attacks on the rise…” Zelda starts, “but the scale of beasts we are facing is intensifying as well.” She pauses. “I fear that—”

Even if she doesn’t say it, it hangs heavy in the air anyway. Coats her tongue like glue—noxious, oppressive—and has stayed there since the day Father sat her down with the prophesier when she was very little.

So she says it: “I fear that this is an omen which portends the return of Calamity Ganon.”

A little part of her wishes voicing it out would provide some semblance of relief—a splash of water to wash off the mud—but it doesn’t. It only corrodes her insides even more.

So she rises, fashions a smile that she hopes looks genuine, and dusts off her pants.

“And, if that’s the case, I’m ready to expect the worst.” The words roll off her pleasantly, to her surprise—even though they had to get past the lump in her throat. “We’ll need to make preparations as soon as possible.”

She walks away, back to descend the rocky hills, and is half of a mind to look over her shoulder to see what sort of face he’d have on him, though she knows better not to do so.

It’ll only make her want to poke and prod at him again.

It’s dusk when they make it back to their camp, and her knight quickly starts a fire in front of the tent to fend off the darkness and chill. Zelda offers to tend to his injury, but Link adamantly insists that there’s no need, so she relents and sits down as he picks some mushrooms nearby for dinner.

After they’ve wolfed down the stew he cooked (it’s been quite an arduous day, after all,) she stares at him—sitting across from her, his baldric no longer fastened around his torso, though his arms are still clad in his leathers. The Champion tunic’s hem is looking worse for wear, and she takes a mental note to mend it when they get back to the castle. There’s a wet rag in his hand—blackened by monster blood—and the Sword lies flat on his lap as he wipes the blade. A dried streak of sanguine still adorns the side of his face—scrapes long ignored to attend to her.

Dutiful to a fault, she thinks; he utilizes every waking moment to work, to fight, to protect, and refuses to let anyone else bear the brunt out of pure selflessness, which rids her the opportunity to contribute. To help.

And Gods, she wants to contribute so badly. Wants to use her hands for something good, something other than clasping them below her chin as she prays before stone-cold statues. To grow something, to unearth, to heal, despite their lack of light.

And what could be better than to use them to help the Hero?

So Zelda inhales, and tries again— “Would you let me tend to your wounds now?”

He doesn’t look up from his task, his eyes curtained behind his bangs. “You don’t have to, Princess.”

She pinches her eyes shut. Tries not to let the exasperation mar her features.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to,” she says. “Please?”

At that, his hand stops its motion along the blade, stilling upon the swelled ricasso engraved with the three triangles, and his frame straightens up. Lifts his chin to finally meet her eyes—those blues even more flame-like than the fire that blazes between them.

It’s akin to the gaze he inflicted upon her, at the front porch of that villa near Cephla Lake—when she offered him a blanket from her room, born out of a need to see an ounce of his humanity. A gaze that contains part-understanding, part-kindness, and part-something else that she can’t quite translate.

He rises to his feet with the Sword in his hand, and asks softly, “Where do you want me?”

Her lips quiver into a smile.

She turns in her seat to pull the unfurled bedroll from the tent behind her, so half of it is laid on the dirt, then sits on its edge.

“Here,” she replies, tapping the space on her left. “You can take off your leathers. And, ah— your tunic, too—so I can also take a look at your back.” She pauses, inhales, then adds, “You fell pretty hard on your back, you know.”

He stills for a second, eyes seemingly vacant, but eventually obeys. She watches quietly as he sets the Sword against the tree behind him, and begins to peel off his protective coverings.

The gloves are the first to go, and he places them next to the Sword. Then it’s the leather vambrace, then the patterned compression band that wraps around his forearms. Then it’s the belt around his waist, followed by the tunic—all neatly laid in a pile.

There is power in one’s attire—she’s always known that much. It’s why she stitched the Champions’ outfits and blessed them in spring water. It’s why she must change into her white prayer dress and fasten the golden cuffs around her wrists. It’s why she wears a crown, as her mother and foremothers did. It’s why she calls her royal blue gown her battlewear.

It’s sacred symbol upon sacred symbol—making up an armor.

Yet now, as she watches Link pull off the last layer of muslin shirt—baring a torso covered with myriad scars and mottled red and blue, revealing a man who might be small in stature but brimming with strength—she finds that he must be an exception to that rule.

Finds that the power lies not in his attire or even the Sword of Legend, but in his skin—pulled taut around the sculpture of his muscles to house that ancient, ageless soul that she’s read about so many times in dusty, cracked tomes.

Suddenly, she realizes that her eyes have lingered too long on him, and—well.

Propriety tells her to look away, so Zelda does.

As he steps towards her, she pulls out her waterskein, a fine cloth, and the jar of salve from her pack. Sees him in her periphery as he sits down. When she turns around—the humble first-aid kit laid out on her lap—he’s there. Next to her. Facing the fire, cross-legged.

From up close, the contusions on his arms appear even angrier, now. And she’s correct—his right shoulder blade is covered in bruises, too.

“This already looks worse than it did a few hours ago,” Zelda sighs.

“I’m used to it,” Link replies.

A month ago, she would take it as a brag. Now, all she hears is plain honesty, and it sends a little ache somewhere in her chest, because he must be used to it all, evident from the marks on his skin.

A soldier through and through.

So she unstoppers the waterskein, wets the cloth, and brings it up to his temple. Draws a deep breath, holds it in her lungs, then pats the cloth against the scrape.

Link doesn’t react, but still, she asks, “Am I hurting you?”

At that, his blues turn to peer at her, though his entire body does not move one inch. “No, you’re not.”

She exhales, and continues to clean the raw skin—dabbing gently. Traveling down to wipe the dried blood off his cheekbone, his jaw. When it’s all clean, she opens the jar of cool safflina salve, drags her middle finger along the rim before carefully slathering the ointment on the wound.

After the scrape on his temple, she takes the wet cloth again to begin cleaning the grime off his fingers, but then Link curls his fingers, draws his hand into his lap, and looks her in the eye.

“It’s really not necessary, Princess.”

She sighs. “Please, Link.” The wet cloth hovers above his fist. “It’s the least I could do.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Oh, but he’s wrong. It’s not only about that gargantuan debt that she owes him, the imbalances she must offset—not anymore. It’s a thousand different things compounded to create this immense, ineffable need that claws at her insides to simply help him.

To pray to Hylia in a different way.

And he must have read the words in her eyes, because he relents and lays his arm on his thigh. Uncurls his palm on his knee.

And she—she can’t help but let the relief break across her face.

She gently wraps her fingers around his wrist, takes his hand onto her lap. Cups the back of his hand as she wipes the grime and copper from his fingernails. As she cleans and cleans, she feels the roughened dermis, the callouses, and is struck with flashes of the past—times she’s had his hand in hers. Aboard Vah Naboris. In the sand. When he voiced his oath to her on the Sacred Ground. When they rehearsed that oath in her drawing room, reciting the longer vow. In the same drawing room, almost two years ago, dread and jealousy and curiosity roiling in her throat as he brought the Sword to her for the first time. When—

The rush of a flood—the realization and remembrance penetrating through hundreds of layers of her memories to perforate the core.

When she was a child, at Mother’s funeral, dressed in all black. A boy with wheat blonde hair, kneeling before her, his other hand splayed over his heart.

‘I’m Princess Zelda, nice to meet you.’

‘Nice to meet you, Princess. My name is Link.’

His hand blurs and blurs in her lap, and when she blinks, her vision clears.

A fat drop of tear falls straight onto his palm.

“Princess?”

He’s looking at her now, she knows, but she can’t meet his eyes—not yet. Can’t bear to see the soft meat before it’s completely engulfed by the tough veneer again—never to be unearthed, never to be touched by her. She keeps her gaze sharp on his hand. Concentrates on spreading the salve on the various small cuts on his knuckles. Keeps her breath steady.

“Princess,” he tries again. There’s concern in his voice, now. “Did I do something wrong?”

She peels off a loose skin on her bottom lip with her teeth. Spreads more salve on the inside of his forearm.

What has happened to you during all those years? she wants to ask. What do I have to do to get to know you?

But all she manages is, “No.” She clears her throat. “It’s all right.”

She turns in her seat to better treat his shoulder. Ignores the sting behind her eyes, the ache in her lungs. Lets the silence stretch and stretch like her worn, malleable heartstrings that still keep her from truly coming apart at the seams after all these years.

But then Link begins to speak.

“I… I didn’t spend a lot of time at the Training Camp, actually,” he says quietly. “I did most of my training back home. And then when I got to the castle, I trained there. And when the Commander deemed me of age, he sent me to train with warriors from each race.”

Her fingers freeze on his deltoid, the salve still thick between his skin and her digits—not evenly slathered yet. The realization that he’s answering the question she asked this morning paralyzes her.

“I know Minshi Woods because I was here, passing through, the week before I turned fifteen.” He inhales, exhales. “To… to get to the Sword.”

It feels like a thunderwing butterfly has alighted upon her palms—it tingles and shocks but Gods, she wants it to stay so badly, so she must keep still. Must not speak, lest she scares it away and it flies from her grasp, never to return.

“Afterwards, I was passing through here again when some knights from the Training Camp saw me, took me there, and fetched the Commander to come collect me.”

Zelda swallows. Looks up at him. “Your father— Sir William?”

His lips curve upward—a small smile. “Yeah.”

Guilt and remorse lurch up in her throat. “Goddess, Link, I—” she starts, “I’m truly sorry—I’ve never offered my condolences to you personally, when he passed.”

“No, it’s okay,” Link says, his smile widening, which just pricks at her heart even more. “I get that you were… unhappy with my presence.”

“It’s not—” Zelda breathes. “That does not give me an excuse to treat you so horribly. And I wasn’t unhappy with your presence—not exactly,” she says. “I just couldn’t— I couldn’t accept that you have fulfilled your part of… all of this so easily, whereas I haven’t.”

“Yeah, I think I’m to blame for that,” he replies, something wistful in the quirk of his lips.

Her hand stops on the large bruise near the line of his spine. “How do you mean?”

His jaw clenches and unclenches again, nostrils flaring before he continues, “I meant it, Princess—on Naboris,” he says. “That I’m sorry, for my silence.” A pause. “You can see that— that words don’t really come easy to me.”

She can see it. She saw it up there on the hills and she sees it now—the way he grinds his teeth like he’s trying to soften up something between his molars—like he’s sifting through the words meticulously with his careful tongue, choosing which ones to utter and which ones to swallow into the dark depth of him.

And she knows she should call it a day—take all her winnings like she did earlier today and be grateful that that butterfly even deigned to land on her palms to begin with, but there’s that near-feral thing inside her again, its maw gaping so wide that it hurts her ribcage, wailing ask him tell him try again try again—

“Why is that?” Zelda half-whispers. “If you… if you don’t mind my asking.”

“My silence?”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Yes.”

Beneath her palm, she feels his muscles tensing—trapezius flexing, shoulders squaring. Like it takes his entire being and then some more to get it all out of him.

The significance of it is not lost on her.

“I’m a premonition,” he replies at last. Turns his face away from her to gaze past the fire, at the Sword—gleaming violet and golden, leaning against the tree. “A sign of bad things incoming. Can’t show that I’m just as clueless and lost, and that when it does lead me somewhere, I’m just led to… more sorrow.” His throat bobs in the firelight. “To pain.”

There it is, Zelda thinks. The soft meat, the raw guts.

The gold.

On her chest, Zelda feels ten hinoxes atop it. Hard to breathe.

On her hands and in her ears, there’s warmth. Warmth that radiates from his skin, from his words. Because she’s done this. She’s excavated something by herself.

“I’m so sorry, Link,” she whispers. Her vision is blurring again. “I didn’t know. I thought that you— you were just simply… gifted,” she says. “I mean you are—gifted, that is,” she huffs a watery laugh, “but for the longest time, I thought… I thought that I was alone.”

“You weren’t supposed to know, Princess,” he says, and is that sadness in his tone? “It’s my job to bear it myself. But it has led you to believe that you’re alone, so that…” he chews his lip, “…that is my biggest regret.”

At that, tears roll down her cheeks again, and there’s so much kindness in the way he looks at her—kindness she isn’t sure she deserves—and she wants to look away, but she can’t. She must finish dressing his wound, so she keeps her eyes on his bruised collarbone. On him.

“Princess, I… I feel like I keep on making you cry every time I open my mouth.” Link smiles wryly. “Makes me think that I shouldn’t speak at all.”

“Don’t you dare, Sir Link.” Zelda sniffs, but there’s no venom in her tone. No more.

Link chuckles softly. He says nothing else, but it doesn’t matter, really—all his utterances still reverberate and echo in her ears, the resonance transforming into flowers that she’ll store in a secret chest inside her mind, to be dry-pressed between the other few happy moments of her life.

And so the last bruise on his skin is finally salved, and Zelda admires her handiwork one more time—his hands, his shoulders, his back—before wiping the ointment off her fingers with the wet cloth.

“There you go,” Zelda says, smiling. “All done.”

Link rolls his shoulders. Stands up and smiles back as he says, “Thank you, Princess.”

“Zelda,” she mumbles.

“What’s that?”

“Any—” she clears her throat— “Anytime, Link.”

He pauses, regards her for a few seconds with those sapphires, but eventually turns around to retrieve and put on his clothes. She nearly protests—the fabric is going to absorb all the salve!—but realizes that it’s quite cold outside, and the sight of a shirtless knight while on duty might be unseemly to others, to say the least, so she holds back that protest. She stows away the jar and waterskein back into her pack, and drags the bedroll back into the tent.

Before she fastens the flaps of her tent, she watches him one more time as he restokes the fire. And when she draws her quilt up her body, ready for rest, she listens to the murmurs past the layer of canvas—her knight whispering to their steeds as he tends to them.

The voice, warm and more familiar by the minute, sends her to sleep.

Chapter Text

Music, Zelda finds, serves as a better, more exciting medium for studying, though the subjects are as ominous as ever. After all, there’s only so much a beautiful set of chords can do when most of the lyrics sing of wars of ages past and the end of times.

But there’s something mildly comforting about Anthon’s voice—husky and melodious, ringing sweetly in the grand chamber. It’s nothing like the eerie, throaty voices of the Priestesses telling her to open up, open your soul, open your heart to Hylia!—nothing like the other tutors at the castle that sound so painfully monotone as they recite passages from history textbooks.

It’s a beautiful song he’s singing now—a number about a city in the sky, of a boy and a girl who rode on great birds. Zelda watches from her armchair as the Sheikah bard croons the last verse, the accordion between his hands diminuendoing. When he’s finished, she applauds, to which he replies with a dramatic bow.

He sets the accordion on the foot of the music stand, and returns to sit in the chair across from her, an expectant look etched into his face. She supposes she should ask about the content of the lyrics, like Father has encouraged her to, perhaps. But it’s nothing she hasn’t read about with her tutors.

So she opts to inquire about something more interesting.

“Tell me, Anthon,” Zelda starts, a steaming cup of rose tea blend in her hands. “How do you come up with such beautiful, fitting chord progressions? And how do you find the most fitting lyrics to lay over those chords?”

“Oh, Your Highness, you flatter me so.” Anthon smiles wide, then turns thoughtful as he mulls over her question. “Truthfully, I’m afraid there isn’t one correct answer to that question, Your Highness,” he says. “I merely wait for the inspiration to strike. To catch that lightning in a bottle.”

Zelda hums. Thumbs the rim of the teacup. “But do you have, say, an exercise regimen to help trigger those lightning-in-a-bottle moments?” she asks. “Surely, it can’t just all be from inspiration.”

Anthon laughs softly at that. “Of course, Your Highness—one needs to have good knowledge of music theory and a solid grasp on the Hylian vocabulary to become a musician and a songwriter, but they serve more as a foundation rather than… the ultimate component of good songwriting.” He picks up his own teacup from the coffee table. “At the end of the day, most of it comes from intuition. It blossoms from the very depth of us.”

Well, there’s a reason why Zelda has never even so much as dabbled in music or the arts since she was a little girl; she’ll paint landscapes, sure, but to create art that requires some kind of intuition?

Science is where she feels the safest, where she can build a house inside her mind using bricks made out of provable evidence and facts, and know with absolute certainty that it won’t topple and crash.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m a scholar at heart, so it’s quite hard to imagine tapping so much into your intuition to produce something.” Zelda breathes a laugh. “I’ve always found comfort in activities that can lead to concrete results—with enough practice, of course,” she adds. “I actually used to do archery, before I turned ten. Did it for a few years, and got quite good at it, believe it or not.” She chuckles, a tinge of bitterness lingering on her tongue despite the rose and honey that coats it.

“Is that so, Your Highness?” There’s a twinkle in his garnet eyes. “Why did you stop?” he asks, then stammers, “if— if that wasn’t too forward for me to ask, Your Highness.”

Zelda laughs, shaking her head. “No, don’t worry, Anthon,” she replies, but that bitterness grows teeth and bites through her brain, and she’s helpless to the scene that replays in her head—

‘I’ve decided not to continue Janson’s employment as your archery tutor.’

‘Father— why?’

‘You are ten years old with nothing to show for your power, Zelda. I think archery can wait until you fulfill your duty.’

Her grip around the teacup tightens. “Well.” She tries to force a smile, though her cheeks feel tight. “Duty calls upon us all, after all.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and she prays that her smile is convincing enough.

Eventually, Anthon nods, and Zelda takes a big gulp of tea to wash down the thoughts—forcing them down into her stomach, where they belong.

“I understand, Your Highness,” the bard says. “Truly, I do understand where you’re coming from—it’s difficult to know for certain if you’ve struck gold when it comes to producing art,” he continues. “But the thing is… music is magic, Your Highness. One only needs to trust oneself. Trust that the choices made will lead to a beautiful product that manifests your vision well.”

He rises again to pick up his accordion, and sits in the chair with it. He plays a chord.

“This is the C major chord, Your Highness,” Anthon tells her, still letting the chord ring. “What do you feel when you hear this?”

Zelda listens, closes her eyes. Imagines herself living in those notes.

“It feels… light,” she says. The chord rings and rings. “Safe.”

“Okay, what if I lowered the third? The E to D sharp instead?” he says, changing said note, and immediately the change of tone hits her. “How does it sound now, Your Highness?”

“Melancholic…” Zelda replies. “Sad.”

Anthon stops sustaining the chord. “Exactly, Your Highness!” he says. “Just a change in the second note can make all the difference.” He gently sets down the accordion at his feet. “The basis of it might be technical, but the cause and effect are always emotional. So one must simply… flow from one emotion to the next, then one chord to another, and then from one verse to the next… See where it takes us.”

“I see,” Zelda lies. She supposes that music creation will just be another elusive thing to her—unattainable because it asks for her to trust her instincts, which, well, she does not trust. Not when it hasn’t led her anywhere.

With that, Anthon clears his throat, and prepares himself for another song. “I used those two chords to play with the feeling of light and dark in this song I recently wrote—it’s titled ‘Ouroboros’”

“How delightful.” She smiles.

One, two, three, four leaves his lips, and then the room is filled with his canorous voice and the chords of the accordion once more, singing about the cycle of life and death, of light and dark, of inevitability—‘Even if you are not ready for the day, oh, it cannot always be night…’

As the bard continues to sing, her eyes stay fixated on the wind instrument, the plissé of the bellows compressing and expanding between his hands, but her mind wanders and wanders. Because Anthon can sing a thousand songs that tell tales of the legends, and those tutors can make her read all those ancient texts and tomes, but at the end of the day, they’re all secondary sources—written by those who did not experience it firsthand. Those materials are always apocryphal in nature, and slightly inaccurate at best. When she studies them, she must always account for human errors, for discrepancies.

Because the genesis of this war is so far back in time.

What she needs is a primary source—one she can take apart and analyze. To hold a relic of the past in her hands, and try to elicit the key to victory that way. And it sure as Din isn’t her blood—no matter how divine or primeval it is—because it’s powerless, therefore useless.

All those relics are either untranslatable or have perished from age. And the ones that are extant refuse to be held and understood, like those shrines that she’s attempted to open over and over again for naught.

Which leaves her with just one relic. One that is sempiternal and cannot be marred by time.

One that stands guard on the other side of those double doors, waiting for her.

She has always understood that her knight is a walking legend. Spirit of the Hero, they call him. Handpicked by Hylia so long ago for his valor and courage in the face of the toughest wars. The body and the mind may be different each time, but the soul persists.

Maybe she should tell Father to fire all her tutors. Let Anthon simply be a resident court poet and stop these ‘music sessions’ with her. Clear out this grand chamber of any instruments and unnecessary decorations—furnish it only with two armchairs facing each other, and a small table boasting an assortment of pastries, a teapot, and two teacups.

And then she’ll sit Link down. Let him eat however much pastry he likes, then start asking him questions. Lay all the cogwheels and gears from that elusive head on a table and examine them, then find remnants of their past successes in the grease. Study his spirit and thus her history, the way her tutors desperately want her to study those texts. Get to know him and maybe, just maybe, she can know herself—

Anthon finishes the song with the accordion playing tacet as he croons the last verse, and the silence slices through her thoughts.

Zelda sets down her teacup and applauds him once more, smiling as wide as she can this time—feeling a bit guilty for letting her mind wander during his performance.

“And that is ‘Ouroboros’, Your Highness,” Anthon says, bowing his head again, accordion still between his hands. There’s a hint of pride (and maybe smugness, too,) in that smile—a man who’s confident in his craft and skill.

If she were able to master something the same way the Sheikah bard does with songwriting; the way her knight does with swordwielding and fighting…

She’d smile like that, too.

“Splendid job, Anthon,” Zelda says, although her eyes wander at the grandfather clock on the far side of the wall. Two in the afternoon, it says, which serves as a respite.

“Anthon, I’m afraid I must be on my way,” Zelda starts, rising from the chair, which causes Anthon to shoot up from his seat. “But it has been such a pleasant hour, listening to your songs and conversing with you. So I will see you next week, yes? Same time and day?”

The bard offers his deepest genuflection to her. “Yes, Your Highness!” he says. “I am also always around at the castle, Your Highness, so please do not hesitate to approach me anytime should you have any questions, or even requests for our next session.”

“Sounds great,” Zelda replies, cheeks starting to feel a bit stiff from smiling, and then turns around to head for the double doors, Anthon following a few paces behind her. Before she can even raise her hands to push at the doors, however, they’re already swinging open—revealing her knight in his Royal Guard garb, ivory gloved hand hooked into the brass handle.

Link bows his head. “Princess.”

At her sides, her fingers curl and uncurl. On her face, her wide smile remains, but her cheeks aren’t stiff anymore—just warm.

“Link.” She looks over her shoulder and says, “Anthon, please—you can go on ahead.”

That earned a squint from Anthon—his crimson gaze flitting back and forth between her and Link before he nods and walks past her to exit the room. She thinks she sees him give her knight a weird look she can’t quite decipher, but she shrugs the thought off. Waits until Anthon has disappeared down the long hallway before she stands next to Link, underneath the ornate doorway.

“How can an hour feel like four?” she sighs.

A corner of his mouth quirks upward. “That bad?”

“Hmph. I guess not.” Zelda purses her lips. “Usually it feels like ten when I’m with the Priestesses.”

Link huffs a laugh, though he says nothing else, so she steps forward and makes her way down the hall. Behind her, she hears the creak and click of the doors being shut, and his footsteps soon follow—the rhythm of them muffled by the carpeted floors but still felt by the soles of her pumps anyway.

She turns a corner, heading to her private quarters, and though she knows full well that royal protocol dictates that a knight should keep a distance of at least three paces behind his charge within castle premises, she still slows down. Hopes that he’d catch up to her side.

He doesn’t, but that rhythm rumbles more prominently in her soles now—only one pace away.

“Do you know what’s next in my schedule?” she asks, even though asking the Hero such a question feels strange and borderline disrespectful. He’s not in charge of her day-to-day—Nora is, but the girl caught a bad case of cold yesterday, so Link has kindly stepped in for the week to keep track of her activities, on top of his newly assigned task as her round-the-clock guard.

“You have an hour free before your two-hour history lesson with Sir Bono, Princess.”

“Oh Gods, two hours…” Zelda pinches the bridge of her nose. “And after that?”

“Nothing else until the planned visit to the Royal Ancient Tech Lab tomorrow.”

They ascend the stairs leading to her apartment. “That’s a comfort, at least,” she says. “Do you think we should head out in the morning?”

Finally, she stands before the door to her quarters. Pushes it open but does not go inside—turns around to face Link again.

There’s a hint of a smile when he says, “It’s your call, Princess.”

The lab isn’t far—she supposes that they can head there a bit later in the day, but the earlier she can get a reprieve from the castle, the better, so she decides, “Let’s set out early, then—eight o’clock. I hope you’re not manning my door tonight?”

“No, Princess,” Link says. “Sir Masson will be the one on door duty.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Zelda nods. “I’d hate to deprive you of sleep more than I already do, especially when we’ll be out quite early tomorrow.”

There’s a pause, and then—

“Thank you, Princess. That’s very kind of you.”

Her fingers bunch the taffeta of her gown—guilt singeing the tip of her tongue. She never thought of herself as kind—truly, if she were indeed kind, would she have treated him with such vitriol all those months? But the damage has been done, and all she can do now is give him whatever’s left in her hands, and that’s so much regret, and so little time.

“Link, I’m sorry again—for the change in the details of your assignment to me.” She swallows. “I didn’t think that Father would fight for it in the Council—for you to not only accompany me outside but also inside the castle, because of…” Bile rises in her throat. “…Of what happened in the desert.”

He frowns but is still quiet, so she carries on. “But he did anyway, and now you have more on your plate… so I’m— I’m sorry.”

His lips press for a moment—a gesture so familiar to her now. And she’ll always have that urge inside her, something primal in her blood that wants to coax every word that resides within his brain with her bare fingers, but it’s much sweeter when the words alight on her without force like they did in Minshi Woods a week ago, so she stays quiet.

Lets him take his time, for he deserves that and then some more.

“Princess, please,” Link breaks the silence at last, his voice more gravelly than usual. “It’s my honor.”

Perfect soldier, forever, Zelda thinks, and somehow that makes her warm and ache at the same time, but she knows not what to make of that odd contrast, so she crumples it and jests, “Please tell me they’re giving you a raise, at the very least.”

He laughs a little. “I don’t think I’m supposed to discuss my salary with the Princess.”

Zelda hums. “Pity. Your Princess certainly wouldn’t mind persuading her father into giving her knight a little bonus,” she says with a lopsided grin, but beneath the lamination of good humor and friendly banter, she damn well means it—she’d ask Father to give him a raise, maybe grant him a noble title while she’s at it. She’d stand up to the Council and rebuke anyone who has ever questioned Link’s status and looked down on him for his lowborn origin.

Decree that he shouldn’t have to kneel or bow before anyone ever again for the rest of his life, because why should he? It isn’t her who dwells right below Hylia—it is him. The Sword’s chosen. The most sacred man in the entire kingdom.

“That’s not necessary, Princess.” He smiles, and his expression tells that he only picked up on the humor, so she tries her best to distill all those thoughts into something less daunting to say, because he must hear it.

And she must make do with that little time that’s left in her hands.

“I’m being serious, you know,” Zelda says. Her fingernails dig into the meat of her palms even through the bunched fabric. “I’d do that for you.”

There’s a breath drawn slowly—loud enough to be heard by her, and she watches as that smile falls away and something else takes its place—something unreadable yet again. But in the ambiguity, she sees something that she thinks she understands—something that can only be perceived as warmth, reminiscent of the gleam in Urbosa’s eyes when she tells her stories of Mother from long ago.

But next to that warmth is disbelief—working its way up into the set of his brows, the slight narrowing of his eyes—perhaps determining the genuineness of her statement. And Gods—it hurts to realize that she’s made him such a stranger to her softer side, so she tries to open and let him peer through the crevices, just as he did last week as her hands tended to his bruises.

The seconds stretch and stretch, pulling her heart tauter until finally, it all washes away from his face and what’s left by the receding tide is that smile again—small but existent, and that’s all that matters.

“You don’t have to,” Link says softly. “But I truly appreciate it, Princess—thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Link. And the offer will always stand.” She tries to keep her voice steady. “Always.”

Salary raises and wound tending and everything in between.

And what’s unsaid hangs heavy between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, and she wonders if he feels it, too—but it shrivels and disappears somewhere inside her throat when he replies, “Should I knock on your door in an hour, Princess?”

Zelda exhales. Nods. “Yes, please.” Her fingers finally let go of her skirt to push open the door behind her. She turns around and crosses the threshold, looking over her shoulder to throw a glance at her knight.

“Thank you, Link.”

“Of course, Princess,” he replies, and that small smile—so at home on his face—is still there as he gently shuts the door.

It was overcast when they began their trip to the lab, but somehow, as they’re crossing over Carok Bridge, the clouds part and the sun rays bleed to cast sepia over the surrounding land.

Link rides next to her, his ponytail swaying from the morning breeze, Champion tunic pristine blue once again—thanks to her own hands. Ingrid had offered to repair it herself, but Zelda refused, because there’s satisfaction in fixing things, in watching the needle weave in and out, in and out of the fabric—seeing the tear joined once again. There’s also a peculiar sense of accomplishment in fixing his clothes—knowing that the very cotton she’d worked through a loom herself is used to cover him. A thin layer of armor to protect his body as he carries out his duty—no matter how useless the armor may be, because at the end of the day, it could tear and he could bleed.

Still, she muttered prayers as she stitched the sleeve back to one piece, the same way she had done months ago as she waded in spring water: O Mother Goddess, I ask for Your blessings for the wearer of this tunic—Link, the Hero of Hyrule—Your beloved, my protector. Keep him safe from harm, strengthen his life and soul—

“Princess?”

Like the softest thunderclap, his voice—piercing through her thoughts. Blues meet her gaze that she has long laid upon his profile.

“I, ah—” She wets her bottom lip. “How’s the tunic? Feels as good as new?”

One of his hands lets go of the reins to pinch at the sleeve, where the rip used to be—rubbing the cotton between calloused fingers, where her own had thoroughly touched and tugged and mended. It’s nothing but a faint line now, concealed by a ladder stitch hidden underneath the ivory embroidery that adorns the sleeves.

“It’s perfect.” He smiles. “Thank you, Princess.”

So Zelda smiles back and returns her gaze to the path that stretches before them. Basks in the autumn sun. Rides in comfortable silence for the next half an hour until they veer off the main road to reach the lab.

She can already see Purah and Robbie waiting by the building’s entrance, beaming and waving at her—ready to show their research to the Princess—eager to tell her of new findings, progress, answers.

And that, too, is the parting of clouds.

After dismounting their steeds and letting one of the lab guards take over, Purah leads them to the centermost room within the building where most of the hubbub takes place. Scientists wander about, gloved hands handling machine cores, stained with ancient grease. It’s busy and electric in a way that makes Zelda think that the nucleus of the kingdom isn’t the Sanctum, where Father’s voice would boom and rebound, but right here—among the brilliant minds that work tirelessly to ensure their success.

Her success.

And she’s ready to follow Purah into her office, but the scientists finally notice her presence, and stop their work to bow solemnly before their princess.

Her palms turn clammy.

“Please, everyone—that’s not necessary,” she says from a valley between geniality and contrition, because she knows full well she hasn’t earned such solemnity. Knows that all these ancient machines and scientific findings would only serve as collectible antiques if she does not fulfill her part.

Besides, if there’s anyone that deserves all the bowing and kneeling, it’s the man standing behind her—ever blue, at the ready—his fulfilled part resting diagonally on his back.

The researchers give her one more reverent nod before they continue with their work, and the moment all those garnet eyes leave her, Zelda exhales.

She walks into Purah’s office—a significantly smaller and dimmer room than the main laboratory—and regards the blackboard on the wall, scrawled with messy Hylian, schematic diagrams of the Guardians scattered across the surface.

“I’m sorry that it took a while to invite you here, Princess.” Purah throws an apologetic look her way. “We didn’t want to show you anything that’s still up in the air.”

Zelda wants to tell her that she wouldn’t have minded it, that she would gladly spend hours here—if not days—pondering upon uncertain things rather than be at the castle, but all that comes out is, “That’s okay, Purah.”

At that, Purah nods, says, “All right—let’s get down to business, shall we?” And Zelda feels her lips crack into a smile.

Next to Purah, Robbie unfurls a scroll atop the desk, revealing a large parchment—an architectural blueprint, so it seems, and then she sees the title printed across the top of the page: NEW RESEARCH LABORATORY — HATENO AND AKKALA.

“Thankfully, after having our proposal thrown around in the Council for so, so damn long,” Purah sighs dramatically, “we’ve finally gotten the grant from the Royal Treasury to build two new ancient tech labs,” she continues. “The Hyrulean Board of Building and Planning decided that they should be built in Hateno Village and North Akkala Foothill.”

“Is the Royal Lab not sufficient for all the research?” Zelda asks.

“It for sure is, Princess,” Robbie interjects, which earns him a slight glare from Purah. He waves her off and continues, “But it’s best if we don’t… what’s the saying? Put all your cucoos in one cage?”

Purah snorts. “It’s ‘put all your eggs in one basket’,” she corrects him, and Robbie shrugs with a ‘close enough’. “Anyway, we thought it best to branch out a little from Central Hyrule, given that most of our important facilities are all located very close to the castle.”

A lump grows in Zelda’s throat. She swallows it and says, “A contingency measure in case of the Calamity.”

Purah nods. “Yes, Princess,” she replies, a rarely seen apprehension haunting in her red eyes. “Now, we may have been given the locations, but we’re still debating where we should exactly build the labs. For Akkala, it’s pretty easy—it isn’t densely populated—lots of available space. But Hateno is trickier.”

“Hateno is a farming village, correct?” asks Zelda.

“Mhmm,” Purah hums. “Not really big, either, and lots of people. So that limits our options—we need to find an area that is secluded enough so that we don’t end up, er, compromising the village if something goes wrong in the lab.” She scratches her neck.

“If I may,” a small voice chimes in from behind Zelda, and it stuns the entire room.

She looks back to find Link taking slow steps to join their circle. In her peripheral vision, Purah’s eyes widen, and Robbie’s jaw drops.

Zelda nods once at her knight, crinkles her eyes just a little to let him know that it’s all right—that he’s allowed—and when Link finally speaks, his voice is steady and firm, even underneath that apparent layer of meekness.

“There’s a hill on the western side of the village—it’s far enough from the center. Might be a good place to start.”

Purah squints suspiciously from behind her round glasses. “And how do you know, Sir Link?”

“I’m from there,” says Link matter-of-factly.

Now it’s Zelda’s mouth’s turn to fall open. Sure, it’s a mere factoid, yet to her it’s anything but. And suddenly, she chastises herself for barely even skimming through Link’s dossier that midwinter afternoon—when it was just announced to her that the boy chosen by the Sword is the youngest knight in all of Hyrule.

But then she’s reminded that that very young knight is now standing next to her, and that she has begun to slowly unearth the real him, one conversation at a time, and the things she’s extracted from him could never be found in official documents.

So chastisement withers, and something proud and almost boastful comes to beat its chest inside her.

“Perhaps you could show us where that spot is on the map, Link?” Zelda replies, nodding at the large map hanging on the wall, which is replied with even more confused looks from Purah and Robbie, akin to the one cast upon her by Impa at the sight of the Princess smiling at the boy she had previously (and wrongfully) despised.

Link, however, appears nonchalant as he walks to said map, and Zelda watches as he grabs one of the free pins sticking on the side of the hanging parchment and punctures the exact spot with the needle.

“There.” He steps back, regards the pin for a few more seconds before stationing himself behind his charge again, retreating into her shade once more. “Just below Retsam Forest and Lake Sumac.”

“Interesting.” Purah purses her lips, then breaks into a smirk. “Well, if the Hero of Hyrule says so…”

“I’m merely offering my two rupees, ma’am,” Link says.

Purah chortles. “Never mind that you just called me ma’am…” She turns around and begins jotting down something in her journal on her desk, “…there’s certainly more to you than meets the eye,” she says. “You should speak more, Sir Link.”

Link replies with his trademark silence, and it truly baffles Zelda how his vocal cords can hold so much power—when he speaks, when he’s quiet—like the jab of a knife through flesh. Like the Sword on his back isn’t his only weapon.

She should know. She has been on the receiving end many, many times. But lately, it serves more as a balm than a knife.

And now that Zelda knows the blade isn’t pointed toward her throat, she looks back at him and smiles. “Thank you for the advice, Link,” she says, and he nods—his eyes nearly obscured by the messy fringe of his hair.

Zelda returns to face Purah and Robbie again. “So what is the next course of action?”

“The location in Akkala is already in the process of getting approved, but we will have to propose the one in Hateno—per Sir Link’s input. Once they approve both, we will start building,” Robbie replies.

“All right, do keep me posted,” Zelda says, and both scientists nod and begin tidying up the scrolls containing blueprints. When they’re finished, she asks, “Anything else on the agenda?”

“Yes, Princess—it’s the main reason why we invited you here, actually,” Purah says, and at that, Robbie retrieves another roll of parchment from the shelf and spreads it on the wooden countertop. Zelda’s eyes immediately zero in on the detailed sketches and diagrams—the oblong-shaped bed and the large dome that hovers above it.

In her mind, minor chords begin to ring.

“Have you uncovered more about the medical facility?” Zelda asks quietly.

“We have, Princess,” Robbie replies. “Now, we already know that this is a tool that can be used to heal injuries—even the most severe ones. But, what we didn’t know is that it can cause memory loss, depending on how long the user stays in it.”

“Memory loss?” Zelda frowns. “How?”

“Sadly, we don’t really have the answer to that, Princess—it’s an incredibly ancient technology. Frankly, we’re lucky that we could get it to function as it does right now,” Purah admits, looking chagrined. “But we discovered this… side effect when we used the tool on one of our scientists.”

Shock spears through Zelda. “You made someone lose their memories?”

“Oh Goddess, of course not, Princess.” Purah waves her off. “She was a willing participant—there were waivers and agreements signed,” she assures Zelda. “Anyhow, she came to work a few weeks ago with a broken arm. From a non-work-related incident,” she stresses the last bit with so much zeal. “So we brought her to the facility, and she was laid on the revitalization bed. After about eight hours, her broken arm was completely healed, but she couldn’t remember the past few days—couldn’t recall how she got her arm broken in the first place.”

“So the side effect is partial amnesia?” Zelda asks. “Is it permanent?”

“It doesn’t seem so, at least not in Mareeah’s case,” Purah replies. “When she returned home and spent time with her family, she started to regain her lost memories. It took her a full day to return to normal,” she says. “But we think that this must be why this tool was considered the backup of a backup—the absolute last resort. Because eight hours in it were enough to remove a few days’ worth of someone’s memories. If the injury’s even more severe and requires the long-term stasis function…”

Zelda swallows. “Such as near-death?”

“Yes.” Purah nods. “In cases like near-death, then the person will require a longer treatment time. Which means that they’ll lose more of their memories.” The scientist’s lips press into a thin line. “We don’t think that they’ll lose their basic motor functions, like how to eat, how to walk, and so forth… But the explicit memories, the things that make a person—life and childhood and relationships…” she pauses, “…they would most likely be gone.”

Yesterday, Anthon told her about the power of intuition, and Zelda opposed it—the certainty of empirical evidence is where she’d feel the safest. For months and months, she has worked and hoped for more clarity, to dispel all the ambiguity that shrouds her eyes. But now that the veil is slowly being lifted, the clarity only sharpens the edges of her dread.

And so there’s no refuge, she decides; there’s horror in both the known and the unknown. Something to fear in every single thing.

Nowhere to hide.

“Be that as it may, it’s… it’s great that we now know more about this… tool,” Zelda says slowly. “And we should follow the steps of our ancestors—this is a last resort.”

“Yes, Princess,” Purah says. “We, ah, we also decided to give the facility a name.” She pauses. “It’s ‘the Shrine of Resurrection’.”

“Resurrection,” Zelda echoes, and just like she did a few months ago in her drawing room, tries her damndest not to imagine a body atop that ancient slab, glowing blue, filled with water. In the throes of death, in need to be resurrected. But then there’s shuffling of boots from behind her, so she instinctively looks over her shoulder and the sight immediately makes her heart plummet to the floor.

To anyone else, he looks composed, perhaps just slightly exhausted—but Zelda likes to think that she isn’t anyone else, so she notices it—the clenching of his jaw, the hard press of his lips.

She supposes that there’s nowhere to hide for him, too.

And then it strikes her like lightning because he is a knight, a soldier, a fighter, and death must be something he sees quite often in his line of work, something promised, and he must be thinking—

Her stomach roils. She desperately shakes the thought off before it makes her more nauseous and asks, “Is that all, Purah?”

“Yes, Princess,” Purah replies, her exuberant voice unusually small.

Zelda exhales harshly. “Very well,” she says, then turns to Robbie. “I’d like to see the flying Guardian you mentioned in your letter—if that’s all right with you.”

Robbie perks up. “Of course, Princess!” He strides towards the doorway, heading back into the main lab room—Purah following behind him. “The Skywatchers are right this way.”

“All right,” Zelda says. “Just give me a moment.” She rubs the perspiration on her fingers on her pants, thinks of an excuse in a split second. “I need to, ah— write something in my field journal.”

Purah and Robbie share a strange look, but then the man says, “Of course, Princess,” and both scientists exit the office room, leaving Zelda and Link alone together—her mind scattered in pieces among the unfurled parchments—the drawn diagrams of the Shrine of Resurrection still visible to her eye.

She breathes for a few seconds, then turns around to face Link.

His visage has restored the monotony she knows so well, but when their eyes meet, there’s the tiniest fissure through the surface in the form of the slight furrow of his wheat brows.

“Are you okay, Princess?” he asks, voice low, stripped of the formal veneer even with the presence of her title. Everything he does is intentional, and the intent of such a voice is not lost on her—this is Link, the man whose skin she had touched and salved with so much care, whose hardened palm her tear had fallen onto.

Zelda huffs a laugh, despite the dread that grows thick somewhere below her brain and behind her heart. Even though she was going to ask him that question herself. She bites her bottom lip.

“Well, you know,” she mumbles and shrugs.

He inclines his head slowly, and her heart breaks, breaks, breaks.

Her hands weigh a ton—limp at her sides, raging to move, to grab and hold onto something, someone, but unable to. Her mind runs amok—questions and speculations and prognoses racing wildly—but when she tries to metabolize them towards her tongue, the words either fail to form or mold into shapes that she’s certainly not prepared to utter aloud—

I’m so scared, Link. Are you?

And somehow, she starts to understand why he holds on to his silence like a desperate man holding on to a cliff’s edge—to not fall, to hang on for dear life.

She doesn’t want to fall, either.

So she follows in his footsteps and says, “How about lunch by the lake right after we look at the Skywatcher?”

His mouth quirks slightly, blue eyes soft and sharp altogether. “Sounds good, Princess.”

The hours pass by quickly as her hands tinker with the Guardian machines, and soon enough, her stomach begs for a break, and Zelda decides to end her visit at the lab, bidding Purah and Robbie goodbye.

Link quickly fetches Ares and Epona, and with their steeds in tow, walks alongside her toward the small lake until they’re canopied beneath a large oak tree. Like clockwork, he sets up their lunch—taking out their lunchboxes from the saddlebags, letting the horses graze freely on the grassy hillside.

They eat in silence, the whistling of the wind and the rustling of grass the only audible thing to her ears. That, and Link’s chewing—though this time he’s a little quieter than when he wolfed down her leftover rice balls a week ago. She’s half of a mind to tell him to eat in however manner he likes, but decides not to—unsure what sort of reasoning to base her request on.

She’s sufficiently full by the time she’s eaten the first piece of meatball on her last skewer, so she eyes Link, still munching through his standard ration of jerkies and thick pea soup.

“I’m full.” Zelda offers her lunchbox his way the same time Link looks up from his meal. “You should take this,” she says, then realizes the state of the skewer—half-eaten, already been in her mouth.

How very unmannerly for a princess, she chides herself.

“If you— if you don’t mind that I’ve eaten from it, that is.”

For all that Link has uttered to her, she knows full well that there’s still much left to root out, because those eyes are still so inscrutable, but he merely shrugs and replies, “No, I don’t mind.”

She smiles a bit—triumphant in the absence of his knightly resistance.

He takes the container from her, but instead of setting it in his lap to consume the food, he lays it on the grass beside him, and suddenly shoots up from where he sits.

Zelda looks up at him, a question set into her scrunched brows. He puts up a hand. “Apologies, Princess—please give me a second,” he tells her, then steps around their scattered belongings, and she thinks maybe he needs to relieve himself, but he jogs to Epona and reaches into his saddlebag.

He returns to sit next to her with a dark leather pouch in the hook of his arm, then loosens the cinches before carefully taking out a metal container, roughly the size of her lunchbox. Unstoppers the lid but doesn’t take it off completely, then holds the container flat in his gloved hands, slow as he extends his arms toward her.

“It’s for you, Princess.” He sounds nervous, and it makes her nervous. She takes it anyway, but before her fingers touch the box, he adds, “It’s very cold, so be careful.”

Zelda heeds his words, and with her gloved palms brushing against his, presses against either side of the container and lifts. Sets it atop her left thigh, and he’s right—it’s cold. Cautiously, she takes off the lid, and what she sees makes her heart leap to her throat.

Inside it is a slice of fruitcake—the berries that garnish the top have fallen to the side, and the cream has puddled on the bottom—but it’s fruitcake, fresh and cold, baked to perfection. To be enjoyed out here, among the tall grass and underneath the sunshade of the tree.

She tears her eyes off the dessert to look at him, and finds those blues already on her—gaze hardened by expectance.

“You remember.” It comes out of her mouth half a question, half a statement. Her chest burns.

His tongue darts out to wet his lip, as if on his way to say something, but then swallows it and resorts to a small nod.

“How did you keep it fresh?” she asks.

“There’s this thing called dry ice in the castle kitchen,” he says, a hand scratching his nape. “It doesn’t melt like liquid ice does, so I asked for some of it. Put it in the bag with the container.”

“Did you bake it, too?”

His chin tilts down, but his eyes do not leave her. “Yeah, I did.”

The more she looks at him, the more her left thigh turns cold from the metal container—fresh dessert on the road just for me—the more her chest burns.

Link, who has saved her life and killed for her despite the hell she put him through; who lied to her father the King; who told her to hide as he charged toward an army of foes; who had apologized for his silence.

Link, who baked fruitcake early in the morning, stored it safely in a leather bag full of dry ice, and met her at the castle paddock—her stallion already tacked up.

Everyday, with every little thing that he does—the smallest gesture, the quietest breath—her debt grows, grows, grows. And she tries to repay him each time with all she has, but still, it’s not enough, because he keeps on outdoing her, outdoing himself, and it makes her mad—rage at herself.

A fresh fruitcake for her, a half-eaten meatball skewer for him.

No wonder Hylia despises her so.

“Thank you, Link,” Zelda says, mouth all sandpapery, needles prickling her cheeks. She will not cry. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Link smiles. “You’re welcome, Princess.” He finally takes the skewer in his hand, draws it to his lips. “And thank you for the skewer, too.”

A laugh bubbles in her throat. She shakes her head in part-mirth, part-disbelief. She wants to say, You’re an insane man, do you know that?

Wants to say, I understand now why She loves you so.

But she grabs her wooden spoon, slices the cake with it, then eats—a burst of wildberries, apples, oranges. A coat of decadent vanilla, rich cream. Soft sponge, its texture both light and dense—perfect. Caramel and tart and somehow color—all bursting in her mouth.

She swallows, so much sweetness down her gullet, taking her words along with it.

It doesn’t take much time before the fruitcake is all devoured, and it takes a fourth of that duration for Link to finish her leftovers.

As he takes away the dirty dishes and washes them by the lakeside, Zelda watches him—calloused fingers thoroughly scrubbing the cream she didn’t get to lick off the container for the sake of being seemly in his presence. Watches his back—the purple and gold that always mark him, reflecting sunlight into her eyes no matter how far away she is. Ponders at the contrast—ancient soul and farm boy; hands capable of cooking and killing; a roughened soldier surrounded by delicate flowers.

The dissonance strikes her bittersweet—out here, there's so much light, so much life. Her knight, too, is brimming with life in the littleness of his movements, even though a few hours ago they were in a dimmed room, contemplating eventualities, contemplating death.

And Zelda may not be a musician, may not have the clairvoyance nor practical skill to arrange her thoughts in an artistic way, but now intuition rumbles gently inside her—this is your lightning in a bottle—so she detaches the Slate from her belt, holds it up until the lens is lined up with the view she wants to capture.

Then she clicks.

Link turns around at the noise—its aperture not shuttering as quickly as the reflex of his alert body. The resulting image is a blur of honey blonde and cerulean blue in mid-motion, his face almost a wraith. She supposes it’s quite fitting; there’s something haunting about him being a mere haze, a mirage of some sort—forever a cipher for her to decode, an ineffability she tries to make effable.

“S-sorry,” Zelda stammers. Clears her throat. “I was just testing the camera before I start photographing these flowers.”

There’s a tinge of bewilderment in his eyes as his familiar scrutiny pricks at her skin, but it vanishes in a second; he nods and returns his gaze to the lake, continues his task.

With a slow breath out of her mouth, Zelda makes good of what she said, and starts inspecting the flora around her; daffodils, forget-me-nots, daisies—swaying about from the breeze as if rejoicing in the sun’s warmth amidst autumn chill, completely ignorant of the dark storm that brews, ready to hail over the land they sink their roots into.

It isn’t long until Link is finished with the dishwashing, and as she takes more photographs—click, click, click—he settles behind her, quiet and observant—those eyes warm on her back like the beating of the sun.

“The flowers we have in Hyrule aren't just beautiful,” Zelda starts, narrowing the lens of the Slate to take a closer photo. “They're also quite useful as ingredients for a variety of things.” Another click of the shutter. “Like this one, for example—” She scoots a little to the side to grant a better view for her knight. “Forget-me-nots aren’t just a symbol of true love and fidelity—you can make it into a tea! It is said to promote skin beauty and speed up metabolism.”

Link hums. “If you crush them into an herbal paste and slather it on an open wound, you can stop the bleeding faster, too.”

Zelda turns her torso and looks him in the eye. “Is that so?”

He nods.

“Hmm, I didn’t know that,” she admits. “I want to try it sometime.” At that, Link frowns with worry, and Zelda realizes the implication. “Oh Goddess, not on me!” she adds, then gasps as a second realization dawns on her. “Well—not on you either, Link.”

If it were up to her, he would never be cut nor wounded ever again.

But that, she keeps as a silent prayer.

“So I guess you’ll never try it, then?” Link smirks, though there’s something soft about the crease on either side of his lips.

“Yes.” A grin splits her face. “Let’s vow to never use these forget-me-nots as a remedy for bleeding.”

In reply, Link raises his left hand to splay it upon his chest, right over his heart, before bowing his head dramatically—as though voicing his knightly oath all over again.

It’s a mock gesture—she knows. A joke shared between friends, because that’s what they are now, aren’t they? But it does not cheapen the act, at least not in her mind, where she greedily and quietly consumes any morsel he has deigned to feed her like candy.

So Zelda mirrors him: scoots in place so that she’s fully facing him, her right hand at her side, still holding the Slate—her left hand rising to press over her heart. Bows her head in the same manner that he does—chin almost touching her sternum, her long locks spilling past her shoulders to flow madly over her breasts.

Their gazes meet the same time they raise their heads. Link’s eyes betray nothing, and she can only hope that hers do the same.

Zelda shifts on her knees again to regard the flowers that scatter all around her. Takes one more picture with the Slate, and that’s when she notices it—the lone flower amidst the abundant daisies and daffodils.

Out of respect for the flower she seldom sees, she attaches the Slate back to her hip, and draws herself closer to take in the precious sight—the blue-white petals, the bright yellow anther.

“This one here is called the silent princess,” she tells him. “It's a rare, endangered species.” She bends down, plants her palms on the ground, angling her hips just enough to the right so Link can see, too. “Despite our efforts, we can't get them to grow domestically yet; the princess can only thrive out here in the wild.”

She would laugh at the glaringly obvious parallel if it weren’t for the melancholy tightening in her chest.

“All that we can hope…” She brings a hand to caress the petals—fingers lingering on the closed bud—a burgeon of small hope. “…is that the species will be strong enough to prosper on its own.”

The word hope sounds odd, coming from her mouth. A mouth that belongs to a body that is no stranger to hoping but lately cannot anymore, for to hope is to hurt. Still, she hopes—if not for herself, then for this land. For all the souls that hail from it. For all the flowers she’s seen and hasn’t yet seen. For all the animals that seek refuge in every crevice of it—boars and wolves and birds and insects and—

Among the blades of grass, something small and green leaps once before stilling in its perch, and Zelda lurches forward, trapping it between two cupped hands.

“Is that what I think it is?! Look at this!” It wiggles against her palms, eager to escape, but she keeps her hands sealed as she turns and scoots closer towards Link once more. “I don’t believe it, but I actually caught one!”

In front of her, Link’s eyes widen.

“This delicacy is known to have very, very potent effects under the proper circumstances.” She extends her arms toward him, then carefully reveals the hot-footed frog she’s successfully caught. “Ta-dah!”

His blues are like saucers now, and she has to bite down a laugh.

“Research from the castle shows ingesting one of these can actually augment certain abilities,” she carries on, still mindful not to let the frog hop away. “We wouldn't be in a controlled environment out here, but with your level of physical fitness… you'd be a perfect candidate for the study!”

The horror dawns on his face; he shakes his head frantically, but she is nothing if not a persistent scholar, so she shoves the frog into his face.

“Go on! Taste it!”

He’s still shaking his head. “No, Princess.”

“Oh, please, Link?” Without meaning to, she purses her lips, bats her lashes. “I heard you can increase your agility with this little creature!”

There’s a few seconds of silence—of Link frowning and visibly thinking, those ancient gears turning behind blue irises—but eventually, he acquiesces.

“Okay.”

Zelda beams. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He looks quite defeated, and it sends both amusement and a strange ache to her insides. “Give me the frog.”

“No! You can’t have another point of contact with the frog—only your mouth,” she reasons. “We still have to keep it as close to a controlled environment as possible.”

Link inhales audibly—his chest heaving with it—then scoots closer in agreement. Zelda grins from ear to ear.

“What do you want me to do, Princess?”

“Obviously don’t eat it right here, Link! That’s rather barbaric.” She snorts. “Just… lick it.” He sighs and nods, but she shakes her head. “No, no—not just a small lick, that won’t do. You must do it thoroughly for it to have an effect.”

She thinks she hears a low mutter of ‘Gods help me’, and she’s about to poke fun at him—oh, come on, Hero of Hyrule!—but then he bends his head down, leans into her hands, meets her eyes from behind those wild wisps of wheat blonde.

Darts his tongue out before licking a slow stripe up the frog’s spotted back.

Zelda’s lips part slightly, letting out a quiet exhale.

Link withdraws, not a single hint of disgust marring his face. As he straightens up, she’s trying to even out her breathing, but then everything shatters when he finally grimaces and coughs and mutters something Zelda thought she’d never hear from her stoic knight:

“Oh, fuck.”

And Zelda guffaws.

He backs away from her and turns around to crawl to the base of the tree and retrieve his waterskein. He unstoppers it, all frenetic, and gulps so much water before swishing it around his mouth and spitting it to the ground.

Zelda laughs and laughs—she’s still laughing as he drinks more water, some of it dripping down his neck, darkening the collar of his tunic. Revels in his humanity, his imperfection, the crack in his composure—candy, candy, candy.

When the nausea has subsided from his expression, all that’s left is shame. “Princess, I’m so sorry.”

Zelda laughs softly. “Oh, for Din’s sake, Link, it’s all right,” she tells him, returning beneath the shade of the tree, joining Link at his side. “You can swear in front of me all you like.”

“Sir Remi would kill me if he found out,” he says, though thankfully, the shame has melted away, replaced by a sheepish smile. “That’s not exactly being a ‘paragon of decorum’, as they had drilled into our heads as squires.”

“Then let’s keep this between us, yes?” She offers her right hand his way—her pinky jutting out.

Her second secret vow of the day.

A beat of his gaze touching her fingertip, then he brings his hand up and hooks his pinky with hers; a mismatched puzzle, disparate pieces—smooth skin coiling with calluses. Powerlessness twined with powerfulness.

The most tragically beautiful equilibrium.

Zelda lets go after a beat—loosening the curl of her pinky and pulling herself free from their intertwinement—her finger warm from the contact, her voice suddenly keen on staying quiet.

Surprisingly, Link is the first to speak: “I don’t feel any more agile than usual, unfortunately.”

Zelda bursts out a laugh. “I’m sorry,” she says, lips tingling, somehow. ”I hope I didn’t end up poisoning the Hero of Hyrule.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, something fond in his eyes—a quiet ‘It’s fine,’ perhaps—before saying, “Do you want to go back home, Princess?”

Zelda looks behind her, past the rolling meadows, at the castle—dark spires against bright blue, its towers piercing the skies like a spear through her body—its draw like gravity—inevitable, pulling her back to the thousand eyes that judge, dissect.

Not home.

“No,” Zelda answers, leaning against the rough bark. “Let’s stay a little while longer.”

Link nods and does the same—detaching the Sword from his baldric and setting it down on the grass beside him, then drawing his knees up—back against the tree. His right shoulder a few inches away from her left.

Silence falls over them, and while she doesn’t mind it—while she understands that there is indeed strength in silence—she thinks that there’s also power to be drawn from the lack of it, too. To talk, to share, to ask—now that she knows she won’t be met with reticence.

So she looks at him—profile dappled by the light leaking through the boughs overhead—and says, “I never knew that you were from Hateno Village.”

He turns, blues meeting her greens. “Really?”

Suddenly, honesty swells on her tongue, pushing past her teeth—any decorous wish for the concealment of the questions she’s longed to ask him crystallizing into one single verbal thought:

“I feel as if there are many things I don’t know about you.”

His brows raise a little. Then it’s one corner of his lips that follows. “I’m an open book, Princess.”

At that, Zelda actually laughs, flabbergasted. “Okay, I’m sorry—” she brings a hand up to her mouth, trying to cover her unladylike grin, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to heavily disagree with you on that.”

Link is still smiling. “Why?”

“Why?” She gives him an amused look. “Link, you’re not exactly the most open person in this kingdom.”

“You just gotta ask, Princess.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but when she finds no trace of pretense, she clears her throat and weighs all her options.

At the end, her brain short-circuits and settles for, “Does your family still live in Hateno?”

“My mother does.”

“Do you visit her often?”

“Twice a year ever since I moved to the barracks,” Link says.

“Gods, they really ought to give you a raise,” Zelda sighs, and he chuckles, though he doesn’t say more. The extra beat of silence injects further curiosity—further courage—into her honesty, so she adds, “Is there anyone else that you usually visit when returning home?”

He shakes his head. “Just my mother, Princess.”

It slips from her mouth so easily, a boulder tumbling down a hill— “So you do not have a steady?”

Link half-pinches his eyes. “A steady?”

She’s halfway to retracting it—a nonchalant ‘nevermind’ ready between the nocking points of the bow of her tongue—but that would just be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?

So she gives up. Exhales in tandem with the words coming out of her: “A lover.” She pauses. “A girlfriend. Boyfriend. Whatever.”

Link laughs—the sound residing deep somewhere in his chest, his shoulders shaking with it. Though more canorous than any bard could ever hope to be, Zelda rolls her eyes in annoyance, swats the back of her hand at his clothed deltoid—a playful, friendly gesture.

“Oh, come on, Link!”

“A steady.” He’s still laughing. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone refer to it as that before.”

Zelda pouts and crosses her arms below her breasts, sulks by looking away from him.

His voice is just half a pitch lower than usual when he tells her, “No, Princess.”

She tilts her face to look him in the eye again—his gaze suddenly placid again, earnest but cryptic. She breathes, “What?”

“No, I don’t have a steady.”

A thick, tight knot Zelda didn’t even know had coiled inside her gut loosens—diaphragm slackening, making way for relief, though quickly eclipsed by self-criticism. Because she shouldn’t be asking such questions; because it’s truly none of her business how he conducts his life outside of his job; because that’s what she is—a job bestowed upon him, both divine and royal—regardless of their newfound friendship.

She dispels her darkening thoughts with another laugh—breathy and faux. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried.”

Link’s eyes soften in their azure sharpness. “It’s okay.”

It’s not, Zelda thinks, because each time he says ‘it’s okay’, each time he lets her pry, that thing inside her—all primal and feral—turns greedier. Each piece of him she unearths serves as fuel to a fire that has long blazed beneath her skull before she even realized there was a fire to be stoked at all.

It must be a fire, for it is the only part in her blood that sings and warms in clarity, whereas the others dwell in the depths of her core like the oldest ice—ancient, unreachable.

“Speaking of Hateno…” Zelda starts, because Link has been so generous today and she must make up for it, regardless of how worthless her compensation may be. “My favorite shampoo is from there, you know,” she says, running her palms flat up and down her thighs. “Especially the lavender one. My mother had used it on me ever since I was an infant.”

“Oh, that figures,” Link says. “I know the soap maker, actually.”

She gapes at him. “You’re lying.”

“I would never lie to you, Princess,” he tells her, and her greed relishes those words. “I used to train a lot with her son. And she would trade gift baskets with my mother, sometimes; she’d give us soap bars, shampoo, incense, what have you.”

“All right—I’m truly jealous, now,” she huffs. “I want to go to Hateno.”

“It’s nothing special,” he replies.

“Oh, Sir Link, I beg to differ.” It’s where you were born. “You have no idea how much I love that shampoo.”

He breathes a laugh. “I’m starting to get some idea.”

“You know what?” Zelda surges from her seat, uncrossing her legs to settle on her ankles—all of her angled towards him. “One day, I will make it to Hateno, and then you will introduce me to the soap maker. And then I’ll learn how to concoct my favorite shampoo.”

The sadness alights on her like a darner, soft in its flutters but undeniably there, each wingbeat an itch in her weary heart; here she is, trying to make plans—plans that do not serve as contingencies, but for the sake of living life. Of looking past all that murk that awaits her—awaits them.

Link says, “Deal.”

Despite everything, she brightens and leans closer toward him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “If that’s what you really want.”

“Yeah—” she breathes, “—yes, I really want that.”

Suddenly, Link sits up, and though she may never fully decipher everything that he does—the shift of his hands on the grass as if to inch closer to her, the smile that’s small but somehow still reaches his eyes—she understands now that they have always contained an unfathomable amount of kindness.

And his kindness—he—is the single source of light, her lantern in the dark.

So she holds on to it.

“Then I’ll take you there someday, Princess. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Zelda receives letters from many—noblemen who are just eager to bring their sons over now that she’s halfway to her seventeenth year; children from various villages who wish for a written birthday card from the Princess; courtiers bearing formal announcements.

They always come on a metal tray—brought by her handmaid, a garnish to her assortment of breakfast foods—and this morning is no different.

She sits at the roundtable in her chamber, her fingers sifting through the stack of envelopes atop the tray, mentally compartmentalizing them—read now, read later, read later, never read—as Nora nurses her first cup of tea. It isn’t until the seventh letter in the stack that Zelda stops in her tracks, half a breath inflating her lungs as she regards the blue-silver wax seal upon the back of the envelope.

The royal crest of the Zora.

Her heartbeat ticks up—from excitement or dread, she does not know—as she slices the flap clean with a letter opener. Inside is a neatly folded piece of paper—high-quality thick cellulose, she notes—and a whiff of lotus perfume greets her nose as she finally reads the message:

Dear Princess Zelda of Hyrule,

I hope that everything has been well and that the Autumn has been kind to you since we last saw each other.

My family and I would like to cordially invite you to Zora’s Domain. I believe it is long overdue for us to extend the same warm hospitality that your family has given to us during our many visits to Hyrule Castle. I am also thrilled to let you know that my training with the Divine Beast Vah Ruta went splendidly, and I would love nothing more than to show you her magnificent abilities during your visit here.

I very much look forward to welcoming you and Link.

My warmest regards,
Mipha, Princess of the Zora

The first thing Zelda notices is the penmanship—soft strokes that always end just slightly bolder—the hand of a gentle yet sure woman.

The second thing is Link. No Sir—just Link.

The third is the way Link is written—each line that makes up the letters of his name is darker and thicker than the others—a warm intent packed into the perceptible stress of the quill, inking the surface slowly, carefully.

Out of her volition, her fingers run across the paper—fingertips tracing the scratch and ink of his name, trying to coax some kind of truth out of it, though all it does is humble her straight to the ground; she’s always known that the Zora Champion is fond of her knight—had seen him in his youth, all rambunctious and lively before his lonely pilgrimage to the Lost Woods eventually forged him into the tough, stoic man everyone knows him to be.

And Zelda may have begun to unearth parts of him, but the letter strikes through her as a reminder that there will always be other parts that are lost to pressure and age—unattainable by her, but already touched by others.

It’s unfortunately a familiar feeling—after all, she’s the only woman from a long, long line of women who had successfully touched and wielded their golden power. What’s another impossibility carved into her delicate, lightless hands?

She lays the letter gently atop the table. Takes a swig of the tea and lets the wildberry-sweet flood the cavity of her mouth—a bid to dissolve the bitterness blooming inside.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work, and all she’s left with is a burnt tongue.

With fists clenched atop the armrests, she informs Father of the invitation. She calculates that the probability of him allowing her to leave the castle for Zora’s Domain is much higher than him disallowing it—after all, as a sovereign, he must maintain a good diplomatic relationship with other leaders, especially one with such a prominent standing as King Dorephan.

Still, she holds her breath as Father reads the letter. Pushes her tongue against the back of her teeth—still tender and stinging from her breakfast tea. Prepares herself for a rejection, for it is never out of the realm of possibility.

Pessimism serves as a shelter of comfort as of late.

However, Father nods and takes off his reading glasses.

“Very well, you may visit Zora’s Domain,” he says, a sigh just barely audible beneath his voice, his tired green eyes meeting hers. “Though I must ask you to make a stop in Lake Hylia before you journey back home; your mother spent a lot of time there when she was but a child—praying in the water. It is no Sacred Spring, but it is still a body of water named after the Goddess.”

Zelda swallows. It’s so late in Autumn now—no doubt the water in the lake would be near frigid.

“Will do, Father,” she replies. “I shall head out tomorrow.”

The sooner she leaves the castle, the better, she thinks—but then something else trickles into his viridian gaze, something she seldom sees in him—

Warmth.

“Don’t forget to bring lots of coldproof elixirs, dear,” Father reminds her. “It’s getting colder by the day; I would hate for you to catch a cold.”

Her heart aches and aches. Her lips quiver into a smile. “I won’t, Father. I’ll tell Link to prepare the ingredients for the trip.”

Father nods again, though the corner of his mouth quirks upward.

Zelda raises her brows. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing,” he says, chuckling. “It’s just funny—the passage of time.” When she continues to squint at him, he shrugs his shoulders. “You’ve warmed up to your knight.”

Zelda presses her lips before saying, “He saved my life.”

“He’s a good man.” A strange fondness is etched into the curve of his silver brows—a little prick through her heart.

He’s always extolled Link’s extraordinary fulfillment of his sacred duty—that much is obvious. And while she can finally see eye to eye with Father when it comes to him, she knows that on the opposite side of that pride lies Father’s disappointment in her, in her lack of success.

And that hasn’t changed.

On the burnt tip of her tongue, she can almost taste the sand dust. Can almost feel her left wrist throb—her failure permanently embedded somewhere inside the carpal underneath her skin; each healed ligament a proof of Link’s valiance, Link’s kindness.

So does each breath she takes ever since the desert.

“He is,” Zelda murmurs.

Father hums. “Well, I am relieved to see you be more amicable towards Sir Link—I think it’s about time,” he says. “Who knows? Perhaps you may learn something from him.”

I try to do so everyday. “Yes,” she replies, quiet.

“All right, then,” Father exhales, picking up his quill before dipping it into the inkwell—an end to their short but amiable conversation—a rarity these days. “Do send my greetings to Dorephan and his children.” He pauses. “And do give Sir Link some time to catch up with the Zora Princess—I’ve heard the two are quite close.”

Her stomach churns. “I will.”

With that, she nods and rises—all warm and cold—and leaves the drawing room.

To her right, Link remains stationed by the doors—standing at ease. His gaze seems to search into hers, concern ever so slightly carved into the weak knit between his brows; he’s no stranger to her meetings with Father, after all; knows that it usually ends with fists curled at her sides and eyes shining with moisture.

It ends the same now, though Father isn’t the sole reason for it, and she manicures every line in her face to betray nothing—lips relaxed, jaws slack. No pucker on her forehead, though past the thick shell of her skull is a brain that rages, wails.

She continues walking and his footfalls immediately follow—a faithful shadow.

“We shall set out to Zora’s Domain tomorrow,” she says, her voice carefully flat. “What would be the best route for the trip?”

They turn a corner. A maid stops in her tracks and curtsies as the Princess walks past, then gapes with starry eyes at the Hero.

They press on. “We can cut through Crenel Hills, Princess. Cross over Thims Bridge and follow the main road southeast until we meet Inogo Bridge. There’s a small inn there—we can stay the night before continuing through Tabahl Woods. Then it’s only four to five hours of ride to the Domain.”

Another turn into another hallway. Oil paintings line the walls—landscapes of places she’s never set foot in, portraits of foremothers she’s never met.

“Great.” Her neck aches to turn and glance at him, but she resists it. Her gums itch to say something—but that, too, she tries with all her might to hold back—until they cross the threshold that leads them outside to the small chapel. “You seem very familiar with the way to the Domain.”

There’s a pause. “Yeah— I’ve been there a few times.”

“Well, this trip should be very exciting for you, then,” Zelda says. “Meeting your friends and whatnot.”

“I suppose,” Link replies—a hint of a question mark at the last syllable. If she looks over her shoulder now, perhaps she’ll find his face bearing the faintest frown.

Finally, they arrive at the heavy doors of the small chapel—Nora already waiting for her, her holy armor in the maid’s hands: golden cuffs, golden necklace, white gown.

Zelda turns around to the steadfast sight of Link—always three paces away—and her chest aches. He may be wrapped in her kingdom’s regalia—navy blue and ivory white and burgundy—but beneath the mark of his uniform lies a man whose life extends beyond the castle walls. A life she may never fully know, for she has not been there since the beginning.

“I have to pray for the next three hours,” she tells him, pushing past the slight quaver in her voice, though she thinks, stupid, he knows my schedule.

Under the neck-high collar of his inner shirt, his throat visibly bobs. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right here, Princess.”

You’ll be right here because it’s your duty.

She doesn’t say that, however—merely nods once and beckons for Nora to join her into the chapel, the heavy doors creaking as her maid closes them.

A bulwark of wood and reinforced steel and stone in between them—between the bowels of his mind and the questions she has longed to ask him the day he came to her bearing the Sword.

She carries all of them, tungsten inside her body, and wades into the water for the millionth time.

The journey to Zora’s Domain takes two days, as Link correctly predicted—with an overnight stop at an inn near Inogo Bridge, which serves more as a rental study than a temporary bedroom since sleep has decided to completely elude her.

After an eternity of restless tossing and turning on a bed that’s too hard for her liking, Zelda finally falls asleep. She wakes five hours later, which she begrudgingly counts as a blessing anyway.

It’s the afternoon when they cross the last bridge leading into the Domain—Zora guards politely greeting them, offering to stable their horses. The moment they dismount, it comes like tides crashing against the shore of her ears—

‘Link, no time no see!’

‘Spirits, you’ve grown so fast!’

Link, for the most part, doesn’t say much—he waves back and he smiles, but his voice remains unheard.

They welcome her, too, though the difference in their tone is as clear as day—the warmth their eyes bear for her knight replaced by obligatory respect, but Zelda harbors no hard feelings toward them; she is barely a princess of her own kingdom—looked down on by many, scorned by her own Court.

And around these parts, she’s a mere foreigner—a guest to be welcomed but not revered.

As they make their way along the Great Zora Bridge, Zelda feels it like she feels the cold wind gusting through her hair—eyes that scrutinize, lips that frown. Here she is: a powerless girl, harbinger of doom—dragging their beloved, fierce Princess into an impending war.

Yet Zelda can appreciate the semblance of courtesy and cordiality—whatever coldness the Zora give her is nothing compared to the rudely blatant criticism she’d hear in every corner of Central Hyrule. The guard leading her and Link to the guest quarters is perfectly amiable as she gives her a lay of the land—told in a way that a local guide might to a tourist.

Once they make it to her designated bedroom, the guard informs her that Princess Mipha will arrive to properly welcome her very soon, and leaves—Link in front of the layers of bead curtain that serve as a door, her traveling pack in his hands.

“I can… I can take that with me inside,” Zelda says, nodding at the canvas bag.

“Are you sure?”

“Link, I can carry things by myself just fine,” she sighs, but immediately regrets it the moment the exasperated tone of her voice hits her ears.

“I’m sorry, Princess, I didn’t mean it that way—”

“No—” Zelda pinches her eyes shut. Shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I… I’m just not feeling the very best, you see.” She pauses. “I’m on my monthly.”

It isn’t a lie—she is, but the real reason for her tempestuous mind isn’t something she wants to pick apart and analyze right now, and definitely not in his presence.

“Oh.” He presses his lips. Concern set in his tense jaw. “Is there anything I can do? Should I make a warming poultice?”

Somehow, those questions only send a prick behind her eyes. “No need. Thank you, Link.”

With a slightly audible exhale, he proffers the pack to her, and she takes it by the straps—fingertips brushing against his as he lets go of its weight. She’s careful not to meet his eyes—afraid of what her greens might reveal if she gives him the chance to peer through them.

Wordlessly, she steps inside the guest room—bright blue bead curtains tinkling and shimmering in motion as she passes through. Sets the pack by the foot of the circular bed (waterbed, so it seems,) and takes in the view from the arched windows—Ploymus Mountain looming tall, the tip of Shatterback Point puncturing the skies—her eyes never catching a reprieve from the infinite shades of blue.

In an effort to ease the jitters of her nerves, she unpacks her clothes—her warm cape, her royal blue gown, her nightclothes. Hangs them in the bathroom and avoids her own reflection in the mirror above the sink, because it’s not only Link’s eyes that she wants to evade—

She, too, must evade the full wrath of her own scrutiny.

As she smooths her hands down the white fur of her warm cape, she hears footsteps from the hallway, followed by a soft gasp.

“Link!” the voice says, warm and sugary. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!”

Then Zelda hears what sounds like the rustling of fabric—the jangling of metal on metal, chainmail against the buckle of a baldric—the press and embrace of two bodies—and she tries to even her breathing as she winds the cape around her shoulders and does the clasps at the collar with trembling hands.

More muffled voices: “Is Princess Zelda inside?”

“Yes.”

Zelda inhales at the same time she hears the knock on the doorframe. She walks out of the bathroom, squares her shoulders, and rasps, “Come in!”

The bead curtains part to reveal the Zora Princess, all sartorial elegance and twinkling amber eyes and dignified smile, bowing her head just slightly before saying, “It is so delightful to see you again, Princess Zelda.”

Zelda tries to fashion a smile that she hopes appears just as dignified. “The pleasure is all mine, Princess Mipha.”

Mipha steps closer—the silver trident across her back glinting from the sunlight pouring through the window, the shine of its sharp prongs flaring into Zelda’s eyes. “My father is rather preoccupied at the moment, I’m afraid—some Council matter—so I do apologize for his absence. Not to worry, he’ll be joining us tonight for dinner.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Zelda replies. She supposes that that’s one common ground she has with the Zora Princess—busy monarchs who are also their father.

“I also hope you’ve found the guest room to be satisfactory, Princess—this is the biggest room we have for our Hylian visitors.”

Zelda has never slept in a waterbed, unsure if it would feel comfortable, but doesn’t find herself fretting about it that much; it’s unlikely that she’d be sleeping a lot for the next two nights.

“It’s perfect. Thank you, Princess Mipha.”

At that, Mipha laughs. “Please, my title is surely not necessary between us. I was just about to tell you that while the invitation might seem formal… I hope that this visit is more relaxed and intimate,” she says, red-scaled fingers fidgeting at one of the charms around her ornate belt. “We shall head to war together, after all—I’d like to think that we’re all friends.” She pauses, then titters, “Despite what Revali might think...”

The guilt grows tight in Zelda’s chest—it’s my war, it’s my blood—but she chuckles anyway, shakes it off the same way she has shaken off the tons of doubts and insecurities that have plagued her since the evening Mother died—willing for them all to reduce into phantom rivulets down her skin.

“Yes, Revali definitely doesn’t think so.” She grins sardonically. “Likewise, Mipha—you can call me Zelda.”

Mipha’s smile brightens, genuine and kind, and for a moment, Zelda thinks that she can do this—quell whatever it is that rages inside her and get through the next three days.

“Well then, I’d very much like to show you around my home, Zelda.”

It’s easy to see why Mipha so assuredly and proudly calls it home.

They call it the Jewel of Lanayru—known for its distinct opulence; its diamond, the palace, drenched in pristine water, gleaming bright and cool. But even more striking than its outward beauty, Zelda thinks, is the people—no matter where Mipha walks, she’s greeted with at least a smile—and at most a conversation about nothing and everything: her people tell her of their families, their vacations, their troubles. Laughs and mingles and gossips and wishes her a nice day. She’s had to stop many from babbling for too long—reminding them that she’s hosting the Princess of Hyrule.

Zelda stays quiet most of the time; replies to the forced pleasantries from the other Zora with a small upturn of her lips. Listens intently as Mipha rhapsodizes about the history of the Domain, showing the different Zora artifacts scattered about the palace, giving her a brief overview of their origins.

The scholar in her revels in all the newfound knowledge, but the other part of her—mortal and powerless—envies the clarity and completeness of Zoran history. It isn’t as if her own kingdom lacks such things—Hyrule Castle itself is history in the form of brick and stone—but merely studying history is not enough, not for her.

She’s learned that the long and hard way.

But she continues to listen anyway. Provides her insights and tells Mipha her thoughts about each shown artifact. Even takes out the Slate and photographs some items that might be of importance when it comes to understanding Vah Ruta better, although she knows that Mipha most likely doesn’t need any adjustments—she’s already a proficient pilot.

And so having a king for a father and Princess as a title is the only similarity they share, Zelda decides—and ironically, that disparateness only grows sharper when Mipha shows her the crown her mother—the late Queen of the Zora—used to wear, laid on a plush blue velvet cushion behind a glass encasement in the palace’s gallery.

“Is that emerald?” Zelda asks, pointing at the centermost stone set on the crown.

“It is! Fifty karats of oval-cut emerald,” Mipha replies. “It’s been in our family for thousands of years, so we don’t know where it exactly came from.”

“Well, certainly not from Hyrule.” Zelda huffs a laugh. “My family has all kinds of regalia and jewelry, but none of them bear even the smallest emerald stone. It doesn’t naturally form here, for some reason.”

“Right, right.” Mipha nods. “Anyhow, it’s funny that you mention it—because this particular stone caught the eye of a special Hylian boy years ago.”

Zelda’s breath hitches. She wants to turn around—to look at him—but she stands frozen. Her eyes rooted in the deep green of the emerald stone as though she can swim in it and time-travel, peer through the murk of the polished crystal and see that lost part of him for herself.

In her peripheral vision, Mipha glances at Link—a smirk on her lips.

“For some reason, you just liked this crown the most out of all the things in the gallery,” Mipha continues. “Oh, I won’t ever forget it! You were eight and you told me, ‘Mipha, I love that stone so much. I love how green it is. Like grass, like trees.’”

Link lets out a noise that sounds like a sheepish chuckle, and Zelda’s neck itches to look.

“I asked you, ‘Is green your favorite color?’ but you just grinned like you were keeping the biggest secret!” Mipha laughs. “Such a strange, sweet child, you were.”

Finally, there’s enough courage loaded up Zelda’s spine to make her turn around, and is immediately met with Link’s gaze boring into hers.

Like thunderbolt, those eyes; never failing to sway her off her axis, to make her mind run a thousand miles inside her skull just to be able to decode the ciphers written into those blue irises. And suddenly, she wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him—tell him, Never say that you’re an open book ever again.

It takes another second before she could tear her eyes off him, to look at Mipha’s instead—and Zelda thinks, there it is.

Amber eyes gleaming with familiarity, with fondness, and a third thing that Zelda dares not to name though she knows full well what it is.

And suddenly, she finds herself not only wishing to be the fifty-karat emerald stone in that crown, but to be Mipha, too—just for the sole reason of knowing Link in a way that she never could.

Just to be able to truly know him at all.

And so it goes again—artifact after artifact—tours d’horizon which Zelda listens to with great concentration because as of the moment, it’s the only thing that prevents her mind’s impending descent. She hums as Mipha tells her about the millennium-old golden trident once wielded by her grandfather. Inquires and comments when it’s appropriate to—the East Reservoir Lake is such a great feat. All of us Hyruleans are thankful for its existence.

Ignores the man standing three paces behind her, suppresses the question that haunts the silence between each spoken word:

If she were to turn around again, whose back would those blues rest upon?

It’s not long until the sun sets—casting the faintest tint of warmth over the cool tones that define the Domain, though it disappears just as Zelda makes her way to the royal dining hall within the palace. The train of her standard blue gown drags behind her, sweeps the cyan floors.

Mipha had stressed to her earlier that the dinner would be small and intimate, but Zelda didn’t take heed of it, opting to don her battlewear—her trusty chainmail of velvet and taffeta—because there is always some semblance of power and confidence to be found in one’s attire. The tightness of the corset around her torso, the heaviness of the diadem that sits atop her head, the unyielding metal of the cuffs fastened around her forearms—armor upon armor upon armor.

As she keeps her chin up high and ignores the glares from the Zora courtiers she passes, she focuses on the echoing footsteps behind her—heavy boots against marble, but their cadence light like that of a cat on a prowl—familiar with its terrain but still on high alert.

Even within the relic of his childhood, he is still a soldier—has to be—and the thought makes her throat constrict with guilt.

She swallows that down as she twists her face into a smile and stops before the double doors. Straightens her back and clenches her clammy palms as the Zora guards push them open, revealing the dining hall.

King Dorephan, a tower of a man, sits atop his pool-throne at the head of the large, long table. His regalia stands out bright and proud—the crown haloing around his head, the myriad sashes and aiguillettes that cross his broad torso—and Zelda is relieved that she is wearing her own regalia, because as intimate as the dinner may be, she is still representing her father and her country.

With that being said, Mipha did not lie—the only people in attendance are King Dorephan himself, Mipha, and her little brother Sidon whom Zelda has met only once. Regardless, even as the Crown Princess of Hyrule, it would be expected of her to curtsy in the presence of another monarch.

As the descendant of Hylia, however, she reigns supreme and would never have to bow before anyone, but whatever fraction of her blood that carries Hylia’s divinity continues to slumber, unresponsive to her decade-long plea, so she puts one foot in front of the other and bends both knees just slightly, bowing her head.

“Princess Zelda,” King Dorephan’s voice booms from above, almost mortified. “Please, no need for such a gesture. You are among friends here.”

In this room, it appears that she is among friends, but she only needs to walk out those doors behind her and subject herself to the rest of the Zora’s silent judgment to realize that they are no friends of hers.

But out of the few things Zelda is adept at, lying in the name of decorum and poise is one of them, so she straightens up and looks the monarch in the eye again. “Thank you for inviting me to your home, King Dorephan. The few hours that I have spent here so far have been very pleasant.”

“Ah, how joyous I am to hear that, Princess.” King Dorephan smiles. “Do take a seat.”

Zelda eyes the chairs on either side of the table—one next to Mipha, and the one across from it—next to little Sidon. Perhaps she should sit next to Mipha—Mipha is her Champion, after all—but then she would be robbing Link of the chance to sit with his friend.

Though her lungs hurt and her feet feel like lead, she turns to the left side of the table and sits next to Sidon, who grins at her from his own little throne of thick cushions stacked under him. Following her cue, Link takes the chair next to Mipha, his expression placid—a counterpoint to Mipha’s wide grin and crinkled eyes.

The servants come all at once—trays of appetizers in their hands—a plate of baked lobster drenched in beetroot sauce, topped with confit vegetables—all laid out beautifully on the porcelain. Another servant comes to pour white wine into the silver chalices, save for Sidon’s, which gets filled with what appears to be apple cider. Link, too, politely puts a hand up in refusal when the servant approaches his chalice with the bottle of wine, mutters, ‘Just the cider for me, thank you,’ and Sidon claps excitedly at that.

“Sir Link and me. Same drink!” He giggles, and Zelda can’t help but chortle, too—despite the guilt that immediately rises up her throat again, because so long as she’s near him, he’ll always be on duty, and she’ll always deprive him of the respite he deserves.

Once all of the starters are served and the chalices are filled, they’re quick to dig in, all the while they converse about nothing of importance, at least not in explicit relation to the Calamity, but its absence in conversations doesn’t equate to absolute absence.

It’s still there—above their heads, in the air that they breathe. Living in King Dorephan’s words as he tells her that the cost of seafood in Hyrule is getting more expensive due to many Hylian fishermen abandoning their nets and boats to volunteer as village guards or even apply to the military—which puts most of the burden of demand for seafood on the Zora.

Zelda hums and nods, tries to wash down the lump in her throat with some white wine—which proves futile—but still, it tastes divine when paired with the lobster.

The main course is fried Hylian bass and mussels with bouillabaisse sauce—a palace favorite, King Dorephan tells her, and one spoon of it is enough for Zelda to understand why—it’s rich and fragrant, the crispy-fried skin of the bass a welcome contrast to the soup base—delicious all around.

“This is also Link’s favorite,” Mipha adds, tilting her head to look at Link. “You’d always ask for this dish whenever you were here!” She pauses, then smiles. “You know what? I think you have a soft spot for Zora dishes.”

Link pauses mid-bite at that. Chews and swallows his food before shrugging and replying, “I do like food.”

King Dorephan barks a laugh. “Hah! He may be the Hero now, but inside, he’s still our Link,” he says, shaking his head in fondness. “Never change, son.”

Mipha laughs, too—joined by Sidon’s giggles, and they all create a harmony that rings offensively in Zelda’s ears—turns the soup in her mouth rancid. Still, she eats and eats and eats—alternates between the bites of fish and the sips of wine—chiding herself for that sourness in her mouth because she has no right to think this way, to feel this way.

Because he may be the only person in this whole realm to have ever touched her damage when she needed it the most, but that does not make her the only one to have ever touched his.

Does not give her the right to wish that she’s the only one to have ever done so.

And so she tries to laugh with them—its insincerity so transparent to her, but she does. She laughs, partially at herself for this brain of hers that revels in torturing her, but mostly for Link—so that he knows it’s all right to laugh along with his friend, to let his guard down, to be himself.

She isn’t Mipha—soft-spoken and kind and composed and dignified, a friend who has witnessed much of his childhood. All Zelda is is his Princess, his charge—and thus she wants to give him everything she’s capable of giving, no matter if it’s of little worth.

Across from her, Link stays quiet, and though her eardrums crave to hear him, his laugh—the lack of it is both a rush of sadness and relief in her veins.

Thankfully, the laughter subsides as quickly as it erupted, and as the conversation returns to the general state of affairs, Zelda finds it easier to enjoy the dessert—vanilla pudding with wildberry compote.

When Sidon yawns loudly, King Dorephan waves at the servants stationed in the room, and the dinner officially comes to an end. He thanks Zelda once more for her attendance, to which she replies with a cordial thanks of her own.

As she stands up from her seat—Link already awaiting her at the end of the table—Mipha steps closer to her father, bidding him good night.

“Sleep well, all right, dear?” King Dorephan’s large hand comes to rest on Mipha’s back. “You want to be energized for Vah Ruta tomorrow.”

“I will, Papa,” Mipha replies, catching one of his fingers in both hands and kissing it. “Night night.”

And that final proof of the insurmountable dissimilarity between Mipha and her is the perfect little garnish to the cocktail of storm inside Zelda’s brain. A sprinkle of salt on her wound.

Quietly, she leaves the dining hall, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides, the pounding in her ears somehow louder than the clack, clack, clack of her heels on the marble floor. The corset strains against her chest with each deep inhale, and she welcomes the discomfort—a minute distraction.

Before the guest suite, Zelda stops. Turns around to finally, truly lock eyes with Link for the first time today, and lets the mask fall from her face—if there was ever even a mask to begin with. She’s always been dreadful at keeping it all dammed up, she knows. And now the hallway is empty, and exhaustion is fast approaching her, her body, her heart—

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Zelda says, knowing that her eyes have words in them—words that do not coincide with her statement. “I’m going to sleep. You should go catch up with your friends, Link—I don’t want to keep you.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay, Princess, I’m staying.”

“But you…” She chews her bottom lip. “You deserve a break. I’m sure you want to.”

There’s a stretch of silence, of Link’s eyes searching into hers, and when he finds whatever it is he’s looking for, his shoulders slump ever so slightly.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, his voice unexpectedly small. “If— if you want, I can call some guards to man the door instead.”

There are needles behind her eyes, in her heart, in her brain—in the tip of her tongue that she keeps trapped between her teeth—and each painful prick is everything she wishes she could say but she won’t, can’t:

That she doesn’t want him to leave—would never, ever want him to leave.

That she wishes she could sit down on the floor of the guest room with him and listen to him all night until she truly masters the language of him; until that unacceptable greed in her is satiated; until she’s well-versed in everything that makes up him more than anyone else in this damn palace and this damn kingdom.

But all she manages to say is, “It’s up to you.”

Hopes that her eyes do the rest—that they reflect a mirror image of what he wants.

Because she can’t find anything in his—those sapphires currently inscrutable—an enigma forged by weight and time and something completely beyond mortal understanding.

Eventually, Link exhales and says, “Then I’ll stay, Princess.”

Zelda swallows.

“All right,” she replies. “Please get some sleep.”

He smiles faintly. “I’ll try.”

She tries to reply to that smile, but can’t push past the trembling of her lips, so she turns from him and steps underneath the threshold—half of her swallowed by the bead curtains, by the dark of the bedroom.

She faces his way, and takes in the sight of him, so blue—blue eyes and tunic and earrings and hairband—and if she were to extract the soul from his body, she’s sure the color of it would be blue, too.

He’d fit perfectly in here, in this blue kingdom.

“Good night, Link,” she half-whispers.

“Good night, Princess.”

By the time the sun appears from behind Ploymus Mountain, they’re already crossing the northeastern bridge leading out of the Domain, making their way to the main dock of East Reservoir Lake where Vah Ruta awaits.

Zelda walks alongside Mipha—back in her traveler’s outfit, and the lack of all that heavy fabric is both a blessing and a curse—it’s much less restrictive but there’s nothing to stand as a contrast to the odd feeling that’s been crushing her chest ever since her eyes followed the curves of Mipha’s handwriting a few days ago.

Granted, the waterbed turned out to be comfortable, and the brisk morning wind that now beats against her face is enough to perk her up. The field journal in her arms is also a welcome medicine—a slather of salve on the bruises of her mind, bruises of an unknown origin that she does not want to examine now.

Not when there are more pressing matters at hand than to reflect and eventually lament.

“How did your training go with Vah Ruta, Mipha?” Zelda asks. “I know you told me that it went well, but I hope it’s not too much trouble for you to provide me with more details.”

“Oh, of course not, Zelda!” Mipha beams excitedly. “When I took the controls for the first time, I felt… quite intimidated. She’s an enormous machine, and she’s ancient, and… well… it all just seemed very daunting at first.”

There’s a hint of shyness in her voice, Zelda notices—a girl who seems unused to talking about herself—and that demureness stands jarring against the knowledge of her warriorship, against the formidable trident strapped to her back.

“But somehow, when I flipped the power switch and commanded her to move for the first time…” Mipha looks ahead for a moment—her gaze distant, lips pressing as though unsure how to distill her thoughts into words. “It’s hard to describe, but it felt like I was meeting an old friend.”

Her lack of a concrete, empirical explanation stings Zelda, because that is exactly what she lacks, isn’t it? The existence of a greater presence inside her to the point that there’s simply no way to put it scientifically.

“I see,” Zelda says. She doesn’t see, but she keeps that to herself.

“And of course, the training program provided by the Sheikah has been very helpful,” Mipha adds, turning to meet Zelda’s eyes again. “They gave me drills, exercises… Everything to make me a better pilot for Ruta.”

Suddenly, Zelda zeroes in on the crunching sound of grass underneath a pair of boots, a few paces behind her—the man inside them, the holiest man she’s ever known—and the realization tolls bitterly in her ears.

What was it that the Rito Chief said to her about Link months ago? ‘He was already forged and tempered, when he came here. All he needed was a bit of polishing.’

In a way, Mipha isn’t all that different from Link—a skilled fighter with a little special component in their inner workings that elevates the entire machinery. Though Link’s talent, Zelda thinks, can’t be sourced to just one little component; it is him in his entirety—his body, his soul, his brain, his heart. A singularity of goodness.

But the knowledge that they share a crucial common ground still corrodes like acid in her mouth.

“I’m glad to hear that, Mipha,” Zelda says, her voice steady nonetheless. “It’s… it’s good to know that all of the Champions have successfully initiated into their respective Divine Beast.” She clutches at her field journal a little tighter. “I believe with such an accomplishment, surely we can—”

“Wait.”

Both Zelda and Mipha glance over their shoulders to look at Link—one hand put up to signal for attention, his eyes squinting and staring above the horizon. Following his line of sight, Zelda returns to gaze ahead, at the clearing that lies in front of them, at the steep slope of Ploymus Mountain, at its recess just slightly to the left that houses the waterfalls of Mikau Lake, and then up, up, up, till her eyes reach the cliff.

She finds nothing. Only treetops with boughs that sway gently in the breeze.

“Link, what is it?”

But then Mipha gasps— “Lizalfos!”

It all happens too quickly after that.

Arrows rain from the top of the cliff, and in Zelda’s peripheral vision, Mipha immediately reaches for her trident simultaneously as she dodges the arrows. In the next second, Link appears in front of Zelda, pulls her into his arms, and falls backward, taking her along with him and knocking all the air out of her lungs though he bears most of the impact, then rolling them both over until she’s tucked beneath his body.

Adrenaline courses through her veins. She tries to breathe properly, to calm herself down, but can’t; her entire torso is crushed by Link’s weight. What little breaths she can take is just him—the oxygen in the junction of his neck and shoulder. When she can finally breathe deeply enough, her diaphragm strains against his lower abdomen, her nostrils flooded with the fresh soap and earth of him—all the while his arms cocoon her head: a helmet made out of flesh.

Amidst the rage of her heartbeat, Zelda listens to it all: the arrows that continue to rain down—Goddess, how many of them are shooting?—and the sound of them missing their target as they land on the ground around them.

Then it hits her; Link is on top of her, his body wholly shielding her save for her shins and feet—his back and head and arms and legs so vulnerable and open to be struck and shot at and hurt—and Zelda, with no power nor the strength to do the same for him, clenches her fists and prays: Hylia, protect him, protect him, protect him—

But it’s for naught.

His pained grunt reverberates from his chest to hers and she knows that he just took a hit, and she can only hope that it didn’t land anywhere vital.

So she uncurls her fists underneath him as they’re the only part of her that isn’t immobilized by his protective weight, then presses them onto his sides as if to hold, to soothe.

To apologize.

Suddenly, it’s Mipha that Zelda hears—clear and loud and commanding, a far cry from her usually small, soft voice.

“I’ll swim upstream and distract them! You take Zelda directly to the docks!”

Link cranes his neck up to look at Mipha, though the rest of his body is still pressed tight against Zelda. When he speaks, his voice booms through her whole body. “Mipha, there’s too many— you can’t—”

“I can,” Mipha cuts him off. “No time to argue. You protect your Princess, Link,” she says sternly, and then Zelda hears the splash of water—Mipha diving into Mikau Lake to swim up the waterfall.

A few seconds later, the pelting of arrows stops, and Zelda can faintly hear Mipha’s yells from up the cliff as she fends off the wretched creatures. Only then does Link begin to ease his weight off her, though he doesn’t immediately get up. She feels his left arm leave the side of her head to reach for his right, a hiss escaping his teeth as he does so.

Then she hears it: something wooden and thin falling to the grass.

With enough of a breath in her lungs, and enough space between her lips and the skin of his neck, Zelda murmurs, “Link…?”

At that, Link jolts—rolling off her and shooting up to his feet. “Princess, I’m so sorry.”

The slight panic in his apology sends something hot and wet in her eyes.

But she sits up and finally takes the sight of him, of the thin, slot-shaped hole in his leather vambrace that wasn’t there before, and then at the arrow lying on the ground near his feet—the tip of it red with blood.

Link’s blood.

She feels her face crumple, guilt lancing through her. “Link, your arm!”

“It’s okay, we have to leave now—”

“But you’re bleeding!”

He lowers himself just enough, offering his left hand to her. “I’m all right, I promise,” Link tells her. “Please, Princess, we need to go to the dock now.”

Her gaze lands on his palm facing skyward, on the dirt and grass sticking to the leather of his fingerless glove, on his blood that cakes his nail beds—the same hand that has cupped her scalp so protectively just a minute ago while she lay under him, all useless.

Oh, her hands ache. Ache to take his and bring it to her lips, to kiss it—dirt and grass and blood and all—and thank him that way, thank him for all that he’s done, for his body that has done so much for her, too much—

But she doesn’t. Spares him from all of that and takes his hand with her right, her left grabbing her fallen field journal, simply allowing him to pull her to her feet. Says quietly, “Thank you.”

He lets her go with a nod. A slight wince fractures the marble of his visage as his injured hand reaches for the hilt of the Sword—the first fracture she’s seen on him ever since they arrived at the Domain—and Zelda chastises herself for the strange pride that blossoms inside her.

Out of its scabbard, the Sword’s blade shines like the sun dyed blue-silver, its wrathful refraction blinding her eyes. Link then switches to hold the hilt with his left hand instead, flicking his wrist once to recalibrate himself with its weight. Once he does, he rolls his shoulders, then looks back to meet her eyes.

Folds his incapacitated right arm at his side—a crook for her to place her hand on.

Above them, Zelda can still hear Mipha’s ongoing battle with the lizalfos, and it’s unacceptable, how helpless she is compared to her Champions, forever reliant on them, on her selfless knight—

But there’s a quiet plea in Link’s bright blue eyes—a fissure through his imperturbable surface.

Perhaps it’s ‘Hurry up, Princess.’

Or it’s ‘I need you close to me.’

If she were a better, selfless princess, she would decline it. She’d thank him and simply walk past, for she shouldn’t take more of him, even if he offered it to her.

For she does not deserve it.

But she isn’t better and she’s selfish, so she steps towards him. Places her hand on the crook of his elbow—careful not to agitate the wound beneath his leather vambrace, but firm enough so that she can feel him—the crumple of his muslin sleeve under her fingertips a talisman, a lifeline.

Together, they make their way to the dock.

Luckily, the path ahead is free from any monsters, and it’s only ten minutes or so until they find themselves on the northwestern dock of East Reservoir Lake, Vah Ruta’s entrance accessible through its ramp that overlaps the dock’s long platform.

They pick up their pace—her hand still on his arm, their steps unsynchronized tapping of soles against wood before finally turning into soles against metal.

In their haste, Zelda doesn’t pay much attention to the exterior of the Divine Beast—the scholar stepping aside to let that primal thing within her reign supreme—desperate to shelter underneath the safety of Ruta’s impenetrable walls, to sit Link down and unbuckle his leather bracer and peel off the patterned band wound around his forearm and see the injury for herself.

So the moment they’re engulfed within Ruta’s shade, Zelda releases her hold on him and tells him, “All right—I need to see your wound.”

His brows arch, surprised. Then he shakes his head. “It’s okay.”

“Link, you must still be bleeding.”

“I’m used to it, Princess—”

“Link, please.” Her plea sounds thin. Her fingernails deboss crescents into her palms—every joint in her two hands itching to hold him, to inspect and tend. “Just sit down.”

There’s only one pace between them, and in that space, silence rages. Her eyes must be raging, too, because it only takes a few seconds for him to acquiesce and nod—to walk to the closest wall and slide down to the floor, his knees drawn up.

Zelda lets out a relieved sigh.

She joins him on the floor, settling on her ankles, tossing her field journal haphazardly behind her in favor of undoing the vambrace on his right forearm.

The sight of the blood stain previously hidden by the leather sends all sorts of alarms throughout her brain. It translates into the slackening of her tongue, the tremor of her hands as she peels off the strip of cloth from his arm. Unwinding and unwinding until it lies messily on the floor, then carefully rolling up the sleeve of his inner shirt.

A laceration gapes angrily upon his right forearm—blood smeared on the tan of his skin. Claret still trickles slowly from the wound, though Zelda tells herself that it could’ve been worse; his vambrace is apparently thick and protective enough that only the tip of the arrow punctured his skin.

She lifts his arm then lays his palm atop his knee. Presses two fingers onto the pulse point in his wrist where it beats steadily—its speed raised but not rapid.

“Your heart rate isn’t alarmingly high, so that’s a relief,” she says. “I don’t have a bandage with me, but—”

“Princess.”

The gravel of Link’s voice pulls her chin to lift, to meet his gaze. While nothing in his visage is out of place—no knit between his brows to indicate even the slightest pain—she notices the hint of darkness under his eyes. His faint smile, too, seems tired, and her heart twists. “Don’t worry. This isn’t the worst injury I’ve ever had.”

He probably said it to calm her down, but all it does is send more dread through her body.

She wets her bottom lip. “What was the worst one?”

“It was also a lizalfos, believe it or not,” he chuckles, almost chagrined, and some delirious part of her thinks that when—if—she’s ever Queen, she’d put together a task force to exterminate all the lizalfos in this kingdom. “A couple of years ago—by one of those forked boomerangs. Got sliced pretty deep.”

“Goddess.” Zelda winces. “Why didn’t you have a shield?”

“I did. Didn’t cover my thighs, though,” Link says, and his left hand ventures from his side to lay on his inner thigh, pressing slightly like he can still feel the sting there—alleviating that phantom pain. But it must’ve been a subconscious move because that hand jerks away the moment he realizes where it has laid, returning to his side once more.

Zelda wonders just how many scars he bears, how many times his skin has been opened and sutured shut just to be opened again. She’s seen the ones crisscrossing his torso and back—raised, jagged brushstrokes upon sacred canvas, each of them a world unto itself—a proof of his courage, one way or another.

Just like how this one will eventually scab and scar over, to join the rest—another brushstroke that he’ll unflinchingly withstand.

That doesn’t mean the canvas won’t ever wear and eventually break.

“Where’s your shield now?” Zelda asks.

Link shrugs. “It’s not a part of my uniform anymore.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” she sighs, her back slumping along with it. “It’s just completely senseless; all my former appointed guards always carried shields whenever they were on duty. It does me no good if my protector isn’t well protected.”

“I don’t know,” he says, his eyes suddenly looking wearier than they’ve ever been. “It’s been that way since I got the Sword.”

Zelda frowns. “But why would they…?”

And then it sinks in. Knifepoint into her gut.

The moment he walked out of the forest, he was no longer a boy—flesh and blood—but a legendary figure, hope of the kingdom, ancient hero. And heroes must show courage, must exude and foster confidence.

A shield indicates vulnerability, mortality—so they want to hide it. Ignore his heart that pounds inside his ribcage, the arteries and veins that branch out from his center.

But to Zelda, it is gold. And as with any vulnerability, it must be defended, looked after.

So she asks, “Do you have a bandage with you?”

Link shakes his head.

“Okay, that’s fine,” she says, reluctantly releasing his wrist to reach for her field journal. The inside of the front flap houses a pocket meant to keep a fountain pen or a quill in, but she’s stored a razor blade in there for the longest time though it has never been of any use. Until now.

She pulls it out, the blade pinched between her thumb and forefinger, and Link visibly tenses.

“Princess?”

With her left hand, she pulls away the flowy silk of her sleeve, and maneuvers the blade to cut through the fabric. “My sleeve can be a makeshift bandage. I just need to—”

“Goddess—Princess, please don’t do that.” He’s never sounded this panicked ever since the desert. “My compression band is fine—”

The razor touches the sleeve. “Your compression band is all stained with your blood, Link.”

Suddenly, his fingers wrap around her wrists, firm and unyielding, a warm tether. Their eyes lock. “Please. I can’t— I can’t have you do that.”

Zelda’s lips tremble. Her voice is so small. “But I want to help you.”

His grip around her wrists tightens so slightly, more of a silent plea than a use of force. “Princess…”

She wants to answer with a plea of her own—Let me do this, let me use a part of me to heal a part of you—but suddenly, harsh footfalls reverberate through the metal flooring, and a familiar figure appears on the entrance ramp.

“Link! Zelda!” Mipha exclaims, jogging inside. “Goddesses, it took a while but reinforcements finally came and took care of them.”

He promptly lets go of Zelda’s wrists, and she exhales. Returns the razor blade to the flap of her journal as Mipha finally stands before them and sees the injury on Link’s forearm.

“Oh, Link!” She drops to her knees, opposite Zelda. Her eyes sharpen on him, carmine hands immediately landing on his arm, inspecting the cut. “We must get you healed now.”

“I’m fine, Mipha,” Link replies softly.

“Gods… You’ve changed and haven’t changed at all.” Mipha shakes her head, unmistakable fondness carved into her gestures, her fingers that move upon his skin like a caress.

Zelda bites and bites her tongue.

The Zora Princess rises, then proffers a hand to him. “Come on, Link. Let’s go upstairs. Let me heal you quickly,” she says. “And then after, you can go back to being all tough and quiet again.”

He averts his gaze from Mipha’s to meet Zelda’s greens—a question in those blues, asking for her permission—and she can only release her tongue from the captive of her teeth, swallow the bile that works its way up her throat.

Accept that Mipha wields a power that she lacks—a power that can help him.

“It’s all right,” Zelda says. Hopes the words don’t come out a rasp. Nods in reassurance, though probably more to herself. “I’ll be okay. I’ll wait right here.”

A beat or two, and then Link answers her with another nod. Zelda watches as his left hand grabs Mipha’s right, as she pulls him to his feet, as he dusts off the dirt from the back of his pants before following her further into the heart of Vah Ruta. Zelda’s eyes locked on his back, on the ponytail of his hair—sandy gold like the ancient architecture that surrounds them.

When Zelda can’t hear their footsteps anymore, she slouches in her seat. Looks down at her hands, limp on her lap, slender and pale and lightless—always.

She holds back the welling in her eyes, and does as she’s promised him:

She stays right here, and waits.

When Link and Mipha return after what felt like an eternity, Zelda immediately notices his forearm, wrapped in his bloodied compression band; his wound must have fully closed, scabbing forgone in favor of an instant scar, all thanks to Mipha’s healing power.

Zelda doesn’t say much. Keeps her utterance to a bare minimum even as Mipha finally leads them into the control hub of Vah Ruta, showcasing her prowess as its pilot. Zelda scribbles in her field journal, every observation and analysis jotted down, and offers her hmms and ahs whenever appropriate. Observes from the side as every maneuver and command atop the control board are executed with precision, perfection.

Outside of Ruta’s round windows, the view transitions from mountain to lake to river until the sun dips lower and the Beast wades through the deep waters of East Reservoir Lake again.

As they disembark the ancient machine and head back to the palace (without any lizalfos sneaking around, thank Gods,) Mipha tells them of a celebration that will be held tonight to congratulate the Zora that have recently graduated as official knights of the Domain.

Though her center burns from something within her that she fears to dissect, Zelda says yes. It’s just one more engagement to attend until she begins her journey to Lake Hylia tomorrow, she tells herself. Until she’s released from all these blues that flood her eyes, her heart.

She makes her way back to the guest chamber, field journal in her hand, her hair still a little mussed at the back where she feels Link’s gaze, warm and heavy. Her body, too, is still warm and heavy from when he lay atop her—the weight of him now indelible in her muscles, just as her wrists now know the strength of his fingers, as her knees now know the outside of his right thigh.

When she finally stands before the familiar bead curtains of her room, Zelda turns around and tells him, “I will change into my gown. I’m afraid my field outfit isn’t appropriate for a party.”

Link nods, but then gulps and adds, “If it’s all right with you, Princess—I also need to change.” He looks down at the right sleeve of his shirt—at the coppered bloodstain, the hole from the arrowhead. “My outfit’s all dirty. I’ll just go to the guards’ quarter real quick and then—”

“Why not just change in my bathroom?” Zelda cuts him off. “Your traveling pack is here by the door anyway.”

He blinks once, twice, before saying, “Is it okay?”

She knows what he’s truly asking. Sees the uncertainty, the knightly restraint. Is it proper?

If he were any other knight, she would simply have allowed him to leave her side for a moment and faithfully adhere to royal protocol.

But Link is no other knight.

“Of course,” she says. “It’s more efficient this way.” She goes to cross the threshold and holds the bead curtain aside. “Come in.”

The restraint is still there in his eyes, but it slowly dissipates as he heeds her words and follows her, the curtain parting to his shape, iridescent blue pearls falling all around him like teardrops.

And then he’s inside her room. Well, not her own room, though strangely, she wishes it was.

“Go ahead, use the bathroom,” Zelda says, going to the wall where her gown hangs readily from a metal hook. Her fingers run over the taffeta of her gown, repeatedly patting the creases away to hide their slight tremor.

Slowly, Link lowers himself to take the clean clothes from his pack on the floor, then heads for the washroom. Closes the door behind him and locks it—the bolt turning audibly, the sound resonating loud within the chamber.

The rustling noises that emit past the washroom door are even louder.

Zelda inhales deeply, then decides to get to work. Shucks off her boots, sheds her pants and blouse, then puts on her white stockings. Quickly, because her knight is surely adroit at putting on his tunic and his numerous belts and girdles, and if he’s finished before she is, then, well.

She’s halfway through her gown when she hears the faucet running in the bathroom—Link washing his hands—so she works double time. Her maids aren’t here and it makes things trickier but she can do it—everything is fastened properly except the last two buttons on her nape—

The turn of a lock. Her fingers fumble at the top-most button, but then the door finally opens and Link steps out just as the button finally slides into its loop.

Zelda exhales, her hands falling limp at her sides. In front of her, his Champion tunic has been replaced by a black plain one—its short sleeves hemmed gray in a traditional Hylian pattern. Underneath it is a dark green turtleneck—ribbed and thick, autumnal. She spots the usual, too—the beige trousers and tan boots, and the myriad belts crossing his torso and waist, his right forearm still sporting the holed leather vambrace. The Sword; its hilt always peeking from his right shoulder.

His hoop earrings and eyes are even bluer than they have ever been now that the rest of his outfit is darker. She thinks of sapphires but instantly corrects herself; those gems don’t really encapsulate the cerulean of them, the sky-blue—

So she settles for diamonds—if they were tinted by the sea.

“You look…” she starts, a thousand different adjectives rushing through her brain, “unusual.”

Oh, what the hell, Zelda.

“Not unusual in a bad way— it’s just… it’s not often that I see you in anything other than the tunic or the Royal Guard uniform,” she adds.

He looks down at himself. “Yeah, I… I brought these as a back-up.” Then he tilts his head up again and those blues lock on her, in her state of subtle undress.

She huffs a laugh. “Oh, I guess I must also look strange to you.” She swings her arms to emphasize them. “Gloves not yet on, no diadem…” Then wiggles one stockinged foot past the hem of her gown. “No heels yet, either.”

His lips quirk upward, and she takes that as a small win. Goddess, she takes this whole sight of him as a win—to see him in something other than his uniform, a glimpse of the boy he might’ve been before the Sword. A boy that Mipha and this entire palace apparently had seen and known.

And Zelda gets to have a fraction of that, and the thought sends both sugar and ash into her mouth.

“I’ll wait outside, Princess,” he says, and she swallows all of those bittersweet prickles down her throat, nods at him. Lets him walk away as she puts on her gloves, the cuffs, her diadem, and her pumps—and know that the next time she leaves this room, she will be armored up again, and will have to make peace with the cold reality that it’s only a fraction of him that she’ll ever get to know.

The celebration is held in the ballroom within the palace—an open-air space with windows curtained by miniature waterfalls, mostly empty save for the corner equipped with a stage where the band plays, a beverage bar along one wall, and a food buffet along another. Most of the room is left clear for the celebrants to socialize and dance, and Goddess, do they dance.

Zelda stations herself by the beverage bar and tries to fade into the background though her regalia causes her to stick out like a sore thumb—as though being the only Hylian in this room isn’t enough to make her feel intrusive.

Sure, she isn’t entirely alone—her knight, too, is a lone Hylian in a sea of Zora, but it only takes one quick glance at him to know that he’s faring much better than her.

He’s less than ten paces away from her—his entire body always facing her, alert and at the ready, though he appears to be listening to the three other Zora who are talking to him. Without his Champion tunic, he appears even more fitting in the Domain, and it stings her. Amplifying the tightness of the ornate belt that cinches her dress—the only one in this room to bear the crest of the Kingdom of Hyrule.

The only indication that he’s come in her name is the Sword. But other than that, he belongs—whereas she does not.

A part of her scolds herself for not fabricating an excuse to skip this event—she could have told Mipha that she needed to do her nightly supplication to the Goddess, a longer ritual to beg for the blessing of Vah Ruta—but this is the least that she could do, isn’t it? Attending a party when the inviter has so kindly volunteered to put her life on the line for this divine war.

So Zelda braves it all. Talks when she’s talked to, laughs when there are jokes cracked. Does it again and again with a glass of hard cider in her hand until Mipha joins her at the bar—her full Zora regalia catching the light from the luminous stone sculptures around the room, her Champion sash nowhere to be seen.

“I see that Link is still catching up with Bazz, Rivan, and Gaddison?” Mipha says.

“Oh, I didn’t know those were their names,” Zelda replies, honest. “It seems so—they’ve been talking for quite a while.”

“Yes, Link taught them all swordsmanship when he trained here,” Mipha says. “They’re all a part of this—group? clique?—called the Big Bad Bazz Brigade, comprised of young Zora knights-in-training and Hyrule’s best swordsman himself.” There’s an intonation to her voice that betrays so much warmth when she utters Link’s title. “It’s just so great to see him here again.” Mipha pauses before adding, much softer this time: “It’s always great to see him here, at home. It almost feels just like the old days.”

Those words do something to Zelda’s chest that is incomprehensible. The only thing that she can comprehend is that it burns.

Zelda takes a swig of her hard cider. Lets the sharp, sweet-sour taste wash over her tongue.

Two meters in front of her, Link continues to listen to his friends.

“Zelda,” Mipha starts, and oh, that tone is ice down Zelda’s spine. “Have you ever thought about marriage?”

At that, Zelda tilts her head to look at the Zora Princess, finds that her golden gaze has grown so distant—lost in her musings—and Zelda knows that Mipha is thinking of one particular man as she poses the question.

“Not really,” Zelda answers. The last time she thought of such a thing was in Gerudo Town, when she was scammed out of a hundred rupees by a fortune teller who turned out to be a Yiga assassin. “It’s not really… the most pressing matter to me as of the moment.”

“Of course, of course,” Mipha replies. She takes another sip of the cocktail glass in her hand—the alcohol has softened her inhibitions, for sure. “But during a tumultuous time such as this… one can’t help but think about it. To fulfill a wish, to make one’s desires come true,” she says. “Something to look forward to after it’s all said and done. Someone to come home to.”

Thoughts like that are something Zelda doesn’t indulge in, because she hasn’t earned the right to do so. Because then there’d be nothing and no one to come home to if she doesn’t fulfill her duty, if she fails.

So instead of going deep into the recesses of her mind to parse through her desires, she indulges Mipha’s. Imagines him, all glorious and princely, bedecked in Zora jewels, at Mipha’s side—a woman who can match him, match his extraordinary talents. A throne for him and an armor sewn with her scale, just as Zora wives have done for their husbands since ages past. Ruling over their people with benevolence and kindness, for Zelda knows him to be benevolent, to be kind.

He would make a great prince, she’s certain of it. And he’d be her political ally, would meet her in Council meetings and royal engagements—and perhaps she’d hark back to the days when they fought together. And then she’d return to her castle, to a husband she does not love but can tolerate, knowing copulation but never lovemaking, living out the rest of her life in comfortable grayscale.

“Anyway…” Mipha continues after a long beat of silence, “I suppose… I suppose this is a segue for me to inform you that I plan to propose marriage to Link,” she says, all geniality gone in favor of formality. There is no question in her tone, no asking for permission; this is an announcement. “Not now, but after the winter solstice, after his seventeenth birthday.”

Ignoring the feeling of the guillotine blade that just crash-landed on her neck, Zelda helplessly asks, “You know his birthday?”

Mipha turns to look at her—her brow line slightly raised in amusement. “Of course I do.” She smiles—from pity or smugness, Zelda isn’t sure, but knowing Mipha, it’s most likely the former. “Two days after the Day of the Mortal.”

How funny—the Hero of this age was born two days after the day that celebrates the birth of Hylia’s first incarnation—the transformation from Her divine form to human form so that She may be with Her Hero.

He is still Her beloved, Zelda knows—those hands kissed by Her so that they may do Her bidding. But Hylia remains in Her celestial throne in the sky, and Zelda is not Hylia—that is painfully, cruelly clear to her—so he’s free to choose whomever he pleases.

“Well, I’ll be sure to send my congratulations when the happy moment has occurred,” she tells Mipha, her smile tight.

“Thank you, Zelda,” Mipha replies. Her smile, on the contrary, is glowing. At last, she turns around and faces the bar instead, waving at the bartender for a glass of sparkling wine. “Do you want another glass, by the way?”

Zelda shakes her head. “No, thank you.” Lays her eyes upon Link—his cobalt gaze not cast on her, which she’s grateful for, because she can’t have him see her—not now. “I think I shall retire for the night—there are some prayers that I must offer before I go to sleep,” she tells Mipha. “Thank you so much for inviting me to this celebration, it has been fun indeed. Would you kindly tell Link that I’m returning to my room?”

Mipha looks bewildered—it’s not like she has ever seen the Princess of Hyrule without her knight attendant ever since the ceremony on the Sacred Ground—but nods anyway. “Of course, that’s no problem. My father and I will see you tomorrow before noon to send you off.”

Finally, Zelda bows her head, bids Mipha farewell, and quietly makes her way out of the room, trying her best to make her departure go unnoticed. Leaves all the music, the people, the laughter and chatter and camaraderie behind—for she has no place among them all.

She descends the spiraling staircase leading out into the main landing of the palace, standing on the steps for a second to take in the strong easterly wind, the gust of it slapping her long skirts against her stockinged legs, blowing at the long locks of her hair. Fresh air that does nothing to freshen her mind.

She can turn to the left—let the hallways lead her back into the guest wing and into her room, but she can still hear the band playing, the thump of the drums and the trill of the violins still resonating loud and no doubt leaking through the guest chamber, so she lets her feet carry her further down the steps. Down, down, down, then onward, past the large fountain, towards the long line of Great Zora Bridge. She walks and walks until it’s only her heels against the floor that scores the evening—the party’s music reduced to an itch in her hearing, a dull ache in her heart.

There’s a specific point on the bridge that grants her an obstructed view of Vah Ruta, and Zelda stops there. Stands before the low railing and stares at the Beast—its trunk soaring proud into the dark blue, a beacon of light.

There are various beacons of light now, in this kingdom that awaits its promised war. The Divine Beasts, the Guardians—ancient weapons, modern hope. Exhumed after millenniums of sleep deep in the earth, awaiting the right hands to awaken them, to steer them.

Her slumbering power, too, is an ancient weapon of sorts. Dormant underneath layers of skin and fat and muscle, and even deeper—right down to the nucleus of her cells, where biological strings of codes carry the Goddess’ divinity. And if that is the case, what is she waiting for? Whose hands could possibly help excavate that sliver of divinity from within the core of her? Because a decade has gone by and she’s spent it digging and clawing for it with her own hands, has torn herself apart with every prayer in hopes of finding it hiding between the broken shards, but it has always been in vain.

Ruta has Mipha, just as Naboris has Urbosa, as Rudania has Daruk, as Medoh has Revali. Just as the Master Sword has Link. And so it will always be up to her to awaken her power, to continue to search for it inside her body, because at the end of the day, no one but her alone shall wield it.

So on the bridge, overlooking Ruta, Zelda clasps her hands in front of her lips, closes her eyes, and prays.

She prays for everything. For her power. For the Divine Beasts and all their pilots. For everyone in this kingdom—those who have smiled at her, have jeered at her, and those who she has never met at all.

Most of all, she prays for Link. Prays for his strength and success and survival, prays so that the Goddess will protect him because she can’t—not when she saw him fall off the back of a lynel, not when he shielded her from raining arrows—she can’t, she can’t, she can’t—

Hurried footsteps thunder through the floor of the bridge, through her ears.

She’d know the rhythm of them anywhere.

She opens her eyes and finds him in her periphery—silhouetted against the brightness of the palace behind him.

“Princess?” He sounds breathless. “Gods, I— I thought—” he cuts himself off, though she knows that there are still words left in his mouth that he’s chosen not to utter, and the knowledge of it is a pang in her chest.

Slowly, she tears her eyes away from the view of Ruta to fully take in the sight of him, and something inside her shatters into a million pieces and reveals its beating heart—until there’s nothing left to do but to finally admit it to herself for the very first time:

He’s beautiful.

He’s always been beautiful.

That first day when he came to her drawing room bearing the Sword—a stone marble of a boy. When he knelt before her that first time in his new Royal Guard uniform—thunder wrapped in swaths of navy blue and wine red. In the grand chamber, when she first saw him wear the tunic she stitched and blessed for him. And every moment that came after that, every time she laid her eyes on him, every time she watched him from behind a veil of self-loathing she mistakenly projected upon him:

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

Especially now, three paces away from her, with his honey-colored bangs straggling over his eyes, his brows furrowed. Those blues dazed and expectant, searching into her greens.

But if she thinks that the admission would grant her relief, then she’s wrong.

All it does is wreak more ache into her heart.

“I’m sorry,” Zelda rasps. “I didn’t mean to scare you—I was just…” she inhales shakily, “…I couldn’t stay in there. I couldn’t.” Her eyes grow hot.

“Princess…”

“I’m tired,” she whispers. Any pretense left in the muscles of her face melts away. “I’m just tired.”

His swallow is audible. “Is there anything I can do?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, frustrated. “No, Link,” she says, because what can serve as a remedy would be utterly selfish to ask for. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Next to concern, she sees defeat creeping into his gaze, because he’s a knight—his charge’s wellbeing is his primary mission, and to see her despair so visibly must wear on his sense of duty.

And it just breaks her even more. Makes her want to retreat, don the mask again, because to deject him is to further deject herself, but by Hylia—whatever energy she has left in her isn’t enough to disguise her sorrow.

“Princess,” Link starts, “why… why did you leave the celebration?”

Zelda sighs. “I’m— I’m an outsider, don’t you see?” Hides her trembling hands in the folds of her skirts. “I don’t belong there. I don’t know anybody.”

He gives her a confused look. “But you know me. Mipha, too.”

She breathes a bitter laugh at that. No, I don’t—I really don’t. “You know them, and they know you.”

Link is quiet for a good long while, and Zelda nearly sighs again, ready to walk past him and let herself be escorted to the guest chamber.

But then his eyes harden with something akin to resolve when he eventually replies, “I feel like an outsider, too.” His smile is wistful in its small up-curve. “I don’t think anybody truly knows me.”

Zelda shakes her head. “Don’t.”

Link frowns. “Don’t…?”

“Don’t say such things,” she says, fists bunching her gown. “Don’t lie to me just to make me feel better. There are some matters where I am wholly alone, and that is all right,” she continues. “I appreciate your intention, though—truly, I do.”

“Princess, I’d never lie to you,” he replies, and there seems to be hurt in his voice, and that—

That hurts her.

But a lie is still a lie, so she tells him, “Mipha knows you, Link—don’t omit her. She’s known you since you were a child, has cared about you for so long—”

“I’m not omitting her—”

“—has healed you, protected you while you protected me, while I was underneath you, useless as ever—”

“Princess—”

“—so you can’t possibly tell me that I know you, and that you feel like an outsider, too, because that is so very far from the truth—”

“Princess Zelda.”

Her birth name, even with her title, spears through her entire body—from her scalp to her heels.

He’s only ever said that once—in a hazy dream she can scarcely recall.

It has never sounded right until it slipped from his mouth.

And in its magnitude, her tongue freezes.

He takes one step towards her, gaze falling to where her hands are still hiding. “You’re right—Mipha knows me. Has known me since I was a kid,” he starts. “I may have spent a lot of time with her, but that doesn’t mean she knows me.”

Zelda exhales, exasperated. Thinks, that won’t stop you both from marrying each other when all’s said and done.

Says, “It doesn’t matter—she can heal you.” Her lips quiver. “She can heal you, can help you. Can fight. And I— I…”

She’s aware that their conversation has veered away from its original course, that she isn’t merely talking about belonging to a group of people anymore—

But to one particular person.

Link, however, isn’t aware of it. “Princess…?”

“Your wound.” Zelda clears her throat. “May I see your wound?”

He stares at her—his gaze open and impenetrable at the same time, and she wonders if he actually understood her request, but then he begins to unbuckle the leather vambrace around his right forearm. Lets it thud dully against the marble floor of the bridge. Rolls up the sleeve of his dark turtleneck till it gathers above his elbow, then turns his arm so that his palm is facing down.

Zelda steps closer. Sets her eyes on the skin of his forearm, where the laceration from earlier today has miraculously turned into a scar—pink and raised, but closed.

Closed and touched and healed—all by Mipha.

Zelda can’t close his wounds, can’t heal them—but she can touch them. Even though she knows she shouldn’t touch him when there’s nothing she can give him. Nothing she can proffer, nothing she can help with.

Nevertheless, she can’t help herself, so she brings up one hand from the curtain of her skirts and lays it on his forearm. Traces the scar which looks so harmless now that it isn’t bloody. Touches him as gently as she can, as though she’s approaching a fluttering fairy that she’s fearful of scaring away.

She has tended to his wounds before, but those were just bruises she’d salved—incomparable to the open wound which Mipha healed within a heartbeat.

So the thought trickles from her aching brain down to her tongue. “I’m sorry, Link.”

She’s still staring at his skin, but she can hear the frown as he replies, “Whatever for?”

Her thumb traces the scar—the texture of it firm underneath the pad of her finger. “I haven’t done anything of particular use to you,” she murmurs. “I have… I have no power.” She smiles sadly—watery. “I can’t heal you in the way that you deserve.”

There’s silence at first—deafening silence—and Link doesn’t move an inch, and Zelda thinks that this is it—she has jeopardized whatever affable connection they have because she doesn’t know any better, always too greedy when it comes to him—

But the silence breaks upon the loud exhale that leaves him. And then his left hand rises to settle atop hers, and even on the back of her hand she can palpably feel his rough calluses—sandpaper against her heart, stinging sweet.

“Princess.”

She steels herself, and tilts her head up to meet his eyes.

Even in the shroud of the night, they’re still so devastatingly, beautifully blue.

“Never…” he starts, his voice gravel, “…never apologize, Princess.” His hand tightens around hers, presses her further against his skin. “Never.”

And in those eyes, Zelda tries look past the enigmatic blue and find the answers to the questions that crowd her tongue—

Do you know that there’s a woman here that loves you?

Will you say yes to her?

If we manage to make it through in one piece, in whom will you make a home?

She crushes those words between her molars, swallows them into the darkest pits of her—the only place they ever truly belonged.

Still, the aftertaste lingers, so she spits it out with a soft, quiet voice: “I hope that there’s a future where I can finally do so.” Help you, heal you, protect you. “Be of use to you.”

Link doesn’t reply—only squeezes her hand even harder. If there’s one single thing that’s decipherable in his eyes—Zelda thinks it would be amusement, if not disbelief.

Though it’s painful to do so, she finally withdraws—gently pulls her right hand from the tight space between his forearm and his palm, lets it fall limp at her side once more—warm, so much warmer than her left that has sat idly by, jealous of its counterpart.

She breathes once, twice. Then slices whatever moment they just had with the knife of reality. “I think I should truly retire to the guest room now,” she says. “It’s getting cold.”

Link bends down to pick up the fallen vambrace, and fastens it around his forearm once more. No more words leave him, though there’s a hint of a smile as he nods and steps aside—lets her lead the way.

She wishes she doesn’t have to, wishes he’d walk beside her, but says nothing of it. Through the bitterness of it all, she understands that he must keep up appearances, mustn’t be seen too close to his charge, especially not in the Domain where everyone reveres him and surely roots for his future with their beloved Princess.

When she meets the curtained doorway to her room—last night here, thank Hylia—she turns to Link.

“I’ll go straight to bed,” she tells him, gives him a wry smile. “I promise I won’t disappear again without your knowledge.”

Link breathes a laugh at that.

“You should go back to the party,” she continues, trying her best to not let the smile on her lips flatten, so that he knows it’s all right. “I’m serious, Link—I’ll be fine.”

“No,” he replies, voice firm. “I want to stay here, Princess.” He pauses. “I’m serious, too.”

Want.

Never has a one-syllable word provided so much alleviation.

“Okay, then,” she says, heart swelling. “Have a good night, Link.”

When he smiles at her yet again and bids her good night, too, she almost forgets the hinox-weight crushing her chest.

Almost forgets everything that claws at her insides.

When she eventually falls asleep, she’s greeted not by the vast darkness, but by a grand room she knows like the back of her hand.

Its red velvet carpets. Its hanging tapestries embroidered with her kingdom’s crest. Its arched windows around the domed ceiling—afternoon light leaking through them.

Even with the gray brick walls, the Sanctum shines golden—the aureate heart of this blessed land.

She stands right in the middle of it all, on the triangle carved into the stone of the floor, facing the heavy doors. When those oaken panels finally part and creak, a shape emerges. Steps out from the pure light in which he hailed from and into her vision, into the warmth of the room.

He makes his way to her.

Sacred body wrapped in her kingdom’s regalia—navy surcoat and beret, red tunic, ivory gloves and boots. His hair—the color of wheat fields in Tabantha—always precariously tied by that worn hair band. Those Lurelin blue eyes spearing through her as the distance between them grows smaller, as he steps into the bounds of the triangle—the mark of a sempiternal force.

He stops two paces away from her. His lips curve into a smile—beautiful, beautiful. He inclines his head slowly, and immediately, she knows what to do.

She extends her arm in front of her—offers her right hand for him to take, to hold. And when he does, it sends thunder everywhere inside her—every organ, every tissue, every cell—all electric, all glowing.

And then he lowers himself to one knee, his thumb firm between her knuckles, and she aches with the crushing longing that transcends time and space, for they have been here before.

They have been here a million times.

He tilts his head to look into her emerald eyes, then lets the words pour.

“Blood of Hylia, light of our land.” His fingers tighten around hers. “I vow to become your warrior and protector. May my blood be spilled in your holy name, may my sword be wielded to defend you from harm.”

Just like it was when he knelt before her in her drawing room, his voice is firm. Unwavering. Like the words have lived inside his soul since the dawn of time.

They probably have.

“Such as the heroes that came before me, my body and my heart are yours to lead with your divine direction…” he continues, those eyes blue braziers, “…until I perish, until the end of time.”

His oath is finished, but the procession is not.

With nothing but her limbs acting out of reflex memory, she lowers herself to the ground, too. Sits back on her ankles, her gown billowing out around her like a sapphire sea. Tugs at his hand that still holds hers so that he mirrors her—as two lungs mirror each other.

She draws his hands to her lap. Pulls his gloves off until they lie bare atop her thighs, scarred and tan—her anchor forever.

She takes one hand between hers and brings it northward—not letting it ever separate from her body—up to her stomach, her breast, her sternum, her bare neck, her jaw, till it cups her cheek, the pad of his thumb pressed onto the pillow of her lips.

His own lips part—one tremulous exhale leaving him. So hers do so, too—they part beneath his touch, and she breathes and breathes on him until her own words finally load up on her tongue.

And just like he did, she voices her oath.

“Son of Hyrule, Hylia’s beloved, this land’s most sacred man,” she starts, the words uttered against his thumb. “May my hand light your way to truth and goodness.”

He leans forward, his other hand traveling up to lay on her shoulder.

“Such as all the women that came before me…” her breath hitches when he leans in, the tip of his nose tracing the line of her jaw, “…my blood is yours to take.” He presses a kiss there. “For your soul to drink.” His lips venture down—a kiss on her neck, open-mouthed and wet.

She gasps. The temptation to stop right here and let him do whatever he wants to her is cosmically great, but he’s voiced his oath so perfectly, so she must continue.

“This body is to be held by your hands…” she breathes, “…and your hands only.”

He leans further into her—slowly pushing her back, back, back—his lips now on her cheek, raining a hundred kisses.

“And it shall be that way…” she presses on, her back flat on the ground, his body on top of her, his weight solid and welcome. One of his hands sneaks to cup the back of her head, cushioning her.

“Until I perish…” she murmurs against his lips, sharing his breath, “…until the end of time.”

Her part is done—the exchange of their vows consummated.

And she finally does what she has always done, and has always wanted to do:

Wraps her arms around him, and pulls him in.

Opens for him.

Lights up for him.

Chapter Text

The moment they leave Zora’s Domain, Zelda makes it her mission to keep riding.

Her stomach is full of sautéed fish and rice from breakfast. Her body is quite well-rested, despite the restlessness that jitters through her nerves since waking up. Her hands clench hard at the reins. And her mind—

Her mind is the convergence of two hurricanes.

So she rides and rides and rides. Urges Ares to trot ahead of Epona, because she has avoided Link’s eyes all morning and she’s not ready to meet them—to confront herself in those sea-blue irises. Zeroes her focus on her horse’s thundering clops against the dirt path, disregards the heaviness in her chest that wails for attention, for acknowledgment.

By afternoon, their steeds grow restless, begging for a break—so they stop in Goponga Village, a sleepy town comprised of the small islands that dot Lanayru Wetlands. Zelda makes a quick visit to an inn, passively listens to the innkeeper as he prattles on about how the late Queen of Hyrule once visited this very inn two decades ago, then excuses herself to use the lavatory.

As she washes her hands, she stares at herself in the mirror above the sink, looks into her own eyes—jade and tired, a far cry from Mother’s aquamarine blue that she can hardly call to mind nowadays. Despite that, she tries to seek the remnants of Mother’s soul—in her own eyes, in this room; surely, Mother had used this room twenty years ago and had filled the building with her thoughts. Had stared into this mirror the same way Zelda does now—searching deep within this body that’s weary from the colossal history it carries.

But all she gets are fingers that prune from excessive washing.

Zelda sighs and turns the faucet off. Shakes her head at herself for the silly notion that she’d somehow reveal the answer in a bathroom at a random inn, out of all places.

She returns outside the inn to find her knight tending to their horses at the paddock, still dressed in his dark, nondescript outfit—a contrast to her blues and whites.

A contrast to the Royal Guard garb that he wore last night, in that golden dream born somewhere along the axons of her brain, where impossible desires are kept suppressed.

He looks up from his ministration and locks eyes with her, that face returning to its marble exterior once more, though carved with something indescribable that she has now come to understand as warmth—in the slight arch of those wheat brows, the soft curve of his eyes.

It makes her rage with bitter longing.

“Let’s eat quickly,” she tells him, her tone curt, as she approaches him. “Then we’ll continue on south, straight to Deya Village.”

One of his hands is cupped around a bright red apple, heading towards Ares’ muzzle. “I don’t think we can make it there on one trip, Princess,” he replies. “It’s still a long way to go until Deya Village. We’ll most likely only cross Squabble River by midnight.”

Ares chomps on the apple—a reminder of his eventual impediment to her plan to ride non-stop. She sighs exasperatedly and says, “Well, let’s just ride for as long as we can, then.”

Link’s gaze expresses bewilderment, perhaps wondering why she’s so desperate to keep on moving, but if there are more words in his mouth, he opts not to say them. And somehow, in his silence, she begins to understand him even more.

The basis of his stoicism might be born out of a need to ease the world-sized worries of the people around him, but it is certainly reinforced by her own reticence. If she’s quiet, then he’s quiet, too. If she talks, then he’ll try his best to reciprocate. If she spits venom, then, well—he’d never spit back because he is kind, so kind—but he’ll reply with his trademark impassiveness.

Just as he’s doing now.

She wants to crush that reticence and let all her thoughts brim and spill his way. She wants to tell him everything that she could ever possibly tell—but she can’t, she can’t. Because it’s clear from last night’s dream that if there is indeed a world where his want mirrors hers, she does not deserve it until she fulfills her own sacred, solemn oath to him: May my hand light your way to truth and goodness.

But she doesn’t live in such a world, and in this especially cruel one, someone else has already marked his heart.

Wordlessly, he nods—and her throat constricts.

They eat lunch in silence by the fire pit outside—sitting down on the same log, though its considerable length keeps them well apart. She stuffs one salmon-filled rice ball into her mouth, and finds that her appetite isn’t as great as she thought it would be.

Just as she has done countless times, she hands the leftover to Link, though this time the offering isn’t accompanied by a warm utterance. Because whatever warmth last night’s conversation had stoked within her had dissipated the moment she awoke this morning to two Zora guards stationed in front of her guest room, delivering a note from her knight:

Princess Zelda,

I apologize for leaving my station so abruptly— I must speak with Mipha before we depart for Lake Hylia. I will be waiting for you at 1100 with Ares and Epona at the main gate.

Yours,
Link

She retreated into the room, then—clutching the folded paper to her chest, sitting down before her eyes followed the curves of his handwriting—slightly messy but it was his, and that was all that mattered. Her mind aching as she took in the polarity between her own name—titled and formal, and Mipha’s name—bare and intimate.

Now that note is pressed between the pages of her diary, the words he’d written kissing her most private thoughts—the only other way she could ever receive such a touch from him, besides deep in the penetralium of her sleep.

This is all she has now—morsels, crumbs, served on a platter of his duty, divine and royal.

And it’s what she deserves, she knows—she was cruel to him for so long. And even now, even with this heart of hers that aches and throbs to be near him, she doesn’t have much to offer: only these slender hands that are powerless, that can wield no light.

And leftover foods, occasionally.

He takes the food container from her, and their hands do not brush each other as he does so.

Link, to her chagrin, is expectedly right—by the time the dark of the night completely envelopes the landscape, they have only made it to Sahasra Slope. Her lower back and thighs are sore from the constant riding, but still, she pushes through it until they cross Eagus Bridge and end up on the southern shore of Nabi Lake.

When Ares lets out a particularly irritated whinny, his head bobbing wildly and his gait losing its steady rhythm, Zelda relents. Finally looks over her shoulder to glance at her knight—at the neckline of his gray tunic, away from his observant eyes.

“Let’s set up camp here for the night,” she tells him, one hand running down her mount’s silky white mane in an attempt to soothe. “I’m very certain Ares is starting to hate me.”

Link says nothing, but her gaze climbs up to the lower half of his face, to his lips that begin to crack the smallest of smiles, and she pinches her eyes shut—shushing the beastly greed in her that begs to see more.

They dismount on the flat, grassy bank by the lake, illuminated by the yellow-green glow of the fireflies that immediately flurry away upon Link’s nonchalant footsteps through their lot.

Zelda watches as he starts the fire—his hands pale as paper underneath the moonlight, orange flecks flying as he strikes a piece of flint with his hunting knife, and within a minute, firelight licks their surroundings, up at his features. With the tip of his knife, he pokes at the burning bundle of wood, unflinching even with his skin so close to the flaming heat.

It feels like he might as well have poked at her chest—blade through tender flesh, the truth she’s unearthed last night piercing through her yet again, chanting ceaselessly now that all the ramparts around her mind have been broken—beautiful, beautiful, he’s beautiful, isn’t he.

As he leaves the fire to build her tent, a part of her wonders if this is the only extant fragment of Hylia within her—this pull towards him like the pull of the earth.

And wouldn’t that be damning, then—that while it’s something crystal clear to her, it cannot be acted upon. A piece that she’ll have to tamp down while she begs for that other part of her—her slumbering power—to awaken.

Zelda physically twitches—rolls her shoulders as if to shake off the thoughts, implores them to stay quiet, stay still.

They eat dinner after he’s finished assembling the tent—Zelda on a tree stump near the fire, Link on the ground, his knees drawn up and thighs parted, hands holding the mushroom skewers he had roasted for them. The silence continues to cocoon them, shrouds her eardrums that ache to vibrate from the voice of the man sitting across from her.

But when she slows down the grind of her teeth just enough, she can hear him—chewing his food gently.

Morsels, crumbs.

She shuts her eyes and takes in the sound.

When all the skewers have been devoured, Zelda goes into the tent to find her traveling pack already there, and an open jar of activated rubies to fend off the late autumn chill.

She shakes her head in fond disbelief. Parts the canvas flaps of the tent with both hands to break the silence, because she’s unfortunately and undeniably imperfect and she can’t bear it, she needs to hear him—

“Link?”

His torso twists to face her—a wingbeat of a movement as his hand flies towards the Sword still in its scabbard, lying on the ground. His gaze turns hawklike, shoulders tense.

It breaks her heart.

In less than twenty-four hours, he’s already acquainted with her colder side again—expects her to only utter his name when danger is imminent.

It’s a wrong she must immediately right.

“Everything’s fine,” she assures him. “I just…”

His brows furrow in concern. She curls and uncurls her fists. Various words threaten to swell up her throat, into her mouth, but she must choose them carefully, she can’t just let them all spill, and they all coalesce into a pathetically small voice:

“Aren’t you cold?” she asks. When he replies with a shake of his head, she adds, “It’s just… the jar of rubies, well—” she gulps, “—it’s yours, so you should use it.”

At that, his gaze softens. “I’m not, Princess,” he replies, nodding at the fire behind him—a whole fire, emanating heat—and Zelda nearly drops her head into her hands in embarrassment.

Fool, you fool.

“The jar is for you,” Link supplies, his tone matter-of-factly. “I always have one ready in my pack now that it’s colder outside. Just in case you’d have to sleep in a tent.”

Oh, her throat burns. A part of her regrets breaking her silence, because when she does, she’s always met with so much kindness, so much care—no matter if it’s out of duty—and it’s something that tears her apart at the seams because she can’t reciprocate it, no matter how much she hankers to. She’s not capable of ever repaying him, she knows that now; her gargantuan debt to him will stay gargantuan, the imbalance of their relationship will stay unbalanced.

All she can do is accept his kindness, for to decline it is to decline his nature, decline him.

“Link,” she calls out his name again—quieter, softer—its single syllable resonating between her teeth like a gong.

Even his name contains so much power.

“Yeah, Princess?”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. Fights the welling of her eyes, causing her lips to quiver. Her hand reaches out, but there’s too much distance between them, so she pats the soil in front of her instead—imagines it to be his battle-worn hand. She may not deserve to have her thoughts and deepest wishes heard by him, but this she can utter, because he deserves to hear it. “I— thank you.”

He shifts a little in his seat—more of his body turned her way. “Are— are you okay, Princess?”

His hand has left the Sword but the tension is still there—the residue of his fighter’s instinct clear in the clenching of his jaw.

Perhaps he regards her as some kind of a battleground, and honestly, Zelda can’t blame him; she, too, thinks of herself as a battleground, and its soldiers from both sides, and the spears they wield. But most of the time, she’s just a random passerby amidst the chaos, hiding in the trenches, begging for all of it to stop.

“Yes,” Zelda lies.

“Then why—” Link pauses, “—why the ‘thank you’?”

She huffs a laugh—it sounds feeble and broken. Uncertain how to express the ineffable gratitude she has for him.

“Everything.” A painful breath rushes into her lungs. “Just… everything.”

The longer she stares at him, the more her eyes sting—the fire behind him framing the outline of his body, searing the image onto her brain—but she keeps her gaze there.

His lips press into a thin line, a hint of a crack through the veneer. Other than that, she can’t read him.

She can rarely read him.

“Of course, Princess,” Link says after a beat, his voice low. “Always.”

Zelda wants to say more, wants to apologize for acting strange since this morning, wants to tell him the reason why—which is a dire signal to end the conversation now before it derails into valleys unknown. So she does.

“All right,” she says in tandem with an exhale. “I should sleep now.”

His visage betrays just a little bit of surprise, perhaps expecting her to carry on, but she thinks, It’s for your own good, Link.

The veneer clouding his face paves itself back together just as quickly as it cracked. He inclines his head and smiles at her, a quiet good night.

Zelda returns inside the tent and fastens the flaps together, sealing her away from the outside. It’s dark in here, save for the soft red glow from the jar of rubies, and the sight is bittersweet; though their bodies are separated by a layer of canvas, never quite touching, Link is never not with her—not really.

He’s in the rubies that keep her warm. He’s in the tent that shelters her. He’s in the food that she ate, that took away her hunger. She feels him everywhere—more so than she’s ever felt Hylia, or even the Three. Has sensed his presence ever since he came to her with the Sword, even with her eyes shrouded with false resentment.

As she takes off her boots, unfastens the warm cape from around her shoulders, and unbuttons her blouse and pants to lie in her smallclothes, she imagines how it would be like to have it reversed, how blissful—

To be the woman that heals him. To be the food that fills his belly, gives him energy. To be his first cup of coffee in the morning that wakes him up. To be the mattress in the barracks that sustains his body as he sleeps.

To be anything that can make her hold him, because Zelda herself, as she is, can’t do such a thing.

Only in her sleep, alone, is she able to do it.

This body is to be held by your hands… and your hands only.

Atop her bedroll, Zelda closes her eyes. The outline of him still lingers crisply on the back of her eyelids, and it is there that he calls her by her name, honey in his mouth, and leads her to the realm of her dreams.

At last, they step foot in Deya Village—a town tucked in the valley between Hills of Baumer and Popla Foothills, its quiet and placid atmosphere not very unlike Goponga Village. There’s one crucial difference, however—a difference that she is immensely grateful for.

In Goponga Village, all eyes were on her—her royal blue cape and blouse, her horse that trotted proudly with its purple regalia, her long golden locks that betrayed her comfort and high station.

But now, as they make their way past the village entrance, Zelda isn’t Zelda, but just a young woman passing through—unassuming, common-looking. Incognito.

She’s opted to wear her only set of plainclothes—one that she has always prepared in the event that her general safety is threatened and covert travel is required. And though her security has been at its highest with the Hero of Hyrule always within a three-meter radius, every ounce of her being begs for a reprieve from all those prying eyes.

There’s no hint of blue, except for the two clips that stay on her hairline. And even then, they hide beneath her headscarf—dark just like the rest of her clothes—black and brown and gray, no royal crest, no ornate patterns nor detailings that denote luxury.

Somehow, it works—there’s not a single soul that knows her identity.

However, Link isn’t granted the same blissful interlude.

Just like her, he’s dressed plainly, but whatever veil of anonymity his clothes have given him is nullified by the Master Sword on his back—its splendor so violent against the worn, humble fabric of his cape, his divine status encrusted in violet and gold.

Though it’s much less frequent than in Central Hyrule, there are still some who know the implication of such a weapon clinging onto his back, and the ones that do immediately whisper behind their palms. They stare and stare—eyes gleaming with something Zelda can only define as a perfect symmetry of hope and fear.

I’m a premonition, he said not long ago. A sign of bad things incoming.

And now, she sees those words being negated in the sureness of his posture, the heaviness in which his booted feet hit the ground, the neutrality of his expression—his insides wholly laminated by inexpressiveness.

Gods—she was terribly wrong about him for so long, wasn’t she?

Thankfully, Deya Lakeside Inn doesn’t seem to be holding too many patrons—save for the two couples in front of them as they queue to speak with the innkeeper. When it’s their turn, Zelda asks for a junior suite. The innkeeper grins wide—happily takes the silver rupee she’s laid on the desk, and turns around to search for the room’s key in his drawer. He seems to be completely oblivious to the purple hilt jutting out Link’s shoulder, which she’s relieved for.

As the innkeeper’s hands hover above the multitude of small open boxes—each of them labeled according to the room’s number—he comments, “A junior suite, eh?”

Zelda squints. “Yes…?”

“Are you two here for the wedding thing, then?” the innkeeper asks, then lets out a small ‘a-ha’ when he finally finds the right key. He turns to face them again, revealing a weirdly mischievous smirk across his bearded face.

The words ‘you two’ and ‘wedding’ are two consecutive punches to her gut. “What wedding thing?”

“Deya Village’s wedding event!” The innkeeper replies excitedly, sliding the room key her way. “The mayor’s thrown it together ‘cause apparently, there’s an uptick in marriage permit applications in West Necluda! You just go to the mayor’s office, sign a couple o’ papers, then head straight to the chapel! No plannin’ or waitin’ for a Priestess from the Plateau—she’s here all week!” He explains. “We’re usually quieter but there’s been many lovebirds visitin’. Good for business, I’d say.”

With a trembling hand, Zelda picks up the key. Wraps her fingers around the metal tightly.

“N-no,” she stammers. Her tongue feels slack. “We’re not here for the wedding.”

“Hah! Could’ve fooled me,” the innkeeper laughs, unaware of the dread that surely has marred her face. “You two’d make a pretty couple.”

If the previous words were punches, the final sentence is the finishing blow—and her heart is out of the confines of her chest, beating bloodily on the floor. And amidst all the thousand different thoughts that stream ferociously through her mind, only one rings loud and clear:

She wants to look behind her so bad.

But she’s afraid of what she’d find in his face, in those blue eyes—and more than anything, she’s afraid of what she wouldn’t find.

So she swallows, nods at the innkeeper, and rasps, “Thank you. F-for the room.”

She quickly heads for the staircase—her feet suddenly weighing mountains as she ascends it, keeping her pace slow enough just to have the time to regain her composure.

On the landing, she looks down at the keychain—Room 4—and redirects all her brainpower into finding the door. It turns out to be at the end of the hallway—farthest from the stairs, and with her hand that hasn’t stopped trembling, she inserts the key and unlocks the door.

The room isn’t any more luxurious than the other inns she has stayed at, but it’s considerably larger—the living area is separate from the bedroom, complete with a private bath. It’s decorated enough to feel homey—a vase containing fresh blue nightshades adorns the small dining table, and the curtains are embroidered with dragon-like patterns commonly seen in places close to Faron.

Even the candle holders are dragon-shaped—their maws wide open to hold the sticks of wax. Link picks up the box of matches from the desk, strikes one against the red phosphorus on the side to throw light in the dim room.

When each and every one is lit, he blows out the match—wisps of smoke spiral upward, the char of it flooding her nose and sobering her up. He makes one last stop to start the fireplace—makes quick work of it with his deft hands like he does everything else, and when that’s done, he turns around and meets her gaze.

Any sobriety she’s gained for the past minute immediately leaves her body.

Those blues say nothing, like they always do—nothing decipherable to her, anyway. And they’re no doubt a counterpoint to hers—green and overflowing with what she’s trying her hardest to keep dammed.

Silence stretches like glue until it’s simply too painful to not slice through it—

“I didn’t know there was such an event—”

“I should sweep around the room—” Link starts at the same time.

Their mouths clamp shut. Silence reigns again. Nervously, Zelda shifts the weight of her body from one foot to another, and the wooden floor creaks loudly underneath her.

She licks her bottom lip, then murmurs, “You were saying?”

Link clears his throat, then continues, “I… I should sweep around the room. And then I’ll go out and man the door.”

Her stomach plummets as she frowns. “W-what? Why?”

“Why?” He raises his brows, confused. “I always guard your door, Princess.”

“Yes, I know,” she replies, fingers curling at her sides. “But I— I chose the junior suite so that you could guard from the inside,” she says. “In the warmth. So you can sit down on the sofa and—” she swallows, “—get a restful, comfortable sleep tonight.”

He inhales; it’s a quiet thing, but any noise that comes out of him is amplified by that intrinsic part of her that’s primal and hungry. And finally, something readable begins to bloom in his eyes, and she understands it as genuine disbelief.

“You…” His voice is small. “You’re okay with that?”

She feels her face crumple at the question—at the uncertainty that laces it. She tries hard to twist it back to normal, to force her lips to quirk upward instead of down, to relax her puckered forehead—though she knows it’s to no avail. She finds that she has little control over the muscles in her body these days; finds that they have a life of their own whenever he is involved.

“Of course I am.” Her own voice, however, is surprisingly steady. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

It might be her imagination, but his shoulders seem to slump as he replies, “I’m your knight, Princess. I’d be breaking protocols.”

Somehow, Zelda can’t help but laugh a little at that, because everything that he is surpasses whatever rule anyone could ever impose upon him; because before he is a royal knight, he is Hylia’s chosen and beloved. And most of all, he is—

“My friend,” Zelda says. “You’re my friend, Link.”

The word falls like a double-edged sword upon her tongue.

A friend—no more, no less—but she still counts it a blessing. Goddess, what a blessing it is to be able to call him as such, after all this time. Even if he doesn’t think the same way, it will hurt—but she doesn’t care.

This is all she has, all that she’s allowed to offer him, and she wants him to have it.

So she breathes it to life once again.

“And… I won’t let my friend sleep on the floor.” Her words sound resolute even though her throat is flooded with something hot, working its way up to her eyes.

It’s a slow process, but she watches as the palisade of his visage gets cleaved by a smile on those lips, reminiscent of how the flowers on the dining table would blossom in the wild—blue nightshades bursting forth after the right amount of rain and earthly nurture.

Well, maybe she’s being fanciful, comparing herself to nature, to the necessary component to make him open—

But a girl can dream.

And it’s very easy to dream of such things when he’s smiling like that—wide enough to dimple his cheeks.

“Is that an order, then, Princess?” Link asks, his tone gentle and playful and just a little impish—an edge to him she rarely sees, and it’s not exactly the response that she wishes for but it’s a crumb she savors nonetheless.

“Yes, that is an order.” She breathes a laugh, rubbing her clammy fingers together. “From your friend.”

His smile grows wider, and the corner of his eyes crinkle from it. The flickering light from the candles plays about his face, casting random, ever-changing patterns of shadow and light—redolent to those hidden parts of him that appear in one second just to disappear in the next—simply too fast for her to catch, to parse through.

She’ll never fully figure him out, she knows—and though it is a bitter thought, she tells herself that it’s all right. That as a scholar, she should like this—the endless pursuit to understand that which seems impossible to understand; to try to define the undefinable; to unearth pieces long buried and lost to time.

Come to think of it, he isn’t unlike the Divine Beasts—buried under a hundred centuries of soil, crust, and mantle; a diamond of a soul, forged by sheer pressure a million years ago.

Ancient relic, farm boy. Her knight and friend.

And her friend does as he said he would—he sweeps around the room for weak points, pushes at the hinges and latches of the windows as he’s always done, sniffs at the ceramic mugs provided to ensure they’re not coated with poison, then gets down on all four to peek underneath the bed.

And Zelda watches, and watches, and watches.

They spend the rest of daylight in relative calmness; Link plops down on the floor, his back against the couch, sharpening the Sword—the shink, shink of blade against whetstone filling up the room. Zelda sits at the desk, thumbing through a booklet left on the table—a pamphlet about Deya Village, designed for tourists.

While only a short journey from the nearby East Post and Dueling Peaks, Deya Village is a quiet town. Due to its geographical location, isolated by hills, the village retains its own culture and character, with many of its villagers rarely ever venturing outside of West Necluda. However, within the past fifty years or so, more and more Deya natives travel outside their hometown to search for job opportunities outside the realm of freshwater fishing, and find better prospects for love.

She sets the pamphlet down, her thumb idly tracing the word ‘love’.

It’s a strange phenomenon—an increase in marriage permit applications, a constant need to call a Priestess to officiate weddings. And her obliviousness to such a phenomenon happening in her kingdom sends a little prick of guilt through her—that as the Princess, her finger is rarely on the pulse of the country.

The only pulse she feels is its anxiety, its fear of her failure, for it lives inside her, too—inside her veins that thrum with blood but not light, never light.

And that fear takes so many different forms—in the wounding, disparaging looks that they give her. In the reverent bow of their heads whenever they see the Hero. In every wrinkle etched into Father’s face that gets more and more prominent with each day where her power doesn't awaken.

Fear drives every one of them to move, to act—to make the most out of what they’ve been given, to be precious with what little time they have—

Just as it drives them to love fiercely, explicitly.

Behind her, Link is still whetting his blade. She rises from her seat, and when she turns around, the room falls quiet, and his blues are already on her.

“I want to go to the chapel and witness the weddings,” she tells him. “I think— I think I owe it to them to be there. To see.”

She half-expects him to ask her why, expects him to at least look at her in puzzlement, but he only nods and gazes at her with complete understanding, and she knows not if it’s for her predicament or theirs.

As she winds her headscarf around her head, ties the ends beneath her chin, and readies herself to step outside, she wonders how such a fear would manifest in Link, because she knows that he isn’t without fear. She’s felt it before, like a small leak through the ceiling—the proof of its existence revealed in his muttered apologies, the moment he saved her in the desert.

But maybe it’s better to only wonder and not witness; she never wants to see fear in his eyes again, the same way she never wants to see his skin bleed, or his body wounded.

Out from the inn, they make their way to the chapel—passing by a few shops and eateries, their gazes on Link’s back again. Not once does he look back at them; he stays on her eight o’clock, blessedly only a pace away, his eyes on the twilight horizon. Though Zelda remains anonymous, the Slate suddenly weighs a ton on her hip. Her hand subconsciously taps the gadget at her side—makes sure that it’s concealed well beneath the pleated layers of her thick skirt.

Her chest grows hot with contrition, realizing that the shedding of her royal shell means that she’s abandoned him in the limelight, all alone under the scorching press of those eyes, under the mighty heft of the Sword.

Gods, what a friend she is to him.

Half of her wants to run back to the inn and change back into her royal field clothes, just so that she can bear those eyes together with him. The rest of her wants to take his hand and hold it tight, and let him know that he’s not alone.

It converts into the swimming in her vision, the clenching of her fists.

At this hour, she notices that there aren’t many couples lining up outside, eager to tie the knot—but she sees a traveling painter not far from the doors, profusely congratulating the newlyweds that pass by her—‘Don’t forget to commemorate your most important day, folks!’ she chirps, no doubt vying for their rupees.

Although Zelda doesn’t really appreciate opportunists, especially ones who try to take advantage of such a heartfelt, sacred occasion, she can’t help but admire the painter’s resourcefulness. Finds comfort in the fact that even with a portent of doom clouding over the kingdom, the sun still rises and sets in the sky as it always does, and people still find all sorts of ways to make money—as they always do.

As she takes the last few steps to enter the chapel, Link disappears from her periphery, choosing to return to the standard mode of three-to-five-paces-away-from-the-Princess, and it makes her next inhale a little painful. But she understands him—it must’ve felt uncomfortable earlier, to be mistaken as hers when he isn’t, when he belongs to someone else.

The air immediately turns much more solemn the moment her feet cross the threshold. A harpist sits just off the altar at the very front, playing hymns as a pair stands before the Priestess—their fingers intertwined, the Priestess already mid-way through her blessings, the tall Goddess statue looming behind them.

Though the chapel is fairly empty, save for the to-be-wedded couples that sit at the very front and their few relatives that watch—Zelda chooses to sit at the very back of the room where she expects the least attention. She settles down on the pew and scoots further inside until she’s well within the shady corner of the room, untouched by the illumination from the chandeliers.

It also gives Link enough room to still keep his distance from her, if he so chooses it.

He does and doesn’t; he unfastens the scabbard from his back, holds the hilt in his hands as he sits down on the wooden bench, then slides closer until his right thigh is a few inches away from her left—near but not touching, the small valley between their sides gaping like a canyon in her mind.

As Link leans the Sword against the back of the pew in front of them, the groom at the altar utters ‘I do,’ and the Priestess announces the pair husband and wife. A scattered applause breaks out, and the newlyweds step off the dais, hand in hand, eyes shining with tears, smiling with all teeth.

They walk down the aisle to exit the chapel, to step into the rest of their lives that surely await them outside, and Zelda clasps her hands and prays for them—

Mother Goddess, let the rest of their lives be long and prosperous and peaceful.

Another pair walk up the dais—a Gerudo woman and a Hylian man—and Zelda does the same; she prays and prays, lets their vows and laughter and tears of joy fill up her ears, her brain; lets all of that become fuel to her orisons, fuel that she’ll use in her supplication in Lake Hylia tomorrow.

With each couple that marries and leaves, the chapel turns quieter and quieter, until the last pair stand before the altar—groom and bride both Hylian, the bride’s hair almost red-blood in the poorly lit room.

Beside her, Link’s breath hitches. She anticipates him to grab the indigo hilt in front of him, but his gloved hands stay put on his lap.

No danger, then, she concludes. Something else.

Zelda turns to look at him. Whispers, “Link?”

At that, he tilts his face her way, and she realizes that a few inches turn out to be close after all, because she can faintly feel his breath as he replies quietly, “The groom is, uh, a knight. At the castle.”

“What?”

“It’s okay, I don’t think he’ll notice you,” he whispers back, and she hears what’s unsaid: He’ll notice me instead. “Just sit back. It’ll be all right.”

Rumors spread like wildfire in this country, and the sight of the Princess and her appointed knight at a chapel holding an event for express weddings surely would look scandalous, but there doesn’t seem to be any worry in Link’s voice, so she nods and lays her eyes at the altar once more.

The groom and the bride are now facing each other—her hands in his as the Priestess begins the exchange of vows.

Zelda holds her breath.

“Markus of Deya Village,” the Priestess starts. “Do you take Rosemary to be your wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” the groom says, his utterance almost devotional.

On her left side, Zelda’s hand twitches, aches.

The Priestess turns to the bride. “Rosemary of Castle Town, do you take Markus to be your husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do, by Hylia, I do…” the bride cries, laden with joy, resonating throughout the room. Somehow, it makes tears spring up to Zelda’s eyes, too.

They exchange rings—gold bands glinting as they slide them around each other’s fourth fingers, laughing as they do so, and Zelda deliriously, painfully pictures the man beside her with his chosen woman, his body wrapped in a navy blue armor made just for him, his lips sweetly puckered to utter ‘I do’.

She crushes the thought.

“By the power vested in me by the Three and the Goddess Hylia, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the Priestess declares warmly. “You may now kiss the bride.”

There’s no one else in the pews except for Zelda and Link, so she has no choice but to applaud them, but not too loud that it catches the couple’s attention. She watches as they kiss and laugh and cry—her heart swelling, her heart breaking.

Finally, they walk off the dais just as the previous couples have done, and make their way down the aisle, and while Zelda is happy for them, happy for this man under Father’s employ who she didn’t even know about until today, she hopes that they don’t notice—

“Oh, my Gods! Is that you?!” Markus exclaims, dragging his bride along with him in excitement. Next to Zelda, Link visibly tenses. “Gods damn, it’s you. My old roommate, my boko-slaying buddy,” Markus laughs, stepping closer to them. “The Hero.”

Something like ice travels down Zelda’s spine upon hearing those titles. No matter how human Link is, how mortal and young, how universal his upbringing might be, he’s still that to everyone else—the Hero.

“Hey, Markus,” Link replies as he stands up, his tone nervous but still jovial. He extends a hand. “Congratulations, man.”

At that, Markus guffaws and takes Link’s hand, pulling him into a hug. “Oh my Gods, I can’t believe our elopement was witnessed by you, of all people.”

Link seems stiff, but he brings up one hand to pat Markus on the back. When they pull away, Markus continues, “I rarely ever see you at the castle, you Royal Guard snob.” The man can’t stop laughing—almost dumbstruck. “I’m always stationed at the walls. And you’re always with the Princess.”

Zelda, too, is absolutely dumbstruck—her greed relishing at the banquet that it has come across: witnessing Link’s past in real-time.

“Yeah, but Rosemary lives in Castle Town, so I don’t think you mind.” Link shrugs, and though his back is facing her, Zelda can hear his slight smirk.

“Hah, you’re right!” Markus barks a laugh again. “Speaking of, where’s Her Highness? And who in Farore’s name is this lady behind you?”

Zelda tightens her headscarf around her, pulls at it so that it covers more of her face.

“I’m, ah, on my weekend off,” Link says. “And she…” he turns to gesture at her, meeting her eyes as he does so, “…she’s my friend.”

“Yeah right, friend.” Markus snorts, then gasps— “Holy shit, is that why you’re here, then?! You’re gonna get married?!”

“No,” Link replies, the syllable rolling off his tongue so quick—a knife-jab through her center. “We’re just, uh, visiting. And wanted to see what’s up.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence—Markus eyeing them both suspiciously, Link squaring his shoulders—but then it breaks when Rosemary chimes in, “Good on the Princess for giving you a weekend off, kid.”

No, not ‘good on the Princess,’ Zelda thinks, a pang ringing in her chest. I have never been good to him.

“That’s right,” Markus says. “You always work so hard. Dragging you out of the castle’s like dragging a damn hinox.” At that, Link scratches his head sheepishly. “Think that day in Castle Town when we got your ears pierced was one of the only few times we ever hung out.”

Zelda watches as Link raises his hand to pinch the blue hoop on his right earlobe. “Thanks for these again, Rosemary,” he says, quiet genuineness in his voice.

“Nah, don’t mention it! Hope they’ve made some girls swoon.” Rosemary giggles.

Something inside Zelda itches again—this inexplicable, near-idiotic wish to step into the bodies of all these people who had known him before, to merge the atoms in her body with the earrings that hang from his ears, to gather every fragment of his life in her arms and swallow them all so that she can become a part of him, too—

“Seems like they have,” Markus says teasingly, his neck craning to look past Link’s shoulder, right at Zelda. “What do you think, Link’s lady friend?” he asks, elongating the syllable. Laaaady. “Do you like his earrings?”

Zelda freezes—unprepared to join the conversation, unprepared to be asked such a question and confront herself in order to answer it.

But she confronts it anyway—this thought that she had previously smothered to death. But with every warm moment he’s gifted her, the thought resurfaces, and even with the abuse of her denial it remains intact and whole and hungry, so visible to her mind’s eye now—

“Yes,” Zelda breathes the word, the thought. She shoves her trembling hands under her thighs. Makes sure to add a playful lilt to her utterance, waters down her upper-echelon accent. “Yeah, I guess they look good on him.”

Link continues to face away from her, and she finds both comfort and misery in it. He remains still even as Markus laughs and slaps a hand on Link’s shoulder, says, “Oh, finally! Link’s got a girl! I was so sure the only girl in your life was the Princess.”

“Markus…” There’s a hint of warning in Link’s saying.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Markus cackles, putting his hands up before taking Rosemary’s again. “Well, so nice to see you outside the castle, Link,” he says, then his eyes landing on the Sword, still leaning against the bench. “I’ll always pray for you, brother. Good luck with everything.”

Something painful coils around Zelda’s lungs at that.

At last, the newlyweds bid them goodbye and leave the chapel to enjoy the evening and their new titles as husband and wife, and the room falls completely silent—now empty that the Priestess has left and all the marriages have been officiated.

It’s just them, on the very back pew, Zelda’s heart in her throat, the tense crease of her forehead obscured by her headscarf. A few seconds pass, then Link turns around, meets her eyes—his expression not so dissimilar from hers. “I’m so sorry, Princess—”

She immediately shakes her head. “No, don’t be, please.”

If there’s anything he should say now, it should be ‘You’re welcome’, because she wants to thank him again—for letting her witness another part of him, for allowing her a few minutes of fulfilled fantasy.

Link’s lady friend.

But she doesn’t say such things, and he doesn’t give out anything else other than a tight-lipped smile, so they make their way out of the chapel, too—a princess and a knight, bound by a vow of another kind.

Dinner is simple and fairly quiet: two bowls of venison stew from the inn’s cafeteria, which they consume at the dining table in their room. Link asks if the stew tastes good, if she needs extra salt or pepper, if she wants more—but Zelda only thanks him.

In the end, she’s full but there’s a few spoonfuls left in her bowl, so she offers it to Link, which he accepts and downs quickly. She watches, smiles to herself—the sight of him sitting across from her at the table her bittersweet dessert, a temporary view.

She excuses herself to the bathroom and readies herself for sleep—puts her modest nightgown on, brushes her teeth, braids her hair. She does all these things slowly and thoroughly, hoping they might dampen the electric buzz that hums low in her stomach.

When she returns to the living room, most of the candles have been put out—aside from the ones on the study desk and the nightstand next to her bed, and the fireplace that still blazes heat.

Her eyes zero in on his form faster than she can take her next breath.

Their gazes meet. The buzz hums louder.

He sits on the couch, back upright, dark turtleneck and trousers still on, the Sword leaning on the wall right next to him—the golden details of the scabbard near-orange from the firelight.

Her soles ache to drag the rest of her body forward, toward him—so she curls her toes and plants her feet firm on the parquet, but that ache travels north instead, too quick for her decorous restraint to intercept, replacing the quick ‘good night’ she’s carefully prepared on her tongue:

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sight of you without your standard uniforms.”

He blinks. She swears she can hear him swallow audibly before asking, “Do you not like it, Princess?”

“What— of course not,” she stammers, then realizes how it sounds when his eyes widen just a bit. “I meant— of course, I have no problem with it. Any clothes you wear are fine, so long as they protect you well,” she amends. “That— that’s all that matters to me.”

On the dining table, the candle continues to flicker. His eyes seem to flicker with something, too—unreadable but existent, like the ancient scrawls of letters not yet translated.

“I just…” she trails off, unsure of how to verbalize the irrational side of her that simply misses seeing him in the clothes made by her own hands, to be wrapped in the same shade of blue—one of the few similarities she gets to share with him.

She eventually settles for, “…Is something the matter with the Champion tunic?”

Link shakes his head—rather frantically. “Not at all,” he tells her. “I just haven’t worn it ‘cause it needs mending. From the lizalfos attack.”

Zelda frowns. “Why didn’t you say so? I always have a sewing kit with me.”

On the edge of the sofa, his fingers change the strength of their grip—tighter.

“Yeah, I…” Link starts, a tongue darting out to wet his lip, “…I just didn’t want to inconvenience you, Princess.”

Those words coming out of his mouth shoot pain through her.

She takes a few steps forward, her feet moving out of their own volition, following what seems to be their most natural course—Link their true north. Her hazed, desperate mind wants her to sit by his side and shake him and tell him that that’s all she ever wanted from him—to help him in whatever limited way she could.

But she only lets a fraction of that desperation spill.

“You could never inconvenience me, Link,” Zelda says softly. “I’ve mended your tunic before, you know. And I told you—” she gulps, clears her throat, “—you’re my friend. So I’d love to mend it. I-if you’d let me.”

While she knows she still has a long way to go in learning the language of Link, she’s always known the signifier of his internal conflict—can find it in the nervous press of his lips, the tensing of the tendons in his neck, the flare of his nostrils.

It’s what she sees in him now.

Perfect soldier forever, she thinks reverently, bitterly. She wants to lift the veil of his knightliness and reveal the true kernel of him—the young man that he is when he’s permitted to be just that—a man.

What would he ask for, if he were allowed to ask?

But she can only run with what she’s been given, and right now, it’s a stretch of silence before he eventually nods, stands up, their faces level with each other, and murmurs,

“Of course, I’d let you, Princess.” He smiles. “Thank you.”

She’ll gladly run with that, too. ‌Gods, she’ll run and run and run with all these morsels and crumbs in her mouth, telling herself that they’re enough until the hunger for more catches up to her.

In front of her, his eyes continue to blaze like how she imagines the earth looks like from the distant skies—all blue, hard to fathom, gravitational—

As beautiful as it is unreachable.

Zelda prays for that hunger to never set in, smiles back, and says, “Okay, let’s get your tunic fixed, shall we?”

The next morning heralds itself with the chirping of birds and fat, gray clouds. Zelda, too, heralds herself with the royal field outfit now wrapped around her figure—cerulean blue and white, a complement to Link’s Champion tunic—mended once more by her own hands.

Whoever is already up and about in this quiet village immediately gape and gawk, heads turning and bowing.

She doesn’t mind.

She walks, head held up high. Her knight faithfully follows behind her, her presence shielding him from the brunt of the anxious, fearful stares shot their way, just as his body has shielded her time and time again from physical harm.

Those looks always ring out the same; Princess is synonymized with powerlessness, just as Hero is synonymized with hope.

Parallel to the unease that roils under her skin, pride blossoms—proud that at the very least, she’s good at this, at enduring those eyes and their whispers no matter how stinging they can be. Proud that she’s discovered another means to help him, somehow.

It isn’t until they reach the point where the western hills that border the village part and meet Hylia River, tucked away behind the copse of trees, that Zelda can finally breathe—inflating her lungs with fresh air, with the wild.

They find a rock alcove underneath a tall oak tree—the perfect place to change into her prayer gown. Link takes out a rope and a large, heavy sheet of red fabric from his pack, and assembles them into a curtain to cover the alcove’s opening. The makeshift changing room is put together in no time, and her gown, sandals, and bracelets are laid neatly on top of a small statue within the alcove.

Zelda steps behind the curtain, pulls it shut—isolating her from him, though he’s already given her the courtesy to turn his back, his gaze trained on the riverbank that runs all the way to Lake Hylia.

Her fingers do as they’ve always done: take off her boots, unbutton her pants, and then her blouse. Free her hairline from their blue clips and undo her braids before raking through her locks till they’re loose and plain—no unnecessary decoration that might impede the Goddess’ communication with her.

Or so the Priestesses tell her.

She also undoes the bodice fastened around her chest, as is the custom, and finally, she stands there, behind the red curtain, goosebumps forming all over her skin from the chill, all bare save for her briefs. She stares at the prayer gown, then stares down at herself—the gentle slope of her breasts, the softness of her stomach, and then further down to her bare thighs and shins and feet.

All her limbs may be interwoven with veins that carry the Goddess’ blood, and they can be wrapped with swaths of sacred white and gold, but the only thing she can think of right now is how vulnerable they are, how pregnable.

How human—sizzling with something she dares not name at the knowledge that it only takes the easy act of drawing the drapery aside to expose herself to him.

She smothers the thought as soon as it burgeons. Quickly dons her prayer dress, cinches the belt, and fastens the gold cuffs, the necklace, the sandals. Lets the guilt seizes her, for there should be no room in her body for anything else other than the crushing weight of her obsecration.

When she’s fully dressed, Zelda does draw the curtain aside—an earthly embodiment of Hylia, or at least that’s what she’s aiming for.

Link turns around, his beryl eyes the only thing that isn’t muted gray by the clouds. She steps forward and looks down at his fingers, curled around a vial of red-orange liquid.

“This should last you a few hours, Princess,” he says, proffering the cold-proof elixir to her. She takes the vial from him and the glass feels warm in her grip—his body heat lingering.

“Thank you, Link,” she replies, unstoppers it, and brings the rim of it to her lips, then throws her head back to down it in one go. It leaves a trail of intense warmth down her throat, instantly simmering in her belly. Despite her intent to appear godly, she doesn’t bother to cover her unladylike cringe at the pungent taste.

They leave the curtain and her pack containing her field clothes in the alcove; the only valuable she’s brought—the Slate—is attached to Link’s belt instead, the safest place it could ever be, perhaps even more so than her own hip. Her drying robe hangs on his left shoulder. The sight of a knight carrying the things that a maid should be quite funny, but then adjacent to her robe is the scabbard of the Sword, and she’s reminded that Link isn’t just her guard but something more than that—Gods, he’s always been more than that—and her chest tightens.

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be carrying her things, shouldn’t have to be here with her as they trek down the riverside and meet what surely will end in nothing but unanswered prayers.

But she lets him anyway, because it’s his job to do so and his job is what keeps him by her side, and she—

She needs him by her side.

She needs him.

And she carries that need within her, along with the images of the lovers she’s seen at the chapel yesterday—her people’s hope and fear. Along with the sounds of Father’s genuine laughter she last heard years ago, of Urbosa’s gentle voice. Again, she carries more of Link—his steadfastness and selflessness, the sight of his wounds and scars, his silence and everything he’s ever said to her—

Zelda gathers all of them in her arms, tries to meld them together into one colossal, thunderous plea crackling in the minuscule space between her clasped fingers beneath her chin, and steps into the frigid waters of Lake Hylia.

Her mouth has been muttering prayers for a while now—how many hours exactly, she doesn’t know.

What she knows is the waterline that kisses her collarbone, the undercurrents that lap against her legs.

Still, Zelda carries on and prays. Prays past the chap of her lips, the wrinkling of her finger pads. Past the cold that begins to bite through her skin—the elixir wearing off. Past the dull pain in her soles from standing on the uneven surface of the lakebed. She endures it all for as long as she can and offers it to Hylia. And when exhaustion finally takes hold of her, she endures that, too—a garnish to her oblation, served on the humble plate that is her mortal body.

She doesn’t stop, refuses to stop until her knees nearly give out from sheer fatigue, and only then does she unclasp her hands, takes two deep breaths, and turns around.

Link is still stationed by the shore, the Sword in front of him, his hands resting on the pommel—or maybe grasping tight is a better description for it. There seems to be tension everywhere in him—his crunched brows, his shoulders, his lips—but it gradually leaves him as her slow footsteps take her closer to him.

Her dress feels all the more heavier as the water recedes down from her elbows, to her thighs, then her shins—the sopping fabric clinging to her shivering body with all its might, as if rebuking her to return to the water: Go back, go back, you did not succeed—

It breaks and scatters to the winds when her feet find solid, dry ground and Link steps forward.

“Princess.” His voice is somehow rough. He reattaches the Sword to his baldric and procures another vial of spicy elixir from his pouch. “Please, drink this.”

She’d refuse—she hates the taste of it and she hates taking something from him even more—but there’s something stricken and urgent in his ‘please’, so she accepts it, thanks him, and then it’s down the hatch.

Link wastes no time to hand her her drying robe. She accepts that, too, and winds it around her shoulders.

Her knees still feel weak—wobbling here and there as they walk uphill, back to the rock alcove. She hears him striding faster, catching up to her side, perhaps fearing that she’d topple over and crash.

Frankly, it feels like she would, that the next step would be her undoing and she’d realize that there’s no more strength left in her body, but each time she doesn’t, so she continues to walk. She’ll walk and walk until something pushes her to her fall, just as she knows she’ll pray again until Hylia deigns to finally listen.

“How long was I in there?” she asks, her face tilted towards Link.

“Four hours, Princess,” he answers. She looks down at her fingers, sees the pruny state that they’re in—and thinks that four hours seems about right.

It takes fifteen minutes or so to make it back to the alcove, and thankfully, their things appear untouched. As she changes back into her field outfit behind the drawn curtain, she hears thunder rolling overhead, vibrating the soil beneath her feet. She sighs and makes haste, hopes that they’ll make it to the inn before the storm sets in. She’s in no mood to be drenched in water again.

She manages to get to her left boot when it finally starts to rain—a sudden downpour, violent in her ears.

Laughter bubbles in her throat. Of course, it rains, when she has specifically wished for the opposite.

With a heavy sigh, she pulls the curtain open.

Link is just to the right, underneath the canopy of the tall oak tree, squinting at the sky like he’s willing the clouds to go away.

It wouldn’t surprise her if he actually has the ability to do so.

“It seems that luck is truly on my side today,” she says, her smile all wry. He replies with a faint, little laugh, and the sound peals louder than the thunder.

They take their time to prepare themselves for their return to the inn despite the storm; Link takes apart the curtain while Zelda wrings the moisture out of her gown and robe as best she can before storing them in the bag. When all is done, he hands the Slate back to her. She attaches it to her belt, its weight missed and welcome—contradistinction to the oppressive mass of the prayer dress.

Above them, the rain continues to rage, relentless in its nurturing assault upon the nature surrounding them, so Zelda resorts to sitting on the dry patch of grass beneath the tree, leaning against the wall of the rock alcove. Link follows, settling to her right. Even with the cold wind blustering all around her, her side that’s the closest to him feels warm.

She’s helpless to such a feeling. Helpless to the churn in her stomach, not knowing whether it’s caused by her proximity to him or simply by the fact that it’s two in the afternoon and it’s high time for lunch. Helpless to the phantom magnet in her hand that seeks to pull it to his hand.

Her fingers twitch at the thought, and she hastily brings them to the Slate at her hip, tracing the grooves of its handle. When that doesn’t tame their longing, she unclips the Slate and brings it to her lap, and lets her fingers continue their fidgeting by scrolling back and forth through the gallery of photographs, letting the vibrant colors blur in her vision.

The storm doesn’t stop.

Eventually, Link rises, one hand reaching behind his back, and asks, “Is it okay if I train a bit, Princess?”

His asking for her permission makes her ache.

“Of course,” she replies softly, gesturing at the field in front of them. He nods and unbuckles the scabbard from the baldric, and unsheathes the Sword. Even with the blare of the rain, its metal tolls clearly—the most sacred of bells.

He leaves the scabbard lying on the spot where he sat, and she can’t help but crane her head to look at it—violet and gold against the wet grass. She has the strangest urge to touch it but chooses not to. It is not hers.

When the blues in her periphery move, she lays her gaze on the horizon once more—at her knight as his shoulders rise from a deep inhale, and begins to slice the air around him with the Sword.

Now that there is no danger at the point of the Sword’s blade, no worry that he might get hurt, Zelda carefully regards him. Regards each pass that he executes with immaculate proficiency.

She’s always thought that fighting—whether with a sword or any other weapon—is a violent, brutal action. There’s a lot of clamor, metal against metal, grunting and yelling that seems more like an attempt to appear tougher rather than a necessary physical reaction. It has always been the case each time she observes the knights at the training yard. And it’s not to say that they’re not good at what they do—they are, but what she sees ahead of her now is something that transcends regular exercise drills.

There’s grace in it, in him. When he grunts or breathes aloud, it sounds purposeful—stripped of any vanity. There’s an elegance to be found in the wild sway of the caramel strands upon his head. There’s musicality in the movements of his arms, in the firm press of his boots against the muddy ground as he steps, steps, strikes; steps, steps, strikes.

He’s a dancer as much as he is a swordsman.

The more he moves, the stronger the dichotomy between them grows: here he is, perfecting himself even in the middle of a storm, his tunic drenched with rainwater, while she sits under the tree, hair damp just like his but not any closer towards the most perfect version of herself.

But still, she watches—hypnotized by different patterns of maneuvers, different stances and positions—a never-ending display of his excellence.

He takes a break after a while—his breath ragged and loud as he jogs to her side to chug from his waterskein, but even then, he returns to his previous place and does it all over again.

Her mind, too, does it all over again—oscillating between the same thoughts she has of him and herself like the swing of a pendulum: Hero, Descendant; Knight, Princess; powerful, powerless; Her beloved, Her shunned.

It even swings to another corner, an understanding that makes her hurt more than it provides alleviation: it’s easy to see why many respect him, extol him, and how some even want to have him.

Who wouldn’t? Link—strong as he is kind, dedicated and dependable.

With her might, she pushes the pendulum away from that thought. Says instead, “I doubt this will let up anytime soon.”

He doesn’t stop moving. His two hands are wrapped around the iris hilt, and he strikes forward, then slices twice—at the air, at the dam on her tongue that keeps all her words in.

They begin to leak.

“Your path seems to mirror your father’s,” she says, smiling a little as she recalls the hazy image of Sir William, Father’s late right-hand man—his hair color just like his son’s. “You've dedicated yourself to becoming a knight, as well.”

A very good one, at that, she thinks fondly.

In front of her, he continues his dance—step, step, strike.

“Your commitment to the training necessary to fulfill your goal is really quite admirable,” she tells him, though she knows he might not be listening. So perhaps it’s more of an admission to herself, brought to life by her vocal cords—her wonder made real. “I see now why you would be the Chosen One.”

Then it hits her; the dance he’s doing now, or any other time, is a million different choreographies embedded in his muscles—learned from his years of training, but perhaps also from the lives he previously lived—lives that he surely doesn’t remember but still dwell within the trenches of his body.

So what is he, then, exactly? A product of his upbringing, or that ancient soul that resides underneath the layers of dermis and fat and sinew?

What would he do if he were stripped away from all of that?

“What if one day…” she starts, suddenly needing to tear her eyes away from him, from the eye of the thunder. “You realized that you just weren't meant to be a fighter.”

In the corner of her eye, he finally stops the swinging of his Sword. He turns around and she feels those blue eyes on her, feels the spear of his full attention.

The dam fractures further.

“Yet the only thing people ever said was that you were born into a family of the royal guard,” she says. “And so no matter what you thought, you had to become a knight.”

Just as her fingers curl into the meat of her thighs, realization curls into her:

That he never had a choice to begin with for he is Her chosen, and has been Her chosen since time immemorial. That She must have chosen this particular boy out of all the boys in Hyrule—Link of Hateno, the son of Sir William—because he hails from the right family, grown from the right roots.

“If that was the only thing you were ever told…”

A second realization dawns, cuts through her:

That her blood is the bars that make up his cage.

Tying him to her.

“I wonder, then— would you have chosen a different path?”

Thunder rolls again from up above. Its tail end is followed by the punching of her heartbeat, and a hush descending over them.

It stays like that for what feels like an eternity until she hears the squelch of his boots against the grass.

Zelda looks up at him, watches as he closes the distance.

He’s one with the storm now, she thinks—there’s not a single part of him that hasn’t been thoroughly kissed by the rain.

Unexpectedly, he lays the Sword next to its scabbard, then lowers himself to the ground on one knee right in front of her.

She gazes into his eyes—bluer and closer and more open than they have ever been—and her heart lodges itself in her windpipe.

“I wouldn’t, Princess,” Link says at last.

Her first instinct is to tell him not to lie, but he said it himself a few days ago—he’d never lie to her. And while he can be quite reserved, a liar, he is not.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says. He presses his lips as though trying to find the right words. When he does, he continues, “I’m like an apple on a tree. When I fall, there’s only one way for me to fall—to the ground.” On his kneecap, his fingers flex. “Does that make sense?”

The concept itself does make sense, for she has it, too: the law of gravity, the pull of the earth—its core being Link.

“It does,” she says, sensing that law working in real-time, her body gravitating towards him. “But say that you aren’t an apple, and you can fall any way you want…” she pauses, almost scared of what she’d reveal as she chisels more and more at his marble to reveal the very meat of him.

But she’s a scholar so she’ll strive for the truth, even if it will most likely hurt her.

“…Where would you want to fall? What would you want to do?”

He shrugs, casual. “I’d still be here.”

“But why?” she murmurs. “Why choose such a life, even if you could have it another way? When you could free yourself of such a burden?” The trembling is so plain in her voice. “Free yourself of… of me?”

At that, Link squeezes his eyes shut, frustration marring his visage. “W-why would I want to be free of you?"

“Link, don’t you see?” She frowns at him. Suddenly, the weight of history falls on her back like a boulder. “My blood traps you, traps your soul. It's because of me that you have to fight—over and over and over again."

He shakes his head. “You— you’re not trapping me.” He’s never sounded so convinced. “Whether my being here is destiny or a product of my choice… Or my predecessors' choice…” he pauses, a certain eerie clarity flashing through his gaze, “I don't think it matters. All I know is that I'm right where I should be, where I want to be.”

Hope stirs from its slumber in her lungs, batters her ribcage.

“…And where is that?” she asks quietly.

His eyelashes touch his cheek twice—rainwater hanging from them like dew. One falls and trails downward till it meets his lips—lips that begin to curve upward.

There’s that look again—a peculiar combination of amusement and disbelief, but that, too, softens into the warmth of his smile as he answers,

“Here with you.”

Here with you.

The words send a hot pool to her eyes, blurring her vision of him. Her brain turns blank for a second, and when it springs back to life, there’s only doubt—its last means of protecting her from inevitable disappointment.

It must’ve been scrawled all over her face, because Link breathes and says, “I’m sorry, Princess, if I’ve ever done something to make you doubt it—doubt me, but…” he licks his lip, “…it’s the truth.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Gods, please don't say sorry, Link,” she says. Briefly, she thinks of exercising self-restraint again, but it only takes a quick accounting through her aching mind to see that there’s not much of it left. So she carries on, her tongue loosening. “It just… it just seems too good to be true.”

His face falls slightly, but then his sea-blue eyes glimmer with something sharp, as if he’s strategizing. After a beat, the glimmer fades, and he simply says, “Ask me anything.”

Zelda’s lips part. “What…?”

“Ask me anything,” Link repeats, his tone warm. “Ask me anything and I’ll answer it.”

The offer strikes her like the shedding of armor, like he’s taking his heart out of his chest and is handing it to her, letting her—encouraging her to poke and prod at it.

The primal greed inside her sings, but her fear sings louder. There’s so much she wants to ask him. And even though he’s allowed her to do so, she doesn’t want to dig in the wrong places—so afraid that the doors will slam shut in her face.

So she calculates, evaluates. At the end, everything boils down to one question—one that she thinks is quite mad to ask but she wants to know so bad—

“The last morning in Zora’s Domain, when you left the guest wing…” Zelda says past the voices in her head that scream this won’t end well either way, “…what did you and Mipha talk about?”

She braces for him to laugh at her, say ‘Actually, no, I would not answer that’ and just continue with his drill, restoring the silence and dreaded coldness that used to dwell between them.

But he doesn’t.

“I wanted to talk to her because we haven’t in a while,” he starts. “I sensed that— that there were things we needed to talk about. And so I met her by the bridge and we… talked.”

Now that he’s beginning to answer her question, she waits for the other shoe to drop—a confession. An announcement.

“She eventually told me that she sees a future with me, and that she’d like to officially propose to me when I turn seventeen.”

Thunder rumbles again. Zelda chews on her tongue.

“I told her that I respect and admire her so much, and that she deserves someone that can reciprocate her feelings,” he continues. “And that someone isn’t me.”

The weight in her gut breaks, shrivels, goes. It leaves a lot of room for relief, and it fills her up until it reaches her tear ducts.

She feels one bisect her cheek, and she gives it a cursory wipe with the heel of her palm. “I’m sorry.” She sniffles. “I don’t know— I don’t know why I’m—”

Link shakes his head. “It’s okay.”

“I’m such a horrible friend— you’re telling me about this thing that happened, a sad thing, and I’m— I’m—”

“You’re not,” he assures her. “Goddesses, you’re not.”

This time, she catches her tears before they can fall further down, her gloves absorbing them. “I’m sorry, Link.”

“Wait, why?”

“For you—”

“Why should you be, Princess? I made my choice,” he says, his smile warm. “If anything, I’m the one who should apologize—to my childhood friend, for disappointing her,” he pauses. “To you, for somehow always making you cry,” he laughs a little.

She’d tell him it’s tears born out of relief, but, well—it’d be a tad bit too inconsiderate, wouldn’t it?

Plus, something tells her that he already knows.

So she says nothing, merely revels in the lightness that starts to alight upon her—not complete weightlessness, but for someone like her, even just a minuscule portion being lifted off is a gift to be savored.

After a while, Link asks, “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?”

He’s still kneeling, his posture never faltering, and though she detests the symbol of such a position—superior and subordinate—her mind thumbs through her memories, remembering the countless times he’s knelt before her this way, and suddenly she harkens back to the very first time—

“Do you remember the time when you first met me?”

That seems to surprise him, but then his smile grows even wider. “Yeah.” He nods. “In the Sanctum, at Her Majesty’s funeral.”

She tries to put aside the ache that pricks from hearing Her Majesty, focuses on the single warm memory from that day.

“You were with your parents,” she says. “Father told me to introduce myself, and I offered my hand like so.” She extends her right hand forward, her palm facing down. It’s only a demonstration, she doesn’t expect him to take it, but he does—his thumb pad rests between her knuckles, just like on that day.

The thunder has stopped its rumbling in the sky, but she thinks it’s found its way to her bloodstream—crackling static where they touch.

“I admit, I couldn’t even remember that moment until not too long ago,” she tells him. “But now that I do… I feel—” she tries to wrack her brain for the right word, but eventually chooses, “—sad, I suppose.”

His thumb shifts on her knuckles. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” She smiles, melancholic. Her gaze falls to their hands, still holding each other. “I guess it just made me realize that you— you’ve always been there, but it took me so cursedly long to find out that I do have a friend in this crazy predicament we’re bound to.”

As the guilt rushes up her spine once more, her fingers tighten around his.

“Link, I’ll forever be sorry about that,” she half-whispers. “I’ll forever try to make it up to you, somehow.”

Link shakes his head again. “There’s no need, Princess,” he says softly. “I’m just glad that… that we got to this point, despite everything.” His eyes crinkle with so much kindness it physically hurts her. “That I get to be here… with you.”

Zelda almost chokes.

There are still words sticking to the roof of her mouth, itching to be uttered, but her hands are itching, too—wrathful in their longing—so she allows them do what they’ve always yearned to do:

Her fingers wrap around his palm until it’s her thumb that’s in between his knuckles instead. Her other hand joins, and together, they bring him to her face.

She closely inspects his bare fingers for a second, marvels at them—their texture and weight and significance—and then she closes her eyes, and presses her lips against them.

Kisses them.

Thanks him.

When she’s had her fill, she pulls away, rests her chin on them, and meets the thunderbolt of his gaze. Above the neckline of his inner shirt, his throat bobs. His cheeks are dimpled from his smile, his brows furrowed—and they all make her throb like a tender bruise. 

“…Anything else?” Link murmurs.

Her chin is still on his knuckles. Rain continues to pour.

“Actually, yes.” When she nods, his hand moves along with the motion. “Just one more thing.”

“Fire away.”

She takes a deep breath, thinks, Hylia, forgive me, and says, “When we’re alone…” another breath, “…you can call me Zelda.”

Link freezes.

She feels the tension in the tendons of his hand, feels the conflict seize him inch by inch, but she stays put—keeps her countenance open, lets all the words left unsaid find home within it so he can read and parse through them, so he knows that she truly means it and that it’s all right.

She pulls his hand away from her chin, lays it on her lap, cupping it with her palms, and she waits.

And as she waits, she takes him in: his blue topaz eyes, their long lashes—a few shades darker than his hair. The freckles that dust his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. His ears, tinted peach at their tips, a contrast to the blue of the hoops that adorn the lobes. His lips—full and flushed, a little chapped.

She can do this for days—lose herself in the details of him, but at last, the tension evaporates, replaced with another smile like the parting of clouds, even though it hasn’t stopped raining at all.

In her palms, his hand turns. She feels his calluses against her wrist. Her pulse jumps.

“Okay.” He presses his lips, and then: “Zelda.”

Never has her name sounded so canorous. She wants—needs—to hear it again.

“Link?”

Another flash of hesitance appears, then vanishes. “Yeah, Zelda?”

Oh, she can’t help but let the grin split across her face.

“You know— I don’t think this storm will ever leave,” she breathes a laugh, “so let’s just return to the inn.”

Link raises his brows. The smile is still there. “You sure?”

Zelda rolls her eyes, though there’s not an ounce of venom in it. “I can handle a little rain, Link,” she says, finally letting go of his hand to stand up. Blood rushes down to the length of her legs. Her body feels different, somehow—like the axis going through it has been slightly shifted—a degree closer to being aligned.

She leaves the verdant shelter of the tree and welcomes the rain that showers her scalp. He rises, too—refastens the Sword, picks up their things—and when he joins her in the downpour, two paces away, she closes the distance.

Together, they slowly make their way to the village. Their shoulders touch for as long as the wild still cocoons them.

Somewhere, an apple falls from its bough and meets the ground.

Chapter Text

Winter announces itself over Hyrule quietly—a little frost on the windowpane, a thin layer of fresh snow over the cobblestones. But this period of timidity only lasts for a little while; what awaits on the other side of the month is the blanketing of the kingdom in cold white, the absolute absence of warmth—and it is during this time that the castle is especially busy.

There just seems to be hustle and bustle everywhere: the staff ensuring that the entire palace will be well-fed, well-insulated, and well-protected throughout the season; the preparation of the King’s birthday ball tomorrow; the clanking of chains as gates are constantly lowered and raised to welcome guests; horses pulling carts with more fresh produce; decorators arriving from all corners of Hyrule to help bedeck the castle with seasonal ornaments.

It’s what Zelda hears all the way from the seamstress’ room.

She stands atop a raised platform, her arms slightly raised as Ingrid and a seamstress-in-training tighten the laces of her gown and pin needles down her figure.

“Just a bit more, Your Highness…” Ingrid says, and Zelda sighs and nods, ignores the low rumbling of her stomach—it’s lunchtime, after all—and keeps her eyes trained on the ceiling until something pricks at her waist—

“Ow!”

“I-I’m s-so sorry, Your H-Highness,” the seamstress-in-training stutters, and Ingrid admonishes her by muttering, ‘Don’t stab the Princess!’

Thankfully, the gown is finally secured on Zelda’s body. Ingrid smiles proudly, regards her craftsmanship one more time before urging Zelda to turn around on the dais and face the mirror, so Zelda heeds the seamstress’ words.

They certainly don’t call Ingrid the best in the kingdom for nothing; the garment is simply sublime, and exactly to Zelda’s vision. Mother’s simple, ivory strapless gown has been repurposed to be ballroom-ready, its draping skirts intricately layered with heavy chiffon. A deep red silk riband hangs from her left shoulder to cross her torso, its ends tied into a large ribbon and pinned on her right hip—her idea. Navy blue gloves cover her hands to her elbows—also her idea.

Without her diadem and jewelry, the outfit stands incomplete, but she can imagine how it’ll look tomorrow at Father’s birthday celebration. Though she isn’t excited for most of the things that such an event will bring forth—keeping up appearances and niceties, small talks that lead to nowhere, dances with sons of noblemen and councilmen that she’ll have to endure—there is one thing she’s looking forward to.

In the mirror, her gaze lands on the door behind her, where she knows her knight is waiting in the hallway.

Beneath the layers of satin and steel bone, her chest swells.

“What do you think, Your Highness?” Ingrid asks, her hands clasped in anticipation. “Is she ready for the ball tomorrow?”

Zelda laughs. Runs her gloved hands along the sides of the skirt. “Yes, I think she’s ready,” she replies. “This is really, really gorgeous, Ingrid.”

“Oh, what a joy to hear, Your Highness!” Ingrid exclaims, and snaps her fingers to signal for the seamstress-in-training. They work in tandem to unlace and take off the gown. “I shall finalize the stitchings tonight, and then I’ll be in your room tomorrow afternoon to help you put it on again!”

Peeling off the garment proves a much easier work than putting it on, and in no time, Zelda is back in her everyday dress. She makes sure to tighten the braids on her hairline, thanks Ingrid one more time, then finally exits the seamstress’ room.

Immediately to her right, Link stands, wrapped in his Champion tunic, his hands resting on the pommel of the Sword—ever-present, ever-blue.

She smiles at him and he smiles back, and together, they make their way to the small dining hall, Link her faithful shadow at her four o’clock.

“You’re very lucky you don’t have to stand for dress fittings,” she tells him. “They make you stand for hours, they accidentally stab you with needles…” She sighs. “Gods, even my arms are quite sore now from having to keep them raised for so long. It’s almost like taking archery all over again.”

“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “I didn’t know you had archery lessons, Princess.”

“I did,” she replies. “Ages ago.”

Perhaps that’s an exaggeration because six years isn’t that terribly long ago, but she has to account for the abyss that gapes wide in her chest, the unbearable heaviness of the passage of time.

Link hums. “How long did you take it?”

“For two years or so. I was not supernaturally gifted like you are,” she says matter-of-factly and sincerely, for he is supernaturally gifted, “but I could wield a bow with no problem.”

“Why’d you stop?” Link asks, and Zelda finds the reason to be too bitter to utter aloud, so she slows her steps and tilts her head to look into those blues, speaks with her gaze, and watches as the genuine curiosity disappears upon his realization.

Words scintillate through his face, a phenomenon she knows well enough now—and then his right hand raises just slightly as if to reach—to touch her—but decides not to, and that somehow stings her more than the remembrance of why she had stopped pursuing archery.

I’m sorry, those eyes say.

She shrugs with a tight-lipped smile. It is what it is.

As they continue walking, she averts herself from the trenches in her mind by telling Link more about the outfit she will wear tomorrow evening; that it used to be Mother’s and she’s commissioned Ingrid to rework it, though she’s careful not to let off too many details—like the colors she has meticulously chosen, down to the exact shade.

Her tongue itches to at the very least hint at it—deep red, navy blue, gold details—but it’s the only thing about the ball that she’s truly excited for, so she’d rather not end it before it even begins.

After lunch, her schedule is blessedly empty until supper tonight with Father and the few people he’s invited—pre-birthday dinner, Impa had called it—and that Zelda doesn’t look forward to, so she sets course for her apartment. Trades the growing hubbub within the main wings of the castle for the comforting silence of her chambers, where she can spend time in her study, alone.

Well, almost alone—but it isn’t Link that she needs a reprieve from.

She doubts she’ll ever need a reprieve from him.

At her doors, Zelda stops, lays her hands against the mahogany, and pushes them open. The panels part to reveal the one section within this castle that is yet to know his footsteps.

She longs to change that.

“Link,” she starts, facing his way as she slowly crosses the ornate, gilded threshold, “could you join me in my study? I think I’d like your opinion on a particular subject.” She pauses, then adds for the sake of clarity, “It’s, ah, related to… the Guardians.”

His eyes widen ever so slightly, and it’s nothing new—she’s seen it in him so many times, seen that kind of restraint seize him two weeks ago when she gave him her name as she held his hand, so she does the same thing again: she lets him search for the sincerity in the curve and slant of her face, and in the process, loses herself in the warmth of his scrutiny.

Eventually, Link replies, “Sure thing,” and follows her inside.

The sight of his boots against the floor—scuffed tan leather against the white-gray checkered tiles—strikes her like the landing of a man on the moon.

She leads the way, further inside, further until they cross another boundary—leaving the hallway for her bedchamber. Whereas her steps resonate and rebound off the brick walls, Zelda almost can’t hear him at all, so she turns around and finds him standing very still in front of the opened double doors.

He almost looks smaller this way—the high ceilings dwarfing him, his shoulders slightly slumped like he’s willing himself to take as little space as possible. The only indicator that he hasn’t been enchanted into a statue is his eyes—blues darting about nervously.

A part of her thinks that she should feel uneasy; men so rarely enter her room, even Father—but whatever it is inside her that bids her to feel so is eclipsed by the rest of her that finds it simply natural to accept Link’s presence, wherever he may be.

Even here—where her vanity table and study desk and armchair are—residues of herself carved onto her well-worn quill, the nearly empty bottle of perfume, the nightgown that hangs on a partition. Where her closet is; where she puts on her armor in the morning and sheds them at night—her skin bare, body naked.

Where her bed is; the shelter of her sleep, a sanctuary for her to dream and rest and dream some more.

And somehow, a portion of her dream has manifested itself in the form of the man now standing in front of her—only a meter or two away from the foot of her mattress, his gaze glued onto the red satin of her sheets.

Her vessels turn electric, all the way to the tip of her tongue that it itches and aches—to speak, to tell, to explore.

She dampens it all with a nervous laugh.

“Well, here’s my chamber, though I’m sure you know that,” Zelda says jovially, her arms thrown wide to gesture at their surroundings. “My study is right this way.”

There’s a beat before Link nods, and quietly follows her as she ascends the spiraling staircase, and then it’s the bridge leading to the tower that houses her study—a place that’s even more inaccessible than her bedchamber, so rarely visited by everyone else except for herself and her handmaids.

But here she is, leading him into her hiding place, the brisk winter wind gusting through her skirts, and when she opens the doors she opens them wide without hesitation, and lets him in like earth welcomes spring—organically, gladly.

She steps aside to make space for him, regards him as he takes in everything that this hexagonal space has to offer—the double-tiered desk, the scrolls scattered about the room, the beakers and flasks, the notes plastered all over the walls—the altar of her mind, her progress, her hope.

She drags a nearby wooden footstool next to her chair, sits, and nods at it. Come sit with me.

Wordlessly, Link obeys, and settles down beside her. Her right shoulder presses against his left as she extends her arm to reach for a scroll on the shelf, warmth zipping up her spine. She tries to ignore it, haphazardly pushes away the little things strewn across the countertop, and unrolls the scroll to reveal the schematics of the newest Guardian type.

“So these are the Guardian Turrets—Purah and Robbie have successfully excavated eleven of them in Central Hyrule just a few days ago,” Zelda explains, one finger tracing the sketched diagram of the automaton, something sour sizzling in her from the fact that she wasn’t there when they unearthed the machines in lieu for more prayers at the castle’s chapel—a consequence of her failure at Lake Hylia.

She swallows and continues, “Unlike the Stalkers and the Skywatchers, these are stationary, so we must find the best locations to install them.”

Link is close enough that she can see each strand of his bangs falling as he slowly inclines his head, wheat molasses over freckled skin, the candy of her periphery.

He starts, “And you want me to…”

“…advise me on these locations, yes,” she finishes his sentence. “And not just the Turrets either—the Stalkers and Skywatchers, too. I think we have only excavated a total of fifty Guardians of different varieties, and we know there are more in the pillars buried deep beneath the castle though any efforts on finding them have proven fruitless,” she sighs, her shoulders falling with it, “but we must make do with the ones we’ve found so far. Prepare them to the best of our ability.”

He stares at the scroll before them again, squinting his eyes and pressing his lips—the cogwheels of his brain turning, she recognizes—before returning his gaze to her, a shy smile on those lips.

She knows now that it’s never been just his hands that she wants to kiss.

“I feel like I’m not qualified enough to be giving advice on stuff like this,” Link breathes a laugh.

Zelda shakes her head, her right hand tapping the table in frustration, an inch away from his gloved one. “Nonsense, Link,” she says. “Of course, you’re qualified enough—you’re in the Royal Guard, you’ve been stationed in different forts and outposts. That makes you more than qualified.”

“Still, Princess, I’m just—”

Her breath hitches quietly, but Link is Link so he’s definitely heard her. Her hands are on fire, burning to take his in them again, to remind him of her name since there isn’t another soul in this room but them—and it must’ve been written all over her face, because he clears his throat and his voice drops a pitch lower—

“Zelda,” he tries again, “I’m just a knight.”

Her heart swells at her name but breaks at the rest of his words, because he’s never been just a knight; he is the Hero, Chosen One; her hopes and dreams and fears and desires; everything frightening and beautiful about this existence made perfect flesh.

Most of it rides on her next exhale and dissipates into the air. What’s left in her mouth, she gives to him.

“You aren’t,” Zelda says, quiet but certain. “And I’m asking because I trust your judgment and I trust you.” Her hand moves out of its own volition, closes the rift across the parchment to lay her pinky on his. “So will you help me?”

At that, his smile widens, reaching his eyes—their crinkles the faultlines of the earth, swallowing her whole.

“Of course, Zelda,” replies Link.

Gods, she’ll never get over that, she thinks; the subtle flex of his tongue behind white teeth to shape the two syllables of her name—Zel-da. And as their eyes continue to lock, she wonders how such a shape would feel when uttered against her lips, wonders how hot and heavy the gust of her name upon his breath would be when mingled with her own—Zelda, Link, Zelda, Link—

“I’m— I’m glad,” Zelda chimes in through her thoughts—mad thoughts. She recalibrates herself and returns her gaze to the scroll, filling her vision with technical drawings instead of his face, and reminds herself that just because they’re on the same page about most things doesn’t mean she can breathe her fantasies to life.

She hasn’t earned it, not yet.

In the fringe of her vision, his eyes linger on her for a second, cobalt fireside blazing heat against her profile before it’s extinguished. He finally takes a look at the diagrams, digests the information scrawled on the parchment, and lets out a small hum here and there—music to her ears.

It doesn’t take long for Link to come up with his own answers, and it doesn’t surprise her at all; she’s always suspected that his skills go beyond his remarkable swordsmanship—he’s intuitive and sharp—not a scholar like herself or Purah or Robbie, but an incredibly smart man nonetheless.

There’s something captivating about the way he processes his thoughts into words, how he explains the terrains of the castle with the faintest hand gestures—‘it says here that the Turrets have a great vertical range, so I think it’s best to put them up here in the castle, on top of towers and on battlements’—and she listens, listens, listens.

They parse through their analyses together, and her brain jitters with adrenaline that she so often gets at the lab when they’ve struck gold—her head constantly bobbing and nodding in agreement and excitement, her tongue like an arrow nocked—ready to spring forth and contribute with her own findings.

At the end, she takes a fresh sheet of parchment, picks up her quill, and asks Link to retrieve the inkwell on the far side of the desk. He does so—carefully dragging it closer to her—and she thanks him as she blackens the quill’s tip. Summarizes their discussion through her neat penmanship so she can present a proposal to Purah and Robbie, which the scientists will then present to the Council.

She contemplates the finished product, the synergy of their thoughts—melded together through dark ink on white cellulose, the sight of it strangely sending something wet to her eyes; here it is, a solid proof of their partnership—something she’s wanted for so long but never dared to admit because she thought that it would never happen, that they’d be doomed to face all this darkness alone, that he despised her—

She’s never been so glad to be so wrong.

Again, her hand moves, driven by whim rather than reason (as is often the case whenever he is around,) and sets itself on his left arm—her fingers digging gently into his triceps, and oh—even through two layers of clothing she can feel how warm and firm he is, brimming with strength.

“We make a good team,” Zelda says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Link’s gaze bores into her face, beryl daggers through her very soul—open and indecipherable all at once. And what she can read is his knightliness—restraint, discipline, consideration—and she watches as it ebbs and flows from his expression, from his right fist atop the desk as it curls and uncurls.

It all recedes. His hand finally rises and lies atop hers, grasps hers, pressing her further against the sculpted muscles of his upper arm.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his lips trembling into another smile. “Yeah, we do.”

Zelda pinches her lips together, keeps herself dammed—her tears and her sheer awe for this man sitting next to her. Her heart aches to jump out of the cavity of her chest to be as close to his as possible, and coils painfully when it knows it can’t.

She can’t.

So she gives his arm one more squeeze before she slips away from beneath his hold, her hand immediately turning so cold in the absence of his body heat.

With a sigh she hopes Link can’t hear, Zelda looks at the Slate leaning against the stack of books, taps on the screen once to wake it up, and sees the time—16:07.

So much for wanting the past two hours to last the whole afternoon.

“We should get ready for dinner now,” she says—her exasperation certainly can’t be missed now. She glances at Link and finds that his right hand is still on his arm, where her hand was trapped a few seconds ago. “It’s in two hours.”

Link raises his brows. “N-now?”

“Well, of course,” she replies. “I must redo my hair, change into another dress… and hopefully, I’ll have enough time to pray in my room before we head to the dining hall,” she continues, her smile wan. “And I’m sure you need to change into your royal guard uniform, too.”

“Yeah, about that…” Link starts, that hand finally leaving his tricep to scratch his nape. “I’m just gonna wear… this.” He nods down at the Champion tunic wrapped around his torso. “My royal guard uniform is being laundered for the ball tomorrow.”

“Oh.” She assumes everyone will be in their formalwear tonight, but finds nothing wrong with Link remaining as he appears now—it’s the clothes she made for him, after all. “That’s no prob—”

“I-I can always borrow one of the guys’ uniforms,” he stammers. “It’s just… I haven’t had my uniform cleaned in a while…” He sighs as if irritated with himself, his tongue seemingly tied.

She can’t help it—she giggles. “By Nayru, Link, it’s quite all right.”

“Yeah, but His Majesty invited me, and my Commander will be there, too—”

“If someone has a problem with it, I’ll tell them off,” Zelda blurts out, and immediately thinks, what the hell—she can maybe tell off Sir Remi, but she certainly can’t do so to Father.

But a grin slowly cleaves his face at that, and well, it’s the thought that counts.

“Okay, can’t argue with that,” Link laughs, the resonance reverberating somewhere deep in his chest, and it makes her want to crawl inside his mouth just to bathe in the sound.

She shakes that very strange urge off—pushes past the heat in her cheeks with a smirk of her own, and rises from the chair. Link stands up, too, picking up the footstool to put it back to where it was, but she stops him.

“You can just leave it there,” Zelda tells him, her greens piercing into his blues, “for next time.”

It takes a few seconds, but then it finally shows in his visage in the form of yet another small smile that punches her gut as he understands just what she truly meant, what it is that she has just given to him.

He leaves it be.

When they walk out of the study, Zelda turns to shut the doors, but takes one last look at the room before she does so, at her worn chair and its accompanying footstool—both made out of cherrywood and well-worn—but something about them makes her think of the pair of thrones that used to adorn the high dais in the Sanctum, back when Mother was still around.

It hits her bittersweet.

She knows she’s always been good at wanting things that are impossible to have.

They say it will be an intimate dinner, but Zelda knows not to let her guard down. Knows it’s best to armor up anyway, because Father will be there and his presence is a whole battleground in itself.

She emerges from her chamber wrapped tight in her standard royal gown, and meets her knight—still in his Champion blue as he said he would, arms stripped from their usual vambrace and patterned bands. The only piece of leather he wears is his baldric—crossing over his right breast, keeping the Sword at his arm’s reach.

They’re the last ones to arrive at the dining chamber before Father, and finds Impa and Sir Remi sitting next to each other on one side of the long table, the two chairs across from them empty.

Thank Goddess, Zelda thinks.

She takes the chair left of the head of the table, where Father will be—while Link takes the one beside her. They wait and wait, her shoulders slouching with each minute spent waiting for the King, and when he finally appears at the doors, everyone immediately rises to bow at him.

He walks to his chair, and Zelda feels his tungsten gaze sweep about the four of them before he says, “Thank you, everyone.”

They settle back down in their seats. The servants begin pouring the first round of drink: sparkling white wine, aged down in the castle’s cellar. Zelda frowns a little when they step back into the pantry adjacent to the room, wondering why they didn’t also serve the appetizer, but then Father clears his throat in a way that bids attention.

The sound startles Zelda’s spine straight.

She throws a glance at Link—wanting, needing to meet those eyes for a quick shot of ease, but finds him marble-faced, all of his attention aimed at the King.

There’s nothing for her to tether herself to, so begrudgingly, she redirects her gaze to Father.

“Lady Impa, Sir Remi,” Father starts, addressing his invitees one by one, “Sir Link, my daughter Zelda— you may be wondering why I’ve invited you to dinner, just the five of us, when tomorrow we’ll all be at the ball anyway. You may be thinking, ‘Haven’t we seen enough of His Majesty already?!’”

Impa and Sir Remi let out a small laugh. Link stays silent, and Zelda does, too.

She finds no humor in Father’s statement, for she rarely sees him.

“Truth to be told…” Father continues, his fingers tracing nonsensical patterns on the base of his chalice, “…I was never drawn to large crowds. I was not like Ida—” he stops, presses his lips, “—not like the Queen.”

Ida.

At Mother’s long-lost nickname, old grief opens its maw wide inside Zelda, its dreadful teeth sinking into every inch of her body.

To her right, Father is oblivious to it; he continues his soliloquy. “She always had a way with people. Always knew what to say, how to connect with them, how to instill a sense of peace and calmness within them. When she entered a room or a village, everyone would drop whatever it was that they were doing to run up to her, to greet her, to wish her well…” Suddenly, he chuckles. “Din, they'd even come up to her to share the latest gossip!”

Impa and Sir Remi laugh again. Zelda doesn’t. There’s lead on her tongue and on the base of her brain, where the memory of Mother begins to reemerge in fragmented shards, sharp against her synapses. A summer day, a lullaby, the warmth of an embrace. Round eyes, high-bridged nose, hair like spun gold—the only things they share, aside from their name.

“She was simply… the leader everyone needed, everyone wanted,” Father says, the words so softly spoken. Softness she hasn’t seen in so long. “A true embodiment of the Goddess.”

Well, there is no word to describe it other than it hurts, and Zelda fleetingly wonders why she always spends so much time armoring up her body when the pain has always been inside her—burrowed deep in her solar plexus, intrinsic like an organ.

Her eyes don’t water but still grow hot, so she looks away, casts her gaze on the silverware in front of her instead. Follows the lines of the fork, handle to tip, back and forth, trying to find some kind of comfort in it, until something nudges her left foot.

She feels it—thick rubber sole, rough against her socked foot, then she senses as it angles itself and leather rubs against her instead. It caresses her ankle softly, and now her eyes water for she knows what it is—who it is.

Zelda tilts her face just slightly to the left, and peers at Link from the corner of her eye. He remains looking at Father, but his right hand is on his thigh, gloveless and curled tight into a fist—knuckles turning white.

Underneath the clothed table, he doesn’t stop his movement—up and down, up and down, soothing her the only way he can right now—and in return, she lifts her foot to place it on his, and keeps it there—her strength returning.

She breathes once, twice, then faces Father again.

His gaze is clouded, distant. It seems as if he’s not even in the room.

His mouth, however, is still moving. “And there have been so many instances throughout my solitary reign where I ask her, ‘What should I do? How do I go about leading a kingdom that was never mine to lead?’” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically small, stripped of the conviction it usually boasts. “But… there is only silence each time.”

The room, too, falls silent—silent at such an admission from the King, astonished at his vulnerable candor. And in the midst of the pain from Father’s blatant disappointment in her—she isn’t an embodiment of the Goddess like Mother after all—hope still flutters in her ribcage.

She knows exactly how it feels to have her questions unanswered.

Perhaps he can understand.

Perhaps he can be more lenient.

But then hope has always been a dangerous thing for her to have.

She shifts her foot on Link’s again—to feel him, a lifeline taking her away from her racing thoughts.

At last, Father seems to snap out of it, his smile almost chagrined. “Gods, I’ve digressed a lot, haven’t I?” In reply, Impa and Sir Remi shake their heads, mutter ‘Not at all, Your Majesty!’, so Father carries on, “I suppose this is a long winded way of trying to say that I remain an introvert at heart, and that if it weren’t for the Council’s demands to throw a ball for the optics, I would very much like to just celebrate my birthday with the few people whose company I actually enjoy.”

A corner of his mouth quirks upward, tinged with melancholy.

“And so I’d like to thank the four of you for attending this dinner,” he says, finally picking up his chalice, raising it in the air, “to share my last evening as a forty-six-year-old.”

Everyone follows suit—brass glinting near-orange underneath the chandeliers. In Zelda’s hand, the metal has cooled from the wine, the condensation cold against her finger pads, stinging.

"To you all, and to our loved ones who could not be here tonight,” toasts Father.

Past the surtout de table, Sir Remi and Impa let out a ‘Hear, hear’ as they clink their cups together, and finally, Zelda does the same, but does it in the only way she wants—

She turns to Link again. Raises her chalice towards him.

Her greens meet his blues, and her stomach coils in longing because she sees it so subtly in his countenance—that painful resonation like a string pulled taut between them, for it isn’t just Mother who couldn’t be here tonight, but his father, too.

Their chalices touch, tolling at contact.

Cheers, Zelda mouths at him.

Link inclines his head, his very faint smile warm and his eyes even warmer before they disappear behind the brass goblet. She watches him for an extra second, just because she hankers to, though not for too long that others might notice, before sipping her own drink.

At last, the servants return to bring their appetizer—Father’s favorite, Zelda notes—steak tartare with a single yolk atop it, garnished with pickled hearty radish and toasted sourdough.

They eat and talk, the atmosphere considerably less formal, evident from Father’s simultaneous guffawing and chewing as Sir Remi cracks jokes. Impa, too, laughs here and there, her title of royal advisor temporarily shed to simply enjoy some good food and drinks with her superior, and the sight rouses something in Zelda’s mouth—a strange mix of bitter and sweet next to the savory taste of spiced raw beef.

Father isn’t all lost to time, lost to the weight of the crown and his daughter’s shortcomings—she knows that now. The Father she once knew is still there; he laughs and eats and drinks (a lot, for he is on his fourth glass by the time the main course is served); he talks about Sir Remi’s family, asks about Impa’s newfound hobby of gardening.

This part of him—jocose and genial—exposes itself to a select few.

It’s just that Zelda isn’t one of them.

Maybe then it is just bitter, and the only sweetness she knows is the leather-wrapped limb beneath her heel, Link her anchor in hiding—and even that is temporary; it’ll leave her when she eventually must rise from this seat and return to her bedchamber.

But for now, she has it—has him—and she savors it like she savors the chocolate soufflé served on her plate. A fleeting taste on her tongue, the ephemeral weight of him upon her left foot, though she suspects only one of these things would actually stick with her; will be remembered by her body for days and days to come until it receives such a gift again.

If it indeed will happen again.

The thought is enough of a distraction for her to endure the rest of the dinner.

The night quickly passes to bring about the dark winter morning, and the moment it’s half past seven, Nora and Wendi barge through the doors.

Zelda picks sleep from her eyes and straightens up in her bed, blearily watching Wendi place the breakfast tray on the roundtable as Nora rushes to her washroom with a large bucket of milk, her hands wrapped tight around the handle, the liquid inside swaying with each movement—and so Zelda’s first prayer of the day is for her young, dainty-looking maid to not spill milk all over her bedroom floor.

To her relief, the milk bath is prepared just fine, so she tries her best to finish her tea and sweet rice porridge, though her appetite has noticeably dwindled from anxiousness—her body anticipating the hundreds of eyes that would soon press knives upon it.

Soon enough, she trades the armchair of her chamber with the milk-water mixture in her bathtub—her back leaning against the metal surface, both her hands resting on the rim of either side as Nora and Wendi work in tandem to cut away her cuticles, then trim and file her nails—oval-shaped, not too long, not too short.

With her nails perfectly manicured, the maids continue their ministrations on her hair—slathering conditioner on every single strand, ensuring that there isn’t any knot in her tresses—pulling, combing, pulling, combing. The motion tugs at her scalp repetitively, and with the comforting lukewarmness enveloping her, she feels herself drifting just a little—her eyes drooping to a close.

It is in that treacherous valley between sleep and wakefulness that her mind and body deem it free to synchronize, every nerve sparking in unison to conjure up another reality:

A reality where her maids aren’t here, and her back isn’t leaning on metal but skin and muscle—a broad torso, bare just like her but scarred—

Something inside her abdomen burns and tightens at the phantom, and it jolts her out of that valley.

She breathes—in and out, quietly, so that her maids won’t think that their princess is having a heart attack.

Perhaps the incoming busyness would do her some good, then.

So Zelda wills herself to melt into the tedium and nothing else—emerges out of the bathtub milk and lavender-kissed, her hair more safflina essence than actual hair at this point. Nora and Wendi dry her from head to toe, every rivulet caught by the warmed towel. They wrap her in her bodice, briefs, and linen dress, and sit her down by her vanity table as they untangle her golden locks and apply oils for the second time.

When her maids finally excuse themselves from her chamber, Zelda puts on her lounge robe and spends time at her study desk, thumbing and skimming through her notes yet again, just in case there’s a small window tonight that she can utilize to talk to Purah and Robbie instead of dancing with whomever Father wants her to dance with.

The hour bleeds into the next.

And then it’s noon, and Nora returns alone with her lunch—a simple game stew served with potato wedges. The maid tells her that Ingrid the seamstress will come at two o’clock, which gives Zelda two hours to eat quickly and then pray.

She’s inclined to ask Nora who is manning the door to her apartment right now, but thinks it’s better not to.

The hour bleeds into the next.

Her knees are on the marble floor, her head bowed at the miniature Goddess statue on the console table as she offers her daily supplication. She prays for her power (yet again), for Father’s birthday to be merry, for the ball to go well. She also prays for Link—his wellbeing and everything in between—just because, no matter how futile her pleas might be.

She does all of this until her knees sting, thin skin debossed with red crosses from the floor’s crevices—until Ingrid and the seamstress-in-training come knocking at her doors, their arms chock-full of fabric.

As they set up the portable clothing rack, Ingrid squints at Zelda, says, “Your Highness, did your maids not style your hair?”

Zelda touches her scalp instinctively—her tresses now dry and silky-smooth from the deep conditioning it received earlier. “I… usually just wear my hair down like this.”

Ingrid gasps. “Oh, Your Highness, that would be criminal to this strapless gown!” Her hand flies to her chest, and Zelda finds the gesture to be dramatic and amusing at the same time. “You must at least braid it… Show off those beautiful shoulders, yes?”

She almost laughed and said, ‘Why in Din’s name would I ever want to show off my shoulders?’ but then—

But then.

“All right,” Zelda says. “Someone must fetch Nora.”

Ingrid quickly orders the seamstress-in-training to do so, and in the meantime, starts lacing up the corset around Zelda’s waist, cinching and tightening. When the seamstress-in-training comes back, Zelda’s legs are stockinged. All that’s left to put on is the gown itself, and the accessories.

“I-I’ve told your guard to summon Nora, Y-Your Highness.”

Zelda hums. “Sir Link?”

“Oh, n-no, Your H-Highness,” the young seamstress stutters, her cheeks immediately tinted pink. Perhaps it’s a scientific phenomenon Zelda should truly study if—when—the Calamity is over: young women reduced to a blushing mess at the mere mention of the Hero. “It’s Sir We… something.”

“Sir Weston.” Zelda nods, her sigh quiet. So he’s most likely still in the barracks, then.

Again, she fades into the minutia of the preparation, stands in front of the mirror as the seamstresses work away—encasing her in swaths of fabric: a petticoat, then the finished gown. Nora joins in as Ingrid secures the sash across Zelda’s torso, and she can’t help but find it all so tragically comical—to witness three women dress their princess up for a ball while the clock on the wall does not stop its tick-ticking, bringing them ever closer to a dark future.

Her palms would turn clammy if they weren’t covered by her gloves.

But then at last, Ingrid declares her done, and Zelda takes a moment to regard the reflection in front of her—her outfit complete, her hair pulled back into a fishtail braid that ends at her waist. She then takes twice as long to watch the women surrounding her—their eyes beaming with excitement, proud of their handiwork, not an ounce of dread in their faces—and finally, Zelda understands.

This ball isn’t for Father, but for them. So that they may forget about that dark future even just for one fleeting evening.

“Splendid job, everyone,” Zelda tells the women. “I certainly look ballroom-ready, now.”

They grin wide in reply, and the sight sends a pang to her chest, for these are the grins that she may never see again if she can’t do what she’s meant to do.

But that pang cannot manifest in her face, because she is a part of this ball, after all—of this spectacle meant to ease the worries of the kingdom, so she merely smiles back and dismisses them.

Now the hours have well and truly bled, and she has only one left before she must come forth from her room; she uses it to retrieve her jewelry from her drawer—the last step in this day-long preparation. She lays her chosen pieces on the vanity table, all of them gold: her classic diadem, a few ornate bracelets, a necklace, Mother’s pair of sapphire earrings, a medallion with the royal crest, and a special brooch—round, its rim encrusted with diamonds, the enamel center painted with Mother’s portrait.

She puts each on slowly, the gemstones refracting the rays of the sunset from the window—glowing teardrops splattered across the chamber walls. She fastens the bracelets over her gloves, lays the diadem on her head, encircles her neck with the necklace. Pins the medallion on her sash, right below her collarbone—as men of the royal guard would.

And then it’s the portrait brooch—seldom worn by her, but tonight seems like the right occasion to do so because even the smallest item can be a talisman.

The needle on the back of the brooch pierces the silk of the riband, positioned on her left breast, right over her heart.

Without realizing it, Zelda prays again, but not aloud and not to Hylia—Mother, my beloved Mother, grant me your strength through all these things I have placed upon my body, pieces you once owned and wore with pride, for I have no strength, nor pride.

The pin clicks into the clasp. The clock finally strikes five.

She stands up and slides into her dancing shoes. Spritzes rose perfume at her neck twice for good measure. Looks at herself in the mirror one more time, at her ornate outfit.

All armored up with no weapon at all, as she has always been.

She inhales as much air as her tight corset allows her, then leaves her bedchamber.

Her heels clack loudly against the floor, and she wonders if the man waiting on the other side of those doors can hear her, but considering that it was Sir Weston who was stationed in front of her apartment just two hours ago, it’s likely that he’s still there—that it’d be him escorting her to the ballroom and not someone else, and that’s all right, really, it’s no problem at all, she’ll see him sooner or later anyway—

Her hands push at the doors, and it feels like pushing air; someone is already pulling them for her.

It is not Sir Weston.

Zelda nearly bursts from the confines of her gown.

Her teeth immediately sink into the tip of her tongue at the sight.

Link, Link.

Whereas she tries her damndest to achieve some semblance of power through her clothing, it is inextricably etched into every facet of his form: wrapped in his Royal Guard regalia of navy blue and burgundy and white, his chest emblazoned with the royal crest, a medallion on the lapel of his surcoat—the very same one she pinned on him when she bestowed the Royal Guard title upon him. The iris hilt of the Sword protrudes from his right shoulder, marking him as the kingdom’s, the Goddess’.

In the torchlight, his eyes are still impossibly, supernaturally blue—but they merely speak for his true power, and not for whatever he wears.

Though what he wears right now is very much a sight for sore eyes.

Simply put: he’s devastatingly handsome.

“Sir Link.” His title rides on her tongue like syrup.

Those lips part, press tight, then part again to say, “Princess Zelda.”

Zelda takes one step closer. Her teeth ring and ring. “You look great,” she says, her smile tremulous. “That uniform truly suits you.”

He smiles back, head slightly bowed, as though he’s trying to hide his eyes behind his caramel bangs—which look considerably neater beneath the rim of his royal beret.

It makes her want to step even closer to him, to brush those bangs away. To gaze deep and true into those cerulean eyes and say, You don’t ever have to hide from me.

“That’s very kind of you, Princess, thank you.” Three punching beats of her heart, then those blues pierce through her greens. He adds, “And you— you look lovely.”

He speaks so quietly, and the din from the crowd can be heard all the way from here, but her ears care not—they’re attuned only to his voice, to him.

“Thank you, Link,” she half-whispers.

“Is this Her Majesty’s clothes that you told me about yesterday?” he asks, though his eyes don’t venture down past her chin—much to her chagrin.

“Yes, it is—just the gown, though. The sash and the gloves are new,” she replies. “I… picked the colors myself.” It escapes her before she can stop herself: “Do you like them?”

She knows what she’s giving him by asking him such a question—the permission to look, to observe. And she wants him to look so bad, no matter if it’s selfish or improper to want so.

White gown, burgundy riband, navy blue long gloves, gold jewelry—all to match his uniform, to feel closer to him, somehow.

Finally, his eyes roam south, to her left shoulder, then follow the diagonal line of the sash to her right hip, then to the side where her hands rest, covered in gloves, her wrists bedecked with thick, gold bracelets.

Even with the black inner shirt covering most of his neck, she could see a slight movement beneath it—the bobbing of his throat.

“I like them,” Link answers softly. “Those colors suit you, too.”

He knows, she thinks, her heart swelling. He knows it’s for him.

She could stay standing in front of her private quarters the whole evening—just talk to him underneath the illumination of the torches lining the hall, and maybe when the music plays, they can hear it from here, too, and she can finally dance with him, hold him close and be held close by him—Gods, what a rush of joy that’d bring her—

But duty calls, so they must go.

“All right, then,” Zelda says, stepping around him, careful not to let any of her limbs brush his—afraid she won’t be able to let go if they do. “Let’s head to the ballroom.”

The moment she enters the ballroom, Zelda immediately wishes she was somewhere else.

Chandeliers hang from the coffered ceilings—every single candle lit, their reflections orange flecks on the tall windows—stars of the indoor. There are clothed roundtables near the edges of the room, enough to sit the most prominent names on the guest list, while others resort to standing by the walls or on the dance floor. At the very front of the room is the King’s throne and His Majesty himself—sat behind the head table atop a dais, a smaller chair next to him—her monogram embroidered onto the velvet.

A royal herald announces her arrival: “Please rise for Her Highness, the Crown Princess Zelda of Hyrule!”

All eyes instantly land on her, searing her skin just as she’s expected. But she keeps her chin lifted, her back upright—for this is her job: to stride forward, to exude confidence, and thus encourage the same in others. To instill a sense of peace and calm, even if her insides couldn’t be further away from that, even if the people themselves don’t believe in her.

She walks and walks, parts the crowd with her body, Link following her as he always does, though not an inch of him bleeds into her periphery. She does see a few faces that she recognizes, though—Purah, Impa, Robbie—Mipha and Revali and Daruk and Urbosa—Gods, how she’s missed Urbosa—

But she cannot let her emotions show, not now. She keeps her eyes on the horizon until the hem of her gown touches the steps leading to the dais.

It is then that Link appears next to her, one pristine white-gloved hand turned up and thrust her way. She takes it, their gazes lock—and for one short-lived second, everything else blears into oblivion, and Zelda sees and feels nothing but Link and Link only.

He helps her up the stairs, watchful of the sweeping of her skirts, and she holds on to his hand like one holds on to a banister—so as not to fall, grasping, grasping.

She stands tall now, towering above everyone else except for the King. She mouths ‘Thank you, Link’ as she lets go of him and takes her rightful seat beside Father.

Her hands curl around each other atop her lap, and she finally meets Father’s eyes—viridian and steely. He nods at her and she nods back at him—a gesture they’ve exchanged so many times before, a ‘Let’s get this over with’—and at last, Father rises from his throne to address his people.

“Everyone— first, I’d like to thank you all for coming here, to the very heart of Hyrule. I know a lot of you dwell far, far away, so I am very appreciative of your presence, truly, from the bottom of my heart.”

Zelda can’t see his whole face from where she’s sitting, but she thinks that his voice betrays some kind of… warmth.

“When I was but a little boy growing up in Mabe Village, I always thought that a winter birthday was simply the most dreadful thing in the world: it’s dark, it’s bone-chillingly cold, and to watch all the plants wither and die brings one such melancholia. Though what cemented my hatred for winter back then was the fact that I could not play much outside,” Father chuckles, and the crowd lets out a small laugh.

For someone that doesn’t like crowds, Father always seems to fare well in public speaking, Zelda thinks.

“But as I grew up, I began to appreciate this season more. There’s something wonderful and heartening about keeping warm with your loved ones. I also finally discovered mulled wine, so,” he deadpans, and the crowd laughs again. Even Zelda herself can’t stop her lips from quirking upward, but her eyes—

Her eyes travel to the left of the dais, where her knight is stationed, along with the other Royal Guard men—all of them standing at ease. She finds herself wanting to ask him if he hates being born in the height of winter, too.

“But above all, it reminds me that while it is now dark, it will not stay that way forever; that light shall return as it always does,” Father continues. “Just as it will shine upon us all once again.”

At that, Father dips his head down and to the side to look at Zelda, and that heavy, poignant stare sends both disquietude and longing brewing inside her. Warms her just as it stings her—for she has no light.

She is no light.

He turns away, picks up his chalice, and raises it high, just as he did last night in the much smaller dining chamber. Everybody follows suit, except for the knights.

The chalices glint beneath the chandeliers—bright gold, nearly blinding to her eyes.

“To spring.”

The guests reply in unison: “To spring!”

They drink their wine, and Zelda does, too, but then a second toast peals through the ballroom and it’s not instigated by Father—

“Long live the King!”

The words echo, reverberate. Rounds of cheers break out, and Father waves his hands and mutters his thanks, but Zelda remains quiet.

Takes her time to brand everything onto her brain—the thundering applause, the hoots and whistles—and lets herself be crushed underneath the weight of the sound.

Her hands stay clasped together on her lap.

And then the ball finally begins.

As the evening progresses, many have abandoned their seats to join the others on the dance floor—swaying along to the trilling from the violins. Some resort to glue themselves onto the walls, chalices in their hands, chatting loudly to out-sing the band.

Zelda dances with two different men—one a prince from Holodrum, and the other a duke from Labrynna—and the conversations go predictably vapid and banal: ‘How’s your kingdom faring with the impending Calamity, Your Highness?’ ‘You’re very beautiful, Princess—when is your seventeenth birthday again?’

Her body may be within the cage of someone else’s arms, but her mind certainly doesn’t; it is on the other side of the room, where the Royal Guards are stationed—observing the crowd but never participating.

She knows that Link is watching her, protecting her even from afar, even when she can’t see him. And that certainty melts away some of the unease in her mind though not in her muscles, because she’s still dancing with a stranger.

Thankfully, Purah rescues her from having to further listen to the Labrynnan duke’s monologue about his hobby of polo.

“Apologies, Your Highness—I need to speak with the Crown Princess regarding tech stuff,” Purah cuts off, her nonchalance so plain.

“It’s Your Grace, actually,” the Duke corrects her, annoyed.

“Hah! Sure, Your Graceness.” Purah shrugs mockingly, and tugs at Zelda’s arm. Zelda easily acquiesces to the Sheikah, and mutters an apology at the Duke even though she’s sure her eyes are gleaming with relief.

Purah drags her towards the bar, and she smiles even wider as she spots Impa, Urbosa, Mipha, Anthon, and Robbie (who still impressively keeps his goggles on.)

Zelda greets them all—except Urbosa, whom she embraces tightly, poise and regality be damned. She then orders a pint of mead, takes a sip from it, lets the honeyed warmth pour through her—and for the first time since the ball began two hours ago, she breathes.

They talk and talk and laugh. Purah brings up the subject of the Guardians, and Zelda excitedly tells her that she has figured out the perfect locations for each Guardian type.

“Link and I drew up the plan together,” she says, her fingers subconsciously tightening around her drinking cup. “We’ll come to the Lab soon and show it to you.”

At that, Robbie chokes on his beer. Purah’s brows shoot so far up her forehead. Urbosa and Impa smirk. Mipha stays quiet, averts her gaze. Anthon takes a huge swig of his wine.

“You— you two drew up the plan together,” Robbie repeats, still coughing. “You and Link.”

Zelda shrugs her shoulders. “…Yes.”

“Together.” Robbie eyes her.

On the side, Mipha asks Anthon if they should order more wine.

“Yes,” Zelda replies, a little exasperated. Why does it come as such a surprise to people that Link can be helpful beyond his exceptional swordsmanship? “He knows a lot about the different forts and outposts, and he knows the castle inside out. So, naturally, I consulted his expertise.”

Robbie still looks like he can’t quite believe what she just said, but Purah just shoves an elbow to his rib, earning her an ‘Ow, what the fuck?!’ from the man.

“Well, that’s great, Princess—we need as many brains as possible,” Purah says, opting to ignore Robbie’s annoyed look thrown her way. “Plus, it’d give the proposal more credibility when we present it to the Council in two weeks! The Princess and the Hero worked on it together, after all.” She winks.

Zelda feels her cheeks heat, though they quickly cool as the thought springs in her head—that Link’s title would certainly mean more to the Council than hers ever would.

She shrugs it off. Continues to listen to everyone else until Father eyes her warily from the dais, silently reminds her of her duty. She lets her body be swept away by the crowd again, and when someone asks for her hand, she cares not about the man’s name or title or where he hails from—she says yes. She dances and dances, utters whatever is necessary to instill the notion that Hyrule is doing just fine, thank you very much, and does it all over again—a mere cog in the machine, wrapped in sartorial elegance.

The crowd, filled with alcohol, grows more and more rambunctious—their true nature seeping through the precarious lamination of courtly decorum—and this is why Zelda is happy with just one pint of mead, because she must stay alert when everybody else is loose. Because she’s lost count of how many times a dancing partner’s hand has strayed way too low on her back.

Surprisingly, the second person to save her is Anthon, and she accepts his hand willingly. On the contrary to the other men she’s danced with, the Sheikah bard is a true gentleman; not once do his hands venture anywhere other than the appropriate places on her body. And he’s actually funny.

“Your Highness, if you were to dance with a Rito, do you think one would be sneezing a lot?”

Zelda raises her brows. “Hmm, I don’t think so,” she replies. “Why would I be sneezing a lot?”

“I suppose all that feather can get up to your nostrils and tickle you.”

Zelda bursts out laughing. Someone truly ought to give Anthon a trophy for being the first hilarious dancing partner she had this evening.

“I apologize— that was quite unladylike of me,” she says sheepishly.

“Your Highness, it’s an honor to be dancing with you, and an even greater honor to be making you laugh,” he replies, his melodious voice so thick with sincerity, and it warms her heart.

“That’s very sweet of you, Anthon.” She smiles wide, and then a question pops into her mind: “May I ask you something?”

His carmine irises glimmer beneath the chandelier light. “You may ask me anything you wish, Your Highness.”

“Why are you not singing with the band, Anthon?” Zelda asks, curious. “Did they not ask you to perform?”

His eyes widen ever so slightly at that. Beneath them, the rhythm of his feet falter a little, though they quickly regain it. “They did ask me, Your Highness,” he starts. “But I refused, because I wanted to be free tonight.” He clears his throat. “To dance.” He does it again. “With somebody.”

“With somebody…?” Zelda repeats, but then thinks, stupid!

“Yes, with—”

“Oh, of course!” Zelda exclaims, and then her voice drops lower with an apology, “Anthon, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t be taking your time, then—you should certainly dance with that somebody.”

The bard merely stares at her for a good few seconds before he exhales and says, “Please don’t apologize, Your Highness— it’s been a pleasure to dance with you.”

The music diminuendos, and Anthon lets her go with a smile, though he still holds her right hand. She reads the slightest forlornness in the upturn of his lips, and its potential relatability saddens her; perhaps he doesn’t actually have the chance to dance with that somebody. Perhaps he’s here with the Princess as a second-best scenario, and that no matter how pleasant their encounter has been, it pales in comparison to how it could have been if they were to do it with their person of choice.

But then the number resolves in a major chord, signaling its end, and with her hand in his, Anthon lowers himself in one of the most reverent genuflections she’s ever received.

“Please, Anthon,” Zelda says, her hand squeezing his in reassurance. “The pleasure is all mine.”

She’s almost reluctant to let him leave, because what will come after this is another round of forced pleasantries towards the sons of councilmen and dukes and princes—but she does, with a heavy heart.

A cog in the machine, she tells herself. An actress on a stage.

Anthon rises and walks away, and another man immediately invades her eyesight, introducing himself as the Head of the Ministry of Agriculture in Holodrum. She summons everything she has ever learned about agronomy in her studies, gives him the most faux smile she has ever given, and it repeats.

It doesn’t take too long before their conversation roams into Hateno Village—the heart of Hyrulean agriculture—and her feet keep their tempo but her eyes wander and wander and scan, and finally, for the first time tonight, she finds him.

Hateno’s most beautiful son.

Those cobalt are already glued on her, and though she expects them—he is her protector, after all—it doesn’t make them any less intense.

She quickly runs out of things to talk about with this Holodrum man—but if she were to talk to Link? Goddess, she’d happily ask him all the questions one could ask about farming—the cultivation of soil, the rearing of animals—and she’d savor each and every answer like a child finding a bowl full of rock candy.

She holds onto his gaze until the dancing bodies between them obscure her view of him once again. And she carries it behind her eyes, near her brain—a balm to his absence in her vision.

Eleven chimes from the bell tower pierce through the blaring music, and it is then that Zelda fully realizes she never had a chance to dance with Link to begin with. Deep down she knows this already, knew it since she was first briefed about the ball, but still, she held out hope anyway as she has always done—although she should know better.

The moment there’s an opening, someone cuts in and asks for her hand. And whenever she’s granted more than a minute of respite, she uses it to catch up with her Champions.

They’re standing near the bar again; it seems that Urbosa and Daruk are particularly fond of this spot within the ballroom. The Goron Champion tells her that she’s looking particularly sour and that she should try Goron fire whiskey to ‘sweeten it up’, but Urbosa immediately shakes her head in alarm.

“Daruk, do you know that us Gerudo use Goron fire whiskey to cure the varnish on our sand seal carts?” she asks, her voice still as sharp as it usually is even under the influence. “We are not going to give the Princess of Hyrule liver failure.”

“Well, I just hate seein’ the Princess so glum!” Daruk huffs and crosses his arms, and it amazes Zelda that he doesn’t end up knocking out the people standing near him in the process. “Princess, Princess— what’ll cheer you right up?”

Zelda can only answer with the pinch of her lips, and Urbosa laughs into her chalice as if she just elicited the truth from one single look. Frankly, she probably did.

“Get Link to dance with the Princess.” The words come out a mutter from Urbosa. “That will cheer her right up, guaranteed.”

Zelda sighs, places one gloved hand on her forehead. “Urbosa…”

“That’s it?” Daruk says, straightening up in his stance. “Why didn’t y’all say so? I can just drag the little guy here, no problem.”

“You can’t—he’s on duty,” Urbosa replies matter-of-factly. “An hour ago, Mipha told me she came up to him and asked if they could dance just once, and he said that he couldn’t leave his post,” she continues. “Said that he has to keep a watch on his Princess from the sidelines.”

Zelda wishes she had a drink in her hand right now to wash down the emotions racing up her windpipe—guilt, longing, anger, and more guilt.

Longing at ‘his Princess’. Guilty that she, her family, and the government acting under her name have robbed him of his very deserved rest—time and time again. Guilty that she didn’t even think it in advance—to ask Father or the Commander of the Royal Guard to let the Hylian Champion be off duty, just for tonight.

Angry because how can his knighthood supersede his godhood? Because that’s what he is—a god by circumstance, a walking legend, the Hero—wrapped in earthly duties and titles, in a uniform that brands him as distinguished but still subservient, inferior.

“Hylians with their court and customs and… protocols.” Daruk shudders before taking another huge gulp of his fire whiskey. “Ain’t nothin’ more pointless than that.”

“Oh, cheers to that!” Urbosa exclaims, clacking her chalice against Daruk’s humongous cup, chugging her entire beverage—the formidable drinker that she is, Zelda muses fondly—and gives her lips a cursory wipe with the back of her hand. “This is why Revali excused himself to go out. He’s probably flying and circling the castle right now, just blowing off steam.”

Zelda can’t help but agree with everything that her Champions said, and the diadem sitting across her hairline feels heavier than it usually does. And suddenly, all of it—the noise, the crowd, the eyes—Gods, so many eyes—bear down on her even harder, and even though she’d like to say that she’s quite accustomed to it all, she needs to get away, get out—

“Daruk, Urbosa,” Zelda starts, and it’s only now that she hears just how exhausted she sounds, “I think I shall retire to my apartment now. It’s almost midnight.”

“Of course, Princess,” Daruk replies, concern etched into his thick, white brows. “Get some good sleep—we’ll see you tomorrow mornin’ ‘fore we go.”

Zelda smiles at him as a thank you, though that instantly vanishes as Urbosa envelopes her in an embrace, tight enough to knock the wind out of her chest, but one that she relishes nonetheless.

When that’s all over, she faces the crowd once again, takes a deep, deep breath, and traverses it to get to the dais—her head hanging low so as not to stand out, though that’s completely impossible with the way the myriad gemstones on her figure catch every source of light, the way her white gown contrasts the muted winter colors around her.

And what was it all for? She couldn’t dance with him anyway.

Fortunately, no one attempted to cut in and ask to dance, so she quickly steps up the dais to where Father is seated—deep in a conversation with the more senior members of his royal advisory. They rise upon noticing her presence and scatter away, leaving her with the full force of the King’s attention that feels like the whole nation reproaching her.

“Dear daughter,” Father says, the smile on his lips not quite a smile.

“Father,” Zelda greets back. “I hope the ball has been satisfactory.”

Father hums. “It has,” he replies, sipping his chalice before adding, “How about you? Did you manage to do some… politicking?”

“I did,” she answers, her tone flat to mask her ache. “I did a lot of it, for sure.”

“That’s great,” he says, and even more painful than the absence of his heart in his voice is the reality that they seem unable to speak keenly nowadays.

So she repeats her mantra quietly, lets it reign supreme above all other thought: it is what it is, it is what it is.

“I’m returning to my chamber now,” she tells him. “It has gotten quite late—I must see the Champions off tomorrow morning and attend a long session with the Priestess at the chapel.”

“That’s great,” he repeats the words, a filler for air than an actual reply, but then a sliver of light cracks through his expression, and he reaches for her hand atop the table. Pats it. “Sleep well, my dear.”

Those four syllables contain warmth that she hasn’t heard from him in so long—and it breaks, breaks, breaks her heart.

“I’ll try,” she says, and doesn’t stop herself from leaning forward and landing a kiss on his cheek, though she most definitely stops her tears from ever spilling. When she pulls back, she murmurs, “Happy birthday, Father.”

She straightens up, and takes her chance to survey the hall one last time, slowly from right to left—the men escaping to the balcony to smoke their pipe, the bar at the far corner, the band next to it playing slower numbers, the women giggling and prowling through the crowd to find their beau, the hands holding goblets and the swaying bodies on the dance floor—

Her gaze lands on the very left of the room, just before the steps to the dais, to find her knight standing there—his right hand hovering at his side while the left hides behind his back, expecting her departure.

It happens again—her vision tunneling, refusing to register anything else in her brain except Link.

She walks away from the head table, takes his offered hand, and steps down the dais—the very first time she feels free ever since she arrived in this ballroom, though alongside that sense of freedom is sadness; sad that she’s not taking his hand under a different circumstance—wishes that it would be to dance with him.

But this is all she’s allowed to have.

So Zelda leaves them all behind—the crowd, the chatter, the eyes—and returns to the halls outside, where the only thing she can hear is the ballad played out by the strings and piano, and the quiet thunder of Link’s footfalls behind her.

They reach an intersection. Keeping straight would take them back to the western wing of the castle, where her chamber is—but Zelda’s feet stop in their tracks, refusing to go any further.

She feels the low heels of her shoes dig into the carpet beneath her like they’re taking root.

“Princess?” There’s worry in Link’s voice. “Is everything okay?”

Her feet have no problem turning the rest of her body around, however—anything to yield to their true north, to make her eyes meet his.

“Yes,” Zelda replies feebly. “I just… I really…” she breathes, her tongue turning heavy. “Gods, I’m sorry—it’s just embarrassing to say.”

He shakes his head, his smile so painfully kind. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not.”

Zelda laughs a little, self-consciousness overtaking her, but she musters up the courage to reply anyway. Breathes out, in, and out again as she says, “Well, I— I really wanted to dance with you.” Her fingers bunch the fabric of her dress, holding it to calm the jitter of her nerves. Her gaze falls to the floor. “But sadly, we never had the chance—I was tasked to do all that politicking, and you were on duty…”

“You—” he rasps, “—you wanted to dance with me?”

She looks into those ocean blues again to find them marred with surprise, with disbelief. It almost makes her laugh again, because that want must be so obvious all over her—the colors of her outfit practically screaming to be pressed against him, to complement his uniform.

But she only says, “Yes, I do, Link.”

At that, his lips pinch and the hall falls silent, save for the music that still bleeds throughout this portion of the castle—but she hears something that she’d like to think no one else could: the gentle whirrs of his inner workings as he thinks, contemplates.

His silence no longer hurts now that she knows it has never contained any rancor.

A few more seconds, and then: “I think we still can.”

“But how? Because we are not going back in there,” she sighs, squirming at the prospect. “And we need to be in a room where we can hear the music.”

He merely smiles as if he just discovered something precious in the valley of his mind, but isn’t ready to let light in it just yet. He turns around and steps forward in the direction where they just came from—one, two—and then looks over his shoulder, the flames of his eyes glowing with mischief.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice low.

Honesty swells through her sternum, into her mouth.

“Of course.”

He nods, returns his gaze ahead of him, and leads the way.

She follows.

They walk, turn a corner. The music continues to ghost through the corridors. The aureate details on his scabbard and his uniform gleam from the torches. Even the short strands on his nape shine in the same hue, and she muses that while it is winter, the sun is never in hiding. It’s right here—walking in front of her, all gold and warmth, this kingdom’s blessings stored in one young man.

With each hallway they journey through and pass, the music turns louder and louder as though they’re approaching the ballroom once more, but she knows they aren’t—this area is deserted, no stragglers to be seen, no eyes that sear. Eventually, they arrive at another convergence of halls, and one leads up to a staircase restricted by a rope, a wooden plate carved with ‘GUESTS FORBIDDEN’ hanging from it.

Wordlessly, Link unhooks the rope from the wall, steps aside, and looks at her expectantly. She rarely visits this side of her palatial residence, but then the castle’s blueprint blossoms in her mind without warning, and it finally clicks in her—the place he has in mind.

Her heartbeat kicks at double time.

She ascends the stairs. Hears a small clink behind her—Link hooking the rope to the wall again, and she doesn’t need to look back to know that he’s following her, to know that he’ll be there to catch her if she trips on her dress and falls.

That doesn’t happen, fortunately, though the thought is enough to buzz electric down her nerves—of his form unyielding on her back, of his arms tight and protective around her.

This time she’s the one who leads because she knows where they’re supposed to go, and it’s only a few meters more until the double doors stand at her left, and she turns and lays her hand upon the wood—

A gloved hand appears next to hers, his thumb ghosting her pinky—ivory white against royal blue. She inhales, swears she hears him doing the same, and together, they push the doors open.

The room isn’t dark; the torches on the wall are already lit up, and Zelda silently thanks whoever did it.

They make their way through the large space, the music blaring clearly through the floors below. The sculptures standing about the room is a perfect study of chiaroscuro—darkness mingling with the intense firelight. There are eyes everywhere, but they are unliving—quietly watching over them from their home on the wall.

In the middle of the innermost chamber, she stops. Her gaze lands on the canvas before her, the largest of them all, and it steals all the breath from her lungs.

She can’t tear her eyes off it. Link graces her periphery and does the same.

They look, and look, and look.

For it is there that she finds the painting of the Goddess Descendant and the Chosen Hero—that fateful morning in the grand chamber immortalized, her uncertainty and wrongful indignation towards her knight frozen in acrylic. But now, as she follows her own line of sight on the canvas to meet his gaze, the realization punctures her like a blade through meat—

That the look is the same one he has always given her ever since the desert. That there has always been softness and kindness in the unrelenting wrath of those blues.

That she was blind for so long.

“The Royal Gallery,” Zelda speaks at last, lips trembling. “It’s right above the ballroom.”

Link’s voice carries on a smile. “Yeah.”

She follows the line of his profile, hypnotized—down to the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips, his chin. The shadow and light playing at the tendon of his neck—so beautifully rendered by Veno—before it disappears beneath his tunic. Her eyes land on the bottom of the painting, and there’s nothing left to do but finally turn and look at him—the Hero in flesh and blood.

“Link,” she breathes.

“Princess,” he starts, and when she frowns, he corrects himself: “Zelda…”

He presents his right hand, palm up. His left arm is tucked behind him.

Alongside the strings bleeding from the floor below, blood pounds in her ears.

“Would you give me the pleasure of dancing with you?”

Tears spring up to her eyes, born out of a crevice in her heart where joy is sequestered.

“Yes, Link,” Zelda whispers. “Yes.”

She lays her right hand on his gloved palm, and she almost pulls it—she’s supposed to give him her left—but he wraps it in both his hands and draws it so gently to his face, his thumbs firm against her knuckles—

Before they’re replaced by his lips.

Oh, she curses herself for wearing gloves, for robbing herself of the opportunity to have those lips against her bare skin. But even then, she feels it—the steam of his breath penetrating through the fabric, the pursing of his lips before they disappear altogether, and he finally takes hold of her right hand with his left.

It’s the Three’s miracle that she hasn’t keeled over yet.

They step closer, and somehow, despite the novelty, they quickly assume their positions like they’ve done it a million times—his hand on the small of her back, hers on his shoulder.

There’s still a sliver of space between them, and static crackles within it. Even through multiple layers of fabric, he feels so firm, so warm.

The artwork behind them can never live up to the real thing.

The music carries on, violins soft in the atmosphere. There’s no drum accompanying it—not this late into the evening when most of the tunes requested are ballads, so they try their best to sway to its vague tempo, figuring it out as they go along.

His eyes fall to the tips of his boots grazing her dress. “Us knights have been given dance lessons before, but never to music like this,” he laughs. “So I’m sorry if I’m not in my best shape right now.”

Goddesses, she couldn’t care less about that. She’s holding him and is held by him, their tumultuous start nothing more than a ghost, painted and framed, and that’s all that matters.

“It’s okay, I think you’re doing superb,” Zelda assures him. She can’t stop studying his long lashes. “Besides, no one’s here to scrutinize.”

He lifts his chin in reply, briefly meets her eyes before looking around the room. “There’s a lot of people here, actually,” he laughs. “Your ancestors are probably saying, ‘Look at this moron, embarrassing himself in front of the Princess.’”

She giggles, though she thinks that they’d be jealous of her if anything—perhaps even disapprove because said Princess doesn’t deserve this, not yet.

But then she stares into those blue diamonds of his, and all logic and sense leave her body; what’s left is just the electric darners in her gut and the loosening of her tongue.

The latter part quickly manifests itself.

“Link.”

“Hmm?”

They continue to sway in place aimlessly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

His brows rise in surprise. Perhaps she’s hallucinated it, but she can feel his fingers curl on her back, digging into the valley of her spine.

“Of course,” he replies softly.

“You might hate me when you hear it,” she tells him. “Or at the very least think of me as the stupidest girl there is.”

He merely gives her an incredulous look, though it’s softened by his ever-present smile. “I find that to be very impossible,” he says. “Both of them.”

Her hand shifts slightly on his shoulder—side to side, fidgeting, pondering whether she should really say it—

Oh, to hell with it.

“Do you remember the last time we were in this room?” Zelda asks. “Though we weren’t actually in this room together, not like now.” She smiles sadly, the exterior of her anger at herself—at that version of her that resented him for nothing—though Link’s words from two weeks ago echo in her mind:

I’m just glad that… that we got to this point, despite everything.

“Yeah, I do,” Link answers. She thinks there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes, too. “You were leaving as I was going in.”

“All right, so, I didn’t actually leave.” She swallows. “I was… eavesdropping. Outside the gallery.”

A grin breaks across his lips. “…Eavesdropping?”

“Yes! I was— I was listening in to your conversation with Impa.” Now that the truth is out, she grimaces—Goddess, it sounds bad—but Link doesn’t say anything; he just grins and grins, eyes crinkling with something she had seen earlier—carved with the satisfaction of discovering something precious. “I really wanted to know your thoughts of…” of me, of us, “…of things! You can’t blame me for that.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not, Zelda, I promise,” he’s saying, her name riding on his laugh an antidote to her lingering doubts. “It’s just funny looking back, that’s all.” Below them, their feet still move slowly, unsynchronized to the music but synchronized to each other.

“I suppose.” Her eyes heat again at the remembrance, at all the time wasted. “I wanted to know you, you wanted to know me, but we continued to just… brew a storm in a teacup.”

Link chuckles, though it isn’t followed by speech, and she’s fine with that; she breathes and breathes, each expansion of her thorax pressing her ever closer to his chest. The only worry she has right now is the possibility that he could feel her heartbeat—battering wildly against her ribcage.

“Did you…” Link begins, slicing through the silence, “…find my talk with Impa interesting?”

Zelda purses her lips. “I guess…? Though I don’t think you let out much,” she replies. “You sounded quite… defensive, I remember.”

“Well, that’s because I was,” he huffs a laugh. “I don’t really… enjoy being poked and prodded like that.”

“But I do that to you all the time.” Her limbs freeze in horror, but they melt from the soothing circles his thumb draws on her back, the firm hold of her hand.

“Yeah, well, it’s you.” A tongue wets his lips before they lift into a smile. “I don’t mind when it’s you.”

The effect of those words on her is near-narcotic. Her knees feel like they could give out any second. She only had two pints of mead earlier, but it might as well have been a whole barrel.

Her body relaxes further, a counterpoint to how it was in the ballroom, for it has found its center of gravity—pressed against the only place it deems as safe, as natural.

Below, the band transitions into another ballad: a quiet, dulcet tune, violins trilling and vibraphone twinkling, and it plucks at her heartstrings, her memories.

Above her heart, Mother’s portrait brooch weighs a ton.

“I haven’t heard this song in so long,” Zelda whispers, because they are so close now, her chin above his shoulder, her temple whispering against his beret. “Mother used to play this often on the harp, and Father… Father would hum along.”

When he speaks, his voice reverberates through her chest. “Really?”

She nods twice. Her chin touches his shoulder each time. “Yes.”

“What is it called?” His breath gusts against the peach fuzz near her ear.

“It’s called…” she exhales, and that, too, gusts against him, his wheat strands. “…‘My Love, Help Me’”

The music swells, resolves, then plays tacet.

Her heart, however, doesn’t—still beating madly, aching in the knowing that this rarely-found slice of wonder will soon come to pass—so Zelda doesn’t let go.

Link doesn’t let go, either.

They sway slowly, quietly, in a room that was never meant for dancing but she doesn’t care—her bedchamber will have to wait. This is their bolthole, their hideaway—and she intends to stay in it as long as she can.

Even if there’s no music to be heard anymore, it’s no matter.

It’s still in her, lingering—and she can’t see his eyes but she can feel his body, and it alights upon her so softly that maybe, just maybe, it’s in him, too.

Chapter Text

Complete anonymity has always been a pipe dream—a fanciful hope as she endures the scrutiny of the eyes at the castle, the cities, the villages. Perhaps that is why she finds the boundless wilds to be a refuge—to be accompanied by nothing but creatures that have no cognizance of her name or who she truly is, or the divine blood that flows like mercury through her mortal veins.

But she knows there is wonder to be found in the bustling streets of a town—to walk around, to people-watch, to pretend for a fleeting while that she’s just another citizen with a mundane life, sauntering like she has all the time in the world. She had it for a day almost a month ago in Deya Village, but that isn’t a moment of anonymity she wants to repeat—not if it means that he’s not in it with her, too.

So Zelda makes to realize it.

She formulates it late at night in her study, Link by her side instead of her doors, where his schedule tells him he ought to be. They lay the plan together: tomorrow, in plainclothes, seven in the evening, by the stairs leading to her tower. The Sword will be wrapped in worn leather, the violet splendor of its hilt and scabbard completely obscured. He knows every single passageway within the castle, so she leaves the routing to him—she trusts him.

And the next evening at seven on the dot, everything unfolds exactly to plan, and thirty minutes later, Zelda and Link make it to the famous annual Winter Market in Castle Town—their identities unbeknownst to everyone else except each other. They slowly navigate through the crowd shoulder to shoulder, their faces half-hidden by the hood of their thick robes.

Zelda breathes breathes breathes—the sharp winter air rushing through her nostrils, inflating her lungs that have gotten too used to the dank atmosphere within the castle. The tip of her nose stings from the cold, but she doesn’t care—she giggles in glee, excitement taking hold of her.

“I haven’t been to the Winter Market since I was ten,” she tells Link softly; she doesn’t want anyone else to hear her, her thoughts or her noble accent. Plus, it gives her a reason to lean closer to him, to half-whisper into his ear. “Do you go here often?”

“Yeah, every year,” Link replies, voice low, his head tilted her way. His hand hovers behind her back, and she knows this because she feels it every now and then when others jostle against them. “I always go here to buy stuff for my mother before I go back to Hateno.”

Her stomach plummets.

She’s almost forgotten that the opening of the three-day market means that Day of the Mortal is just two and a half weeks away; means that most employees at the castle will travel to their hometowns to celebrate the holiday with their families.

And so will Link.

“When are you leaving the castle again?” Zelda asks, trying her might to mask her dejection, though she knows and agrees that he deserves time off from his demanding work. Gods, he deserves it so much.

It doesn’t make the dread in her chest any less severe, however.

“In exactly a week,” Link says quietly, the words almost lost in the loud chatter from the crowd. “I’ll… I’ll be away for three weeks.”

Zelda shapes an inaudible oh, glad for the hood for hiding her countenance that’s surely carved with her emotions. She pivots her thoughts away from his departure to her surroundings—the various merchants behind their stands, selling everything from baked goods to kitchen utensils to knitwear. Merry shouts fill the air, attracting clients to buy their products—‘Castle Town’s best pound cake, three rupees a slice!’; ‘Perfumes for men and women!’—and Zelda pays each of them a visit, idly browsing, merely amazed at the fact that she’s out here, a nameless girl strolling at a market, even for just an evening. But she does avoid a certain booth offering ‘a glimpse into your future’, because her last encounter with a fortune-teller went so swimmingly she almost lost her life.

And besides, she fears what the future holds, more than anything.

She thinks of searching for a birthday gift fitting for her knight, but Link is right there next to her—nothing would be missed by his watchful eye. She has a week left until he leaves, so she shelfs such thoughts for tomorrow. It requires nothing less than her utmost attention and consideration.

She has a good amount of rupees in her pouch, and uses it to buy a cup of hot cocoa and skewered fruits, dipped in burnt sugar. When she takes a bite, the sugar cracks between her teeth like glass. She proffers it to Link, who adamantly refuses at first, but then relents at her second please.

The hot cocoa and skewered fruits travel back and forth between their hands and mouths until they’re left with an empty paper cup and a wooden stick tacky with sugar. She hands them to him, albeit a little reluctantly; some part of her wants to keep them as souvenirs, but unsure how she could make her wish to keep literal trash sound sane. So she resorts to watching as Link chucks them into a large bin from a distance—successfully—and pumps his fist subtly in satisfaction.

A watery smile curls into her cheeks, and a rift opens in her heart—pouring longing, pouring ache.

She’ll miss him so much when he’s away. Even now, with him next to her, his exhales pluming white wisps in the air she breathes, she already misses him.

Aside from the fortune teller, they also circle around the jewelry stand since Link knows the shopkeeper—the very same bride Zelda saw at the chapel in Deya Village—and can certainly recognize her knight by the blue hoops that hang from his ears.

“Your earrings…” Zelda starts, her hands curled around yet another paper cup, this time filled with mulled wine. “How did you get them from the jeweler?”

“You remember the knight that we talked to at the chapel, right? Markus?” Link asks, and Zelda nods—she can recall his solemn ‘I do’, his bride’s joyful sobs. “We were roommates at the barracks when I was twelve and he was fifteen.”

She tries to imagine him as a child—not a care in the world, sweet and rambunctious—though she finds it quite difficult; all she has is the young man that stands beside her—almost seventeen, burdened and wearied, quieted by the weight of the world.

Still sweet, nonetheless.

“I rarely hung out with my colleagues, so Markus insisted that I come with him during a day off to Castle Town,” he continues. Nearby, a man wins over another in a game of drunken arm-wrestling, and the cheers that erupt should be near-deafening, but Zelda doesn’t hear them; she can only hear Link. “I thought we were gonna do something fun but he just took me to his girlfriend’s—well, now wife’s—mother’s jewelry store, left me there, and then went out the alleyway behind the shop to…” he trails off, clears his throat, then croaks, “…make out.”

Zelda gasps humorously, though something low in her stomach coils itself tight.

“Is that what knights always do on their day off?” she asks, and she now realizes that the thing in her stomach is curiosity and somehow dread—all twisted together. “Engage in… amorous activities?”

Link snorts and laughs at that, and when she frowns at him, he shakes his head. “It’s just your vernacular, Princess,” he says, chuckling. “Amorous activities.”

“Well, what am I supposed to say?!” she whines. “I don’t want to scare you off by saying things like ‘fuck’—I’m afraid it wouldn’t be very ladylike of me,” she says, but then Link stops in his tracks so she does, too, and their eyes lock.

She can barely see his blues underneath his hood, but she can feel them as one would feel the heat of a brazier in the cold.

A corner of his lips twitch. “You just said it.”

“I guess I did,” she says, each syllable sending steam billowing out her mouth. “Have I scared you off, then?”

A beat, and then he replies with a simple, “No.”

Something stretches between them like glue, palpably thick like hot sugar, but it snaps when someone bumps into her hard, causing her to stumble to the side, spilling a little of her drink onto the cobblestone, and it is then that she is reminded of his true nature—the knight and protector in him, unable to be shed even with his regalia left behind.

Link immediately stands in front of her, his right hand wrapped around the hilt of the Sword, though it remains unsheathed. His body shields her from view, facing the culprit. She cranes her neck to get a better look and finds an old man—mumbling gibberish, obviously drunk.

“S-s-sorry, Sir,” the old man slurs. His torso is near-parallel to the ground, and it won’t surprise her if he lands splat on the ground within the next second.

Link’s hand loosens around the hilt then falls to his side once more, but the tension doesn’t leave his body; Zelda sees it in the set of his shoulders, in his left arm that remains extended behind him, pressing against hers.

“It’s fine,” he sighs, though the words contain an edge she rarely hears, a sharpness that might scare her if she didn’t already know him. “Just— watch where you’re going.”

The man doesn’t reply, continues to mumble nonsense into the night air, so they turn around and leave—Link’s arm now slung around her back, his fingers gentle on her triceps—but then some fragments of the man’s nonsense turn clearer as they walk away—

We are doomed… we are Goddess-forsaken… the end is nigh… we are doomed… we are Goddess-forsaken… the end is nigh…

Zelda’s eyes immediately sting, burning hot, and she feels the muscles in her visage crumple—fear and unease and apprehension unstoppably seizing her—

“Zelda, hey.” Link’s murmur thunders through it all. His hand squeezes her arm, warm and firm, and she slowly tilts her head to look at him.

His lips are pinched in worry, and his eyes—half-visible, blue, still so blue—bore through the rock lodged so painfully in her windpipe.

Don’t listen, they beg her. Stay with me.

So she does. Tethers herself to them—to him. And then she begins to feel it shrivel, little by little, chunk by chunk, leaving a crater in the planes of her mind, joining the others that have made their mark. It gapes wide but it’s not noxious anymore; it sits inside her like a scar ripped open once more, painful but familiar—and this, she knows how to live with.

A few seconds pass before Link finally retracts his hand, though his left shoulder is still touching her right. He inclines his head, smiles dimly, and asks, “Where were we?”

“You… Markus… Castle Town…?” Zelda says, everything coming out slightly rough.

“Right.” Link nods. They begin to walk again, towards an emptier street. “So, I sat in that store for what felt like hours. And when they came back, they had all these hickeys on their necks—”

“Hickeys?” Zelda interjects, frowning.

“They’re, ah…” he smacks his lips, “…love bites.”

“Oh,” she replies, suddenly stupefied. She never thought that hearing the term love bite from her knight would have that effect. “Okay.”

He seems to eye her for a bit before continuing, “Anyway, I sulked for being left alone, and they made it up to me by giving me whatever I wanted from the shop for free.” His hand rises to one ear, pinching the earring between two fingers, though the action is obscured by his hood. “And so I chose these blue earrings.”

Zelda hums, diverting more and more of her thoughts from the craters to the gift he’s literally handing to her in real-time—pieces of his past vocalized by his own tongue. She doesn’t know true power, has never wielded it, but thinks that this should come close.

Because she knows now that he doesn’t give out those pieces freely, and has never done so; he said it himself four days ago as they swayed alone among portraits—‘I don’t really… enjoy being poked and prodded like that.’ But to her?

He gives and gives and gives while she takes and takes, doesn’t stop taking.

It makes her heavy with anger, angry that she can’t reciprocate, but what can she possibly give him that’s as valuable?

So she succumbs to the cycle, despite that heaviness. Asks playfully, “How do you know so many words relating to amorous activities?”

He laughs. “I’ve lived in the barracks since I was twelve.” The sheepishness that bleeds through his expression is another gift, and she takes that, too. “You pick up on words quite fast.”

It tumbles out of her long before she could assess it:

“Have you done those things, too, then?”

The question suspends between them, its volume amplified by the quiet in the alley they’re ambling through. Even the thumps of their footfalls seem muted.

An apology starts to push its way up her throat at the lack of a response, but dissipates when he asks in return, “What things?” His voice is almost too quiet to be heard. “There are… lots of things,” he says, then quickly adds, “T-that people usually do. Not— not me, personally.”

Oh, Zelda knows that there are lots of things that people can do; though she lives a sheltered life, she’s well-informed on the biology of it—aware of its workings in a societal context. Knows that there’s a difference between having sex for the sake of reproduction and making love, and that her lot is usually subjected to the former.

And as for the latter, she knows that it is born out of shared passion, shared pleasure, shared love. She’s heard her maids daydream aloud and giggle about it before; has read about it in novels stored high on the library shelves.

She’s dreamt it from time to time, though the phantom has always been faceless, until—

Until.

Next to her, Link keeps his slow pace, his brows slightly knitted together. His lips are chapped and his cheeks are flushed from the cold. Her heart flutters inside the confines of her ribcage.

“Have you…” Zelda bites her tongue-tip. “Have you ever kissed someone?”

“Y-yes,” Link says. There’s uncertainty in it; she knows he’s nervous, perhaps worried that she might look at him in a different light. “A simple kiss. Nothing… elaborate.”

She wants to tell him that it doesn’t matter, that she’ll look at him the same way as she’s always done, and her heart will continue to ache and call for him—even with the knowledge that someone else has had the privilege of being his first, that she’ll never have the opportunity or the right to do so even as his second.

Not as long as she is his princess and he is her knight. Not as long as she is without light, as Hylia continues to look the other way.

“You know, I’m just curious,” Zelda tells him, and is glad that her voice doesn’t sound as brittle as she thought it would. “I— I don’t really have any experience in this department, if you haven’t already suspected.” Her lips quirk ruefully. “So what better way to know more about things of such nature than to ask my closest friend?”

“I can assure you, I’m not very experienced either,” Link laughs, and she doesn’t know whether it’s his laugh or his words that mend her unease. “Yes, I’ve kissed a girl, once. But that’s as far as my practical experience goes.”

“Practical experience,” she echoes. Tries very hard not to imagine him doing other practical experiences. “What about… theoretical knowledge?”

“Sure.” He inhales audibly. “Theoretical is… yeah.” She swears she hears him swallow. “I think I’m less hopeless there.”

It’s cold out here but the multiple layers covering her body feel too excessive, all of a sudden. Her mouth itches with even more inquiries, ones that she certainly shouldn’t say aloud—like ‘Who’s the lucky girl that kissed you first?’ or ‘What do you do with this theoretical knowledge? Which ones do you want to put to use?’

Which is a great sign for her to drop the conversation altogether.

Unknowingly, they have walked down a street that leads them back to Central Square, and Zelda uses it to shift his attention to the Winter Market.

“You haven’t bought anything for your mother,” she points out. “Should we take one more round through the market before we return?”

“Hmm,” Link replies, a little sound. She lands her gaze on his face and finds the flicker of thoughts before it disappears. “I… don’t think I saw anything that might be good for her, actually. So I— I think we should go back.”

“Oh— okay,” she says, unable to disguise the disappointment this time. It feels like they just arrived here but now they’re leaving.

“It’s getting rather late anyway. Don’t want others to start noticing our absence,” he adds, and she thinks, of course—tonight might be a respite, but the possibility of being punished for it still looms over their head, especially his.

He gives, she takes. Always.

Not for the first time tonight, she’s glad for the hood that goes below her brow-line. She looks down at the cup of mulled wine in her hand, half-empty, and finds her tongue disagreeing with finishing it. She hands it to Link, but he only shakes his head.

“I— I shouldn’t. I’m guarding your door tonight.”

So she drains it on a patch of grass. Watches as the burgundy liquid melts the frost glittering the withered blades. Crumples the paper cup and drops it in the trash can.

They walk back home, taking the same route they did before—an underground passage only known to the higher-ranking members of the Royal Guard; a tunnel that extends from the Sacred Ground all the way to the southwestern portion of the castle. It’s damp and tight, near-claustrophobic—their shadows on the wall ushering her back into the endless gray where she truly belongs.

A little stealth is required to evade the eyes of the other guards, but thankfully, they arrive at the steps leading up to her chambers undetected—and both must tiptoe as they ascend the stairs.

Before her doors, Zelda exhales—her diaphragm slackening. She should bid him good night, enter her apartment, but her throat feels so heavy; there are so many things she wants to say to him, though she’s too fearful to parse through them one by one. So she just lets them roil inside her as she watches Link unclip the Sword from his back, sets the tip on the floor, and unwraps the leather strip from its hilt and scabbard.

Purple and gold begin to glint, its resplendence exposed once more.

His gaze oscillates between the Sword and her eyes. His head is no longer shrouded by his hood. There’s a smile on his face, and she perceives it to be wistful. “I hope it was fun.”

She quells the mumbling from the old man replaying in her head; she will not let it ruin what she had with Link tonight.

“It truly was,” she murmurs. Gratitude fills every inch of her and it’s near-painful. “Thank you, Link.”

The Sword is completely uncovered. He holds the pommel with both hands, and assumes his stance. His eyes are still on her.

He inclines his head—a nod, a bow. “Of course.”

At her sides, her fingers press and rub as though they can hold time and mold it like dough—stretching it out just to grant herself a few more precious seconds.

Her mouth does the same. “Will you be all right in your plainclothes?” she asks. “No one’s going to question you?”

“It’s okay,” he says. That wistful smile is still there, made sharper by the firelight licking his features. “It’s quite common for knights to wear everyday clothes during overnight shifts.”

Relief rushes through her—she’d never want him to get in trouble, especially because of her. But then that relief fades and it is a sense of concession that she feels, for she can’t mold time to her liking.

It’ll go on, unfold the next second and the next and the next as the universe dictates, and all she can ever do is yield to its inexorability.

“Okay, I’m glad to hear that,” she replies. Chews her lips then yes, she yields. “Good night, Link.”

“Good night, Zelda,” Link replies, the conclusion soft on her name. “Sleep well.”

She tears her feet off the spot, pushes the doors open, and returns to her bedchamber, each step leaden with the desire to turn around, to reach him and hold him.

But it’s a desire she skillfully tamps down, because it’s nothing she hasn’t done a thousand times before. She changes into her nightgown behind the partition in her bedroom and looks down at her naked body, and is amazed by the fact that it hasn’t burst open from everything it carries—desire, fear, anxiety, grief; astounded that they haven’t left marks on her exterior yet.

Because she feels it so strongly in her interiors—a burning in her viscera, a sharp pang in her solar plexus, a perpetual sting behind her eyes.

An ache low in her abdomen, whenever she thinks of him.

Zelda sighs, exhaustion creeping in. Walks to her washroom and brushes her teeth, rinses her face, pats it dry then slathers on some rose cream before braiding her long hair, but avoids the mirror entirely as she does so. She knows what she feels; she loathes to see it incised so clearly on her face.

She slips beneath the blanket, sinks into the mattress, and finds it unsurprising that exhaustion only magnifies that ache instead of quieting it; and with her guard lowered, her mind meets so little resistance in conjuring up whatever it wants.

It imagines her knight’s last evening at the castle before he would depart. He’d drop her off at her doors, just as he had always done, but instead of swallowing all her words back inside where her pain is sequestered, she’d let them spill—overflow from her mouth. She’d tell him that she’d miss him, she’d miss him so much. She’d apologize yet again, no matter how many times he’d told her not to, because she must—she’s wasted so much time. He would not say anything, but she’d see her emotions on his face—a perfect reflection.

It would be the catalyst for her to wrap her fingers around his wrist, and lead him inside—further and further until there would be nothing to do but pull him into her bed and let him claim her first kiss.

She would be his second, but beyond the press of their lips, she, too, would be his first.

And she would welcome it. She’d welcome his weight upon her as a shore welcomes a tide, and then she’d open for him—a lotus blooming, petal by petal, pink and wet with dew—only for him, always for him.

A tear carves its way down her face—a little spill of her longing, sourced from her body that has long been filled to the brim.

She must empty it if she wants to sleep soundly. Hylia might further shun her, but she’d tell Her, You have him completely, omnipotently. Let me at least have him in my mind.

Underneath the sheets, Zelda hikes up the hem of her nightgown, and tends to her ache as best as she can with her mortal hands.

The next day, she wakes and leaves no room for pondering or lamenting.

In three hours, Sheikah scientists are scheduled to perform another demonstration of the Guardians in the western assembly yard prior to the council meeting next week. Zelda herself will visit the Royal Tech Lab tomorrow and hand in the final draft of the Guardian assignment proposal to Purah and Robbie; and if all goes well, Father and his Council will see the merit in the proposition and unanimously approve, authorizing the Sheikah to immediately work with various military outposts and fortresses to install the excavated Guardians.

So Zelda puts on her blue battledress, picks up her plate of sandwiches and cup of tea left by her maid, and brings them to her study.

Her fingers go for her quill before they even touch her breakfast. She blackens its tip and begins to scratch the parchment below it, and it isn’t until a paragraph of the proposal has been written down does she put down the quill to take a bite of the sandwich—a big one, so she can finish it as quickly as possible.

She writes and writes, each stroke that makes up each letter neat and precise, and the next time she sips her tea, it’s already cooled. She doesn’t care. She takes another big bite, makes sure to not sprinkle breadcrumbs all over the parchment, and gets back right to it.

When everything is written down, she switches to a pencil and starts sketching the diagrams to go along with the text—the metal plates that make up a Guardian’s spidery leg to show its versatility in different terrains; the extended neck of a Guardian Turret as it locks onto a target; the propellers of a Skywatcher. Most of the Council have already seen every type of Guardian, but she wants to make sure that this proposal is as fleshed out as possible—that it leaves no room for doubt.

It’s imperative that they make good on whatever time they have left in their hands.

Time bleeds like a river stream with her brain centered on the movements of her fingers atop the parchment—inking the penciled sketches with a fine-tipped quill. Her maid Nora comes in two different instances to remind Zelda that lunch has been served in her chamber, but each time, she doesn’t tear her attention away from her task.

The third time, it’s Link who knocks on the door to the study, carrying the tray of food himself, concern staining his face.

She’s not hungry right now; the only sensation she feels in her body is the burn in her fingers to continue inking the penciled sketches.

But she will eat, if only to ease his worries.

Zelda accepts the plate of salmon meunière with boiled potatoes, and in turn, gives the set of parchments containing the proposal to him—showing him what she has gotten done so far. His mind is present within it, too, after all.

As she spears a piece of salmon with a fork, she glances at Link, sitting next to her on the wooden stool—his wooden stool—watching his eyes as they sweep along the text on the paper. The sun pours through the window high up on the wall and kisses his hair, a garland of light around his head, all the while he scrunches his nose and sniffles a little. This close, she can make out the faint outline of a small scar on his cheekbone.

Zelda looks away before she can begin to lament—the very last thing she should do today when there are other things she must focus on. Pays all her mind to cutting more of the salmon and the potatoes on the plate—slice, slice, spear, eat, repeat. Tries to consume it just as fast as she did her breakfast.

Beside her, Link peers from behind the parchment. “You’re eating so fast,” he points out, and she knows it to be born from his care for her wellbeing.

“I know,” Zelda replies mid-chew, though she makes sure to swallow before speaking again—scared she’ll choke and spray food all over her desk, or worse, at him. “I just want to finish the proposal as soon as possible.”

Her eyes don’t move from her plate, but she sees Link look down at her work again before saying, “I think it’s already in great shape.” He hums as he carefully sifts through the stack. “The introduction’s concise but informative, each Guardian type is well-explained… There’s a list of locations, and even diagrams…” He draws one page closer to his eyes then murmurs, “Oh, wow.”

She does fully face him at that. “Is there something wrong?”

“Wrong—?” Link meets her gaze, his brows raised in disbelief. “These look really great. I mean… the amount of detail you’ve put in this…” He shakes his head gently. “It’s— it’s amazing.”

Her throat suddenly constricts, and when she speaks, her voice comes out small. “Do you really think so?”

“Of course,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “I could never do this— to summarize findings in a… in a succinct way, to accurately draw complicated-looking machines…” He breathes a laugh. “You’ve done such great work—” he wets his lips, “—Zelda.”

It isn’t the first time she has received things of such nature: praises for her work, pats on the back for a job well done—Purah has done it many times—Impa and Urbosa, too. And it isn’t as if Zelda doesn’t appreciate theirs—she truly does, but it alights upon her so differently coming from Link.

From that Goddess-kissed mouth; from that brain that resides in that holy head of his—still haloed by a garland of sunlight.

Whether she truly deserves praise coming from him is another matter entirely, because she is still powerless and she hasn’t helped him in any meaningful way, but her heart—

Her heart swells. Spreads warmth up to her windpipe, to her tongue and eyes.

“Thank you, Link,” she murmurs. Her fingers wrap tighter around her fork and knife. “That— that means a lot to me.”

Something in his face brightens at that, and she averts her gaze away from his in favor of the high ceiling above her—calming her tears back into their ducts. It’s almost embarrassing—how many times she has cried in front of him; she’d hate to raise the number yet again.

A few minutes later, her lunch is all consumed, and Link carries the dirty dishes and places them by the door to her apartment, to be picked up by her maids, even though she tells him he doesn’t have to. But Link is Link—attentive and kind and good, too good—so Zelda, with her chest full and aching, lets him.

Another half an hour passes, and the proposal is finally finished, and all that’s left to do is sign her name on the very last page. She does so carefully—swirls her signature, making sure she leaves enough space for another one, and then blows at it to help the ink dry faster. When that’s done, she slides the loose page on the desk towards Link and offers the quill to him.

He frowns, a question set into his jaw.

“It’s all finished,” she clarifies. “I’ve signed my signature, so you just need to sign yours next to mine.”

His eyes widen ever so slightly, blues sharp with surprise. “Mine, too?” he asks, and she nods. “Wait, why?”

“Why?” She smiles. His humbleness will never cease to amaze her. “You worked on it, too, Link.”

He shrugs, his right hand going for his left tricep—a certain shyness in the gesture. “I mean, I just helped with the locations…”

It’s her turn to shake her head. “Link, without you, there wouldn’t be a proposal to begin with.” Her right hand traces the inked text, now dried, below the subheading of ‘CONCLUSION’. “This… this is our work. Our minds put together.”

There’s a beat of silence, but eventually, he acquiesces. Takes the quill from the captive of her fingers, though his own linger an extra few seconds on hers before they pull away.

He inks his signature next to hers—a quick scribble. Wordlessly, though not without a faint smile, she takes the quill from his hand, their fingers brushing electric again, and returns it to its brass holder on the other side of the desk.

Then she regards it: their names in longhand, side by side, obsidian on bone-white—his still bearing the slightest bit of shine, the ink not fully dried yet. So she gathers her long tresses in one hand so they don’t spill all over the desk and leans in, her right upper arm pressing against his left. Puckers her lips and gently blows at his signature, too.

Watches as cursive lettering of his name takes its rightful place next to hers, absorbed by the fiber.

She withdraws slowly, her eyes still glued on Zelda Hyrule and Link, and when she closes her eyes, she sees them—a negative copy branded on the back of her eyelids; another page to file away in that secret chest inside her mind, to be kept safe and intact and framed in the dark.

When she opens her eyes again, their names disappear, and all she sees is the piercing warmth of his sapphires. There’s timidity in the upturn of his lips, but also something else that’s the exact opposite of that—pride, perhaps.

It sends thunderwings low in her stomach.

But then Link asks, “Does my signature look okay?” and Zelda presses her lips together—trying to contain her laugh, contain her longing. The beautiful dichotomy that lies within him baffles her to no end; here he is, a walking legend with a holy weapon strapped to his back, worried about the appearance of his handwriting.

Gods, she would so kiss him now if she were allowed to.

(Though she immediately crushes that thought.)

“Yes, Link,” Zelda replies. Smiles. “It looks okay.”

Link scratches at his nape, his blues downcast. “It’s just that mine looks like cucco scrawls compared to yours,” he says. “Don’t wanna have the Council question your top-notch proposal because of my crappy signature, y’know.”

She can’t hold it back this time—she laughs.

He grins as he asks, “What is it?”

“You’re just…” she trails off, the laughter subsiding, honesty fighting to take its place. She fights against it in return, because if it were to win, the next words that would stream from her mouth would be ‘…the single source of light in my days, and I don’t know what I would do without you in them.’

She’s on her way to settle for ‘…so funny!’ to resolve her sentence, but then she hears it: the hubbub of chatter, the whirrs of machines.

“Oh!” Zelda shoots up from her seat. Link mirrors her, all his limbs visibly tensing, but she continues excitedly, “The Guardian demonstration, Link— it’s starting now!”

He relaxes at that and replies to her with a small smile, though she doesn’t miss the hint of expectance that curls into it; perhaps he still expects her to finish her sentence, but she thinks that there’s no need to.

If he truly wants to know, he needs only to look at her face—he’ll find the rest of her words there, and then some more.

She pushes the doors open—the sunlight immediately blasting on full force, a stark contrast to the well-sheltered interior of her hideaway—though she doesn’t find it a nuisance at all. A sunny winter day is quite a rarity in Central Hyrule, and so she steps outside and basks—in the warmth radiating from the sky, layered with the brisk breeze.

In the warmth emanating from behind her, where she knows her knight is standing—her steadfast shadow.

She walks up to the parapet, and the western assembly yard fully comes into view. It’s much smaller than its eastern counterpart, but it doesn’t matter much now that every Sheikah is beyond confident in the Guardians’ ability to be subdued; there’s a reason why Purah and Robbie aren’t even down there among their colleagues as they lead a Stalker around the field.

They have come so far, she thinks, and something that feels a lot like hope beats inside her chest.

Beside her, a feeble voice chimes in: “No explosions?”

Zelda tilts her head to the right to find Link, the smallest smirk plastered on his lips. It makes her chew on the inside of her cheek.

They, too, have come so far.

She remembers it like yesterday—the incessant beeping from the Guardian, its red laser aimed at the wall behind her. Her heartbeat in her throat, at the realization that getting injured is a given. And then the resentment—wrongful resentment—that had rushed through her as she realized just who her savior was.

Guilt scratches at her again, but if she succumbs to it, she’ll take his hand in hers again and kiss it in broad daylight.

So she tamps it down with a smirk of her own.

“Nope, no explosions,” Zelda replies, then looks back down at the yard. Watches as each claw of the automaton digs firmly into the snow-dusted soil, as the metal plates making up its legs move and flex. “It’s quite incredible—we're at a point now where we can actually control them.”

She sees one scientist extend his arm up and wind it in a circular motion—a command. In response, the Stalker obeys, maneuvering its legs to spin its main body, completing a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree survey of its surroundings.

She pictures them stationed at the outposts and fortresses Link had told her about—pictures them as a companion to knights. Imagines them on the front lines—offensive and brutally accurate, charging ahead of their much more massive sisters: Naboris, Rudania, Medoh, and Ruta.

“At the current rate, we'll soon know all we need to know about the Guardians and the Divine Beasts,” Zelda continues. Faces Link’s way again, and thinks that she finds her own hope reflected in his visage.

It looks so beautiful on him.

“And should Ganon ever show itself again…” she says, “we'll be well positioned to defend ourselves.”

Link nods, his smile shining upon her, though it vanishes in one second as a gravelly voice booms from behind her.

“What are you doing out here, Zelda?”

She’s heard it before in various cadences—passionate, commandeering, and much more infrequent: heartwarming. But she knows this one like she knows the color of her hair, the back of her hand.

This one is a knife.

Zelda turns around and sees Father, two royal guards behind him, all of them almost eclipsing the view of the doorway to her chamber. At her six o’clock, she hears a quiet thud—Link lowering himself to the ground to kneel before his king.

She clenches her fists.

“I— I was assessing the results of the experiment with the Guardians,” she begins, willing her voice not to waver. She cannot waver. “These pieces of ancient technology could be quite useful against the—”

“I know that,” Father interjects.

She doesn’t expect it to sting so bad.

Father carries on. “They are essential to Hyrule’s future, and our research demands that we keep a close eye on them. However, as the Princess, you currently have a crucial unfulfilled responsibility to your kingdom.”

His gaze bears down on her just as the sun does, and suddenly, she doesn’t find the daylight a blessing anymore; she wishes that it’s nighttime, that she’s shrouded by the dark.

There is no anchor out here, no lifeline. She can’t look back, can’t seek out Link’s eyes for comfort. So she lets her gaze fall to the ground.

Six paces ahead of her, Father continues to jab. “Let me ask you once more… When will you stop treating this as some sort of childish game?”

Oh, she will not take that.

Zelda stares into his eyes again, her emeralds surely just as wrathful as his. “I’m doing everything I can.” Her fists curl and curl—fingernails digging into the meat of her palms. “You know that I pray every single day, that I just recently returned from Lake Hylia where I offered every ounce of my prayers to the Goddess—”

“And now you are here wasting your time,” Father cuts her off again, his voice raised. “You need to be dedicating every moment you have to your training! You must be single-minded in unlocking the power that will seal Calamity Ganon away!”

Her jaw actually falls open in incredulity.

Ever since Mother left, there hasn’t been a day in her life that she didn’t spend on her knees—begging, beseeching.

“I already am!” Zelda exclaims, her eyes pinched for a second in pure frustration. “Don’t you see— there's nothing more I can do!” Her voice quavers at the last syllable, but she will carry on. “My hope… my hope is that you— that you’ll allow me to contribute here in whatever way I can—”

“No more excuses, Zelda!” Father shakes his head, his near-shout an absolute finality. “Stop running away from your duty. As the King, I forbid you to have anything to do with these machines from this moment on, and command you to focus on your training.”

And there it is: the final jab.

She can’t carry on because it hurts. By the Three, it hurts.

He drives the knife further. “It is high time for you to revisit the Sacred Springs. And so long as you are without your sealing power, you will not touch any Sheikah technology.” Then twists it. “I expect you to hand in the Sheikah Slate to Lady Impa by tomorrow morning.”

As though satisfied with the butchering he just carried out, Father turns away and stares at the horizon. Zelda can only continue to watch the ground, the gray stone filling her flooding vision.

“Do you know how the gossip mongers refer to you?” Father asks.

Oh, Zelda knows—she’d list it to him one by one, but that would just be wasting the vestige of sanity left in her. And there’s no use fighting in this battle anymore, for she has lost and Father has won.

So she holds her tongue between her teeth. Bites hard enough for it to smart, to distract.

“They are out there at this moment whispering amongst themselves… that you are the heir to a throne of nothing.” His exhale betrays resignation. “Nothing but failure.”

Even then, the throb in her tongue chants: I know, I know, I know.

“It is woven into your destiny to prove them wrong.” He turns to look at her again, though she doesn’t find it within her to do the same. “Do you understand?”

For all the pain that has set inside her body, joining the other aches that she’s carried since the very beginning, Zelda does not cry.

Her eyes refuse to give him their tears.

But the rest of her surrenders all the same.

“Yes,” she breathes. “I understand.”

With that, Father leaves, his guards following him, invading her bedchamber one last time to exit her quarters. She keeps her gaze on the ground until the doors ahead of her close shut—and even then, she doesn’t lift her head, doesn’t move an inch.

There’s a weight now that bars all her limbs from moving.

They only do so when she hears the scuffle of boots from behind her—Link rising from the ground. Her feet shift, turning the rest of her body to face him—her true north. Her eyes land on his hands.

They’re curled into fists, too.

Her eyes climb higher—to his neck, where his larynx protrudes and bobs. Up and up, to his lips that tremble ever so slightly, before she makes the final ascent to his blues.

Under the rage of the sun, his pupils are mere black points, his irises bright cobalt flames. They blaze with worry and something else—something that makes her think of a thunderstorm.

“Zelda…” His murmur rides on the gentle wind.

She gives him a nod in lieu of words—a silent ‘I’m all right’—because there is no sound that her vocal cords can create at the moment, but she doesn’t want to trouble him.

It isn’t his burden to carry.

Zelda walks past him and reenters her study. Walks up to her desk to stare at the parchments she had worked on all morning. The last page, bearing their signatures, still lay there, too. With trembling hands, she gathers all the sheets into one stack and rolls them together, tying it with a cord to prevent it from unfurling. Tomorrow, someone other than her will deliver it to the Lab, and they will remove her name, and most likely, her knight’s name as well.

They will have to, if they wish for the proposal to be authorized by the King and his council. And she won’t hold it against them—not in the slightest.

Her name is a detriment, she knows.

She picks up the Slate, too—holds it with both hands as if testing its weight for the first time, as if she hasn’t spent the past two years with it hanging from her belt, as if it’s not another limb to her at this point.

Perhaps she’s been foolish to let herself grow familiar with it, even with the knowledge that it has never been hers to wield.

Perhaps she must acquaint herself with going through this world limbless, knowing only pain and bleakness—the only currency the Goddess recognizes.

Perhaps this is the consequence of joy—when one hasn’t earned it yet.

So she carries the Slate and the proposal in one arm, and regards the rest one last time—the stacks of tomes, her field journals, the notes strewn about the surface, the sketches of machines plastered above the desk—and turns around.

Link stands before the threshold, but she doesn’t meet his eyes—she steps ahead and outside, and leaves it all behind—the only altar in this world that has never made her feel inadequate. She marches on anyway, trading the bridge for her bedroom—the daylight for darkness.

On the floor, she sees the traces of dirt—footprints that track from the stairs all the way to the doors leading out of her chamber.

There’s not one square meter in this castle that feels like home anymore.

But it is her home, and she begrudgingly accepts it as she accepts the curse that is her name. She leaves the Slate and the proposal on her desk; surely, Father will instruct Impa to pick them up very soon. She steps out of her shoes, mindless of the fact that her knight is there, and lies on her side in her bed with her full regalia.

Trains her gaze on the gray bricks that make up the wall until cerulean blue pokes at her vision.

“Princess—”

“Link,” she says. Her eyes remain on the wall. “Please leave.”

There’s a pregnant pause, though he hasn’t complied with her just yet; he stays there, three paces away from her bedside.

Then he asks softly, “Are you sure?”

No, she isn’t. She only has six days left before he leaves, and there’s nothing she wants more than to utilize them to the fullest extent—to spend all her waking hours with him, to hold on to the only sliver of warmth remaining in her life.

But that would instill some ease within her, which is the precursor to happiness, to joy—

And that, she isn’t allowed to have.

“Yes,” Zelda replies at last, but she needs him to know that none of this bitterness is for him, so she adds, “I’ll send for you shall the need arise.”

He doesn’t utter anything else, though she senses those blues on her, and when he eventually steps away and leaves, she senses the lack of them, too—a fireside receding, receding, till there’s simply no warmth left but the cold, and only the cold.

It blankets her like an old friend.

Outside the windows, the sun makes its westerly journey as it always does—setting behind the white peaks of Hebra Mountains, on its way to shine over the other side of the world. Perhaps there are other continents out there—nations with no monarchy; ones that worship another tutelary deity; their languages bearing letters that look nothing like Hyrulean. Maybe wars do not happen over there—or maybe they do because people are inevitably flawed.

But her world begins and ends with the walnut panels that make up her bed. She does little else but breathe and breathe; can’t even muster enough energy to bid her muscles to move, to kneel before the small Goddess statue that resides in her chamber.

Everything else has simply bleared away into the dark blue.

Nora comes into her room bearing a tray with her dinner—rice porridge with bone broth and a plate of fruitcake—but Zelda merely lets out a small thanks and watches as her maid lights up the candles, illuminating the room. The jug of water on the roundtable refracts light.

Her throat is quite parched but her head is pounding—mountains sitting on the apex of her neck—so she stays lying down on the mattress. She takes her diadem off; it has been sitting atop her hairline since this morning, and maybe its unforgiving metal pressed tight against her skull is what’s hurting her.

The headache stays.

She knows she must rise at some point—change clothes, eat her food that certainly has turned cold, brush her teeth and cleanse her face, then offer her prayers—but for now, she can’t. She just can’t.

At some point, the bell tower chimes eight times, and at the tail end of its resonance, two knocks rap on her doors. It jolts her upright in her bed.

Zelda knows it’s not her knight; knows that his knocks usually come in three—gentle, but loud enough to be picked up by her ears. The ones that just rang through her room sounded confident. Sure.

“Who is it?” she asks, her voice raised to penetrate through the wood.

“It’s Impa, Princess,” the voice on the other side replies. “May I come in?”

Her mind blanks for a second, still reeling from its myriad aches, but then jumpstarts the moment it realizes the meaning of the royal advisor’s presence.

Right.

She rises at last, blood rushing north to her head, her vision blackening at first before it clears. She stands, barefoot on the cold marble, and makes her way to the doors; Impa is a close friend, and Zelda doesn’t need to conceal all the gore that she now bears.

She pulls open the doors and finds Impa, her carmine eyes dimmed, her lips slightly pinched. It looks like it has been a long day for her, too.

Zelda exhales and lets her in. Goes to her desk where the Slate and the proposal lay, her feet feeling like lead. She’s prepared for this moment for hours, but now that it’s here, all that preparation disintegrates. Dread rules her being once more.

She picks up the Slate gingerly and immediately proffers it to Impa, wanting to part with it as soon as possible so as not to get used to its mass again.

But Impa shakes her head slowly. Says, “Princess, could we— could we sit down first?”

Zelda sighs. “Just take it, Impa. I really am in no mood to—”

“I know, Princess,” Impa cuts her off, though there’s warmth and understanding in her expression. “I promise, I know. But I do think you should sit down.”

Zelda eyes her a short while, trying to read between the wrinkles etched into the woman’s face—the furrow of her brows, the lines in her forehead. When she finds no answer within them, she acquiesces. Settles down on her bed, and pats the space next to it. Impa nods and joins her—her hands, wrapped in black gloves, rest curled atop her lap. Her blood-red gaze seems far away.

“I cannot imagine how tough and exhausting today must have been for you, Princess,” she says. “So I will give it to you straight.”

Zelda swallows. Braces for the worst—though it feels like the worst has already happened. “Okay.”

Impa takes a deep breath. And another one.

Then she meets Zelda’s eyes and begins:

“His Majesty will still forbid you from anything to do with the Sheikah technology. I will still take the proposal regarding the Guardian’s location assignment and give it to Purah tomorrow in your stead.

“But,” she pauses, “he is not going to take away the Sheikah Slate.”

Zelda frowns. What?

“Furthermore, you are to leave for the Springs of Power and Courage with Sir Link tomorrow at noon.”

At that, Zelda shakes her head. “Impa, that can’t be. Link is going back to Hateno Village in six days—”

“And you’ll come with him, too, Princess,” Impa cuts her off. “Your itinerary has been set: you will go to Akkala to pray at the Spring of Power, and then to Hateno Village where you'll be spending a week, including the Day of the Mortal, and then you will head to Faron, to the Spring of Courage.”

“I don’t understand,” Zelda half-whispers. “H-how?”

Impa looks away. “It was all him, Princess,” she replies. “It was all Link.”

The whiplash of information hits Zelda so violently; her hands grip at her sheets to stop their trembling, to ground herself. Her vision swims with the promise of tears.

“But— but how?” she rasps.

“He fought for you.” There’s a hint of awe in Impa’s voice. “He… he really did.”

“Wh—” Zelda breathes sharply, “—what did he say to Father?”

She can’t see much right now—her eyes have blurred from their pools—but the ache inside her brain recedes into nothing, and her ears are wide awake.

And as Impa lays it all on the table for her, Zelda listens.

<><><>

To feel pain is as natural as the rising of the sun.

It is the air that he breathes—the rush of oxygen into his lungs. It is the dull throb from the gnarly scar permanently carved onto the meat of his left thigh. As intrinsic to his being as the calluses that have long formed on his fingers, his palms.

To feel pain upon his body is simply to live, for this is the life he chose, the life that has been chosen for him.

It’s why he stayed silent (and still does, except for her). It’s why he let her spit venom at him for so long; if it made her feel just the slightest bit better, he’d take it headfirst. He’d lift his chin and beg for her on bent knees to lay it all on him.

He did all of that, he thinks—and he’s quite proud of it. Proud that he endured her wrath and her tough exterior, because when she finally let him in he found her at the heart of it all—soft and sacred and beautiful, so devastatingly beautiful—just like he knew in his bones that she would be. And he’d gladly endure that pain for longer if it meant that he’d hold her at the end, even just for a minute, a meager minute—

But to witness pain in her will never be natural.

So he waits in front of the doors to the King’s drawing room, standing at attention—a man ready for battle. Adrenaline surges through his aching veins. On his back, the Sword stirs in its scabbard, beseeching him to fix it because it cannot do it itself—it wasn’t made to soothe; it was made to kill, to seal the darkness in her name.

He shares its frustration—truly, he does. Her pain sits as a cavity yawning wide behind his breastbone, and can only be filled once he puts it to rights.

And so he will.

He raises his hand and grabs the brass door-knocker, then slaps it twice.

He comes in as he’s told.

Link pushes them open and finds the King sitting behind the desk. Finds anger pounding its chest, an eidolon of a battle cry, though he adjures it to quiet. There are things he can’t solve with a blade or a pair of closed fists; he knows this is one of them.

The moment the doors close shut behind him, he kneels, even though his limbs beg him not to—because the man in front of him isn’t one to be revered or worshiped, especially not after what he has inflicted upon his daughter. But Link does it anyway because it’s what he’s supposed to do, and continues to do so until the King bids him to rise.

Compared to what he saw six hours ago, the King’s expression no longer bears dissatisfaction or criticism; he just looks tired. To his left, Lady Impa stands with an open tome on her hands; she, on the other hand, looks anxious.

“I apologize for being unable to meet you at an earlier time—it’s been quite a busy day, as you can see,” the King starts, a sigh audible at his last syllable. In front of him, a dirty plate and utensils rest among stacks of documents.

Link’s hand twitches at his side. Has she even eaten her dinner yet?

“Now, what is it that you’d like to speak about, Sir Link?”

Behind pressed lips, he sifts through all the words he wants to say—and the majority of them would surely lead him straight to his dismissal as her knight, so he swallows them down his gullet diligently just as he’s always done. They will sear, acid in his gut, but he must bear it.

He has fought to reach her for so long. It would be tragically foolish to lose now.

“It’s about the Princess, Your Majesty,” he begins, his tone as diplomatic as he can stomach. “I believe— I believe that your decision to bar her from her research won’t do her training any good.”

A sigh immediately leaves the King.

“You know— I let her do whatever she wanted for ten years, and that did not do her training any good, either,” he replies. “She’s been slacking for too long, so as the King, I must order her to fulfill her duties as the Princess.”

“Slack—” Link pinches his eyes shut for a moment. “Your Majesty, I’ve escorted her every single day, and I’ve never seen her slack in her training—not once. Three weeks ago, she stood in the cold waters of Lake Hylia for four hours—”

“It doesn’t matter, Sir Link,” the King interrupts him. “It doesn’t matter if she remains powerless—when the stakes are this high! I’ve exhausted every avenue in order to help her—”

Something inside Link snaps at that.

“No.” He can feel his heartbeat in his fists. “All you’ve done is be cruel to her.”

Silence falls over the room. The King’s eyes widen—and he’s willing to bet that Lady Impa’s do, too.

“Pardon?”

Link breathes and breathes. Static crackles in his mouth—he tries to tame it, dampen it. He can’t brute-force his way through this; the price is simply too great to pay if he blunders.

But he doesn’t falter in his advance, either. “You took away the things that make her happy,” he continues, his pitch low. “And I think that’s cruel.”

The King’s eyes scan him for a moment as if he’s sizing him up—seemingly in disbelief that the subordinate standing in front of him had just flouted the one absolute law that all knights adhere to: to never oppose their liege.

But to Link, the King is only that—a king; a man with an ornate piece of metal around his skull. His liege is the girl he has sought after since the night he came out of his mother’s womb crying, and will follow until his very final breath—whenever that is.

“Since when do you speak your mind so freely, boy?” the King asks. “And I am her father—I will never be cruel to her!”

“And you know what I am, Your Majesty,” Link says quietly, a counterpoint to the King’s raised voice. “Why I’m even here.”

The King opens his mouth, though it closes again in the next second as he begins to understand the meaning of what was said. His eyes seem to dart from side to side as though thousands of passages from history books are laid out before them—chronicling tales from eons past of the Goddess and Her Chosen; speaking of a vow, a bond that no mortal can even begin to comprehend.

Link has never played this card—dislikes the fact that he even had to pull it out to begin with, but the end absolutely justifies the means, for the end is her happiness, her safety.

And it seems to have worked.

“So what do you suggest I do then, Hero?” the King spits out his title. “If you truly think you have all the answers in your pocket. Please, enlighten me.”

Link inhales. “You must allow her to continue her research—”

“No, that is non-negotiable.”

Negotiation has never been his strong suit—he was born to be a knight and not a councilman, but for her, he will damn well try.

“At least allow her to hand in the proposal regarding the Guardians’ location assignment to the Lab tomorrow. She’s worked on it for a while—”

“And all that time could have been used to train,” the King says. “No, that proposal is a part of ‘research’—” he mocks quotation marks with his fingers, “—so that is also non-negotiable.”

Link bites the inside of his lip. He can’t lose his momentum—he has to try again. He has to.

“The Sheikah Slate. Let her keep the Slate,” he proposes. “She already knows everything there is to know about that device—there’s no research to be done on it anymore. She only uses it to look at the map and tell the time. It won’t serve as a distraction, and it helps her stick to her schedule.”

She can also take photographs with it, but he won’t say that. He has kept weightier secrets for her—he’ll take this one to the grave, too.

The King glances at Lady Impa, a cross-check, and she only nods. The slow blink of her eyes says he’s correct.

“All right. She will keep the Slate,” the King relents. “But I command you to take her to the Spring of Power immediately.”

Oh, fuck.

“I’m— I’m due for my annual time off in a week, so there’s no way we can journey to Akkala and return to the castle and still make it in time—”

“That’s fine, you can take her there after the new year. Both the Spring of Power and the Spring of Courage,” the King says. “In the meantime, she will have access to the Slate but will not leave the castle while you are away. I will make sure that she uses all that free time to pray.”

Link’s stomach drops; the castle will only get emptier with more and more people traveling back to their hometowns for the Day of the Mortal. She’ll be all alone, a prisoner trapped within the stone walls.

The Sword stirs in protest again, its phantom motion sending a ringing between his teeth. He fears what will spew from his mouth if he opens it now.

Thankfully, Impa steps in. “Your Majesty, I don't think it is wise to keep the Princess within the castle for three weeks, especially when no one would be here—not even her tutors,” she says. She sounds much more diplomatic, that’s for sure. “We must think of her emotional wellbeing. Poor mental health would only be detrimental to her efforts in awakening her power.”

“We cannot afford to think of such things when it’s the entire kingdom hanging in the balance!” the King exclaims, his sharp gaze now foisted on Impa. “I will have allowed her the Slate. What more can she possibly need?”

Suddenly, a solution materializes in Link’s brain—born from the epinephrine that floods it ever since he waited outside the doors, but also from something much more inherent to his being:

Love.

She might disagree, she might not like it—but he can explain it to her later. He can try to persuade her. All he knows he must do right now is to save her, he must—

“I’ll take the Princess on my weeks off,” Link speaks out.

The King returns his gaze to him. He still looks unconvinced, but Link holds his breath and continues.

“We’ll begin our journey to Akkala tomorrow noon, and after the Spring of Power, we’ll stop by Hateno Village and celebrate the Day of the Mortal there. There will be religious ceremonies, a priestess at the local church—she can still pray and train. And after the new year, we will directly journey south to the Spring of Courage.”

The reluctance stays for a good while in the King’s expression but it eventually fades away—replaced by a nod of resignation.

Link exhales. Relief rushes into his lungs—a shred of it, at least. The rage still wails inside him, but now, he stands solemn.

The King raises a hand; it curls in the air before his face—an emphasis in the making.

“You watch her, Sir Link,” he says.

Link inclines his head.

“You keep an eye on her. You do not let her stray.”

“I will, Your Majesty.”

The King pinches the bridge of his nose. Sighs aloud before saying, “All right, that is all. You may leave.” He faces his left. “You, too, Lady Impa.”

This time, Link gladly heeds the King’s words—he bows one last time, and makes his way out of the room. His throat is rubbed raw from all the words that have forced their way out of it.

But Impa stands near him now, and he still has to speak more before he can leave.

“I—” he starts, sounding ten times hoarser and smaller than he ever did in the room behind him. The adrenaline has left his body, and exhaustion fills the gaps. “Will you tell the Princess the news?”

“Well, I assumed you would be the one to break it to Her Highness, Sir Link.” There’s exhaustion in the woman’s face, too, though her utterance remains assertive. “After all, you are now a close friend of the Princess.”

He would. Gods, he really would love to, but he feels a little apart and a moment of solitude is necessary to put the pieces back together. She can’t see him when he’s like this—when the seams of his restraint are a little loose—because it’d be so fatally easy to unravel all that keeps every bit of him inside.

All it would take is just a brief look from those emerald eyes.

He almost lost it in her bedchamber then, as he unendurably watched her body curl into itself atop her sheets, her face downturned in anguish. He nearly crossed the three paces between them and kneeled by her bedside, taking her hands in supplication.

Nearly begged her, please don’t ask me to leave please let me help you please Zelda please—

“I can’t. I have to— to train,” he lies to Impa, knowing full well that there are cracks in his façade, that she sees them. And this is why he must go. “I’ll be in the guards’ quarters. Thank you, Lady Impa.”

He does not give her another second to regard those cracks—he turns around and makes his way down the hall, fighting against the desire in his feet to run to her room with every step he takes. He walks and walks and his insides rumble until he arrives in his room—tucked away at last, free to tie it all back up.

He sheds the Sword and sets it on the wall next to his cot—its second home. Changes into his everyday shirt and pants, and neatly hangs the Champion tunic on his chair. His hands linger on it—it’s all he has of her right now. He lights the oil lamp and goes to the washroom to splash cold water onto his face. He looks at himself in the mirror, and watches as the fissures through the crust of his visage merge close again—his eyes betraying nothing.

His mantle and core still ache in longing, but they’re well-sealed—restored to the default.

At his small desk, he sits and peels an orange he’s kept from last night’s dinner. As he separates each segment and eats them one by one, he looks outside the window, at the endless black velvet.

The tangy-tart bursts open in his mouth. The flavor is accompanied by an unspoken prayer.

He hopes she’ll sleep well tonight.

<><><>

Impa’s lips are still moving, making shapes, but Zelda cares not. She hurries to her closet, pulls out her worn leather boots, and frantically puts them on. She should wear socks first—her stockings might chafe from the rough insoles, but she pays no mind to that. She ties the laces as tight as she can. Her long tresses are all mussed up, her hairline is without her diadem, her royal gown has long crumpled from hours of being in bed—she pays no mind to those, either. She tells Impa to see herself out.

And then Zelda runs.

Guards on their nightshift gape at her as she makes her frenzied journey through the castle, asking ‘Princess, is everything all right?’ and ‘Your Highness, where are you going?!’—

She yells for them to leave her alone.

In the open air, she hikes up the hem of her gown with both hands and trudges her way through snow-covered cobblestones—not to avoid dirtying it, but to make sure that she won’t trip and fall. She’s almost there, she’s so close.

At last, she steps foot in the lobby of the barracks for the first time in her life. The keeper of the building shoots up to his feet, bows at her and asks if she needs anything, but she ignores him. She doesn’t know exactly which room she’s looking for, but she’s overheard chatty maids whispering about it before:

Oh, I always make sure to stop by the first floor with a basket of snacks. The other knights say he’s a glutton—surely, the way to his heart is food!

She forgoes the stairs and makes a hard left—her eyes immediately landing on the nameplate on the doors.

The first one spells out Commander Remi. The second one—

Her vision blurs further. His name is a mere set of letters branded on a wooden panel, but it matters not; he’s right there, breathing on the other side of the door.

She raises a closed fist and knocks.

The response is immediate: “Come in.”

Zelda does.

Her hand presses down on the handle and pushes out, out—the other side nearly slamming against the wall. Even with all the tears clouding her, her eyes zero in on him faster than the next beat of her heart.

In the eternal millisecond before he rises from his bed, she takes in the sight—Link, barefoot, with his hair down, wheat blonde like a fire turned upside down—his blue hair band on the nightstand. No baldric nor belts hanging from his torso, no cerulean blue or royal burgundy and navy—just a beige tunic and a pair of loose trousers.

All her limbs weaken. She is half of a mind to allow herself to fall to the ground and kneel before him.

But whatever strength is left in her body she uses to close the door behind her—her gaze never leaving his as she leans back against it. The click from the hinge blares like the rumbling of thunder. The creak of his metal bed frame as he rises to his feet is even louder.

“Princess,” Link breathes.

She straightens up, takes one step towards him. She doesn’t hide the trembling of her lips.

“You… you spoke with the King.”

“I— I did,” he answers.

Another step forward. An ocean measuring four paces stretches between them. Too much. Too damn much. “You told him I’d be coming with you during your vacation.”

“Princess, I’m so sorry.” His brows knit. She aches to smooth the space between them.

Only two paces left. “You just…” she exhales, “…you did it.”

He nods apologetically. “I know, I’m so sorry, Princess—I really am,” he mumbles. She takes one last step; she is close enough to see the scar on his cheekbone again. Her muscles sing and sing—to act, to press, to hold. “I just don’t know wh— I thought you’d want to get away so I—”

Whatever words he has loaded on his tongue don’t make it out. Zelda does what she has always wanted to do since the day he killed for her:

She circles her arms around him tight and pulls him into an embrace.

Her tears flow so freely now that her eyes know they’re for him and only him. They give him everything they have—a quiet waterfall, his tunic a lake, his shoulders her bedrock.

“Thank you.” Her broken whisper is muffled against the crook of his neck. She holds herself back from sobbing openly, though she does not stop herself from crying. “Thank you, Link— I just— thank you, thank you, thank you.”

The tension leaves his body little by little until he wraps his arms, firm and strong, around her, too—his hands settling on her shoulder blades, his fingers digging into her rhomboids. She feels his ragged breaths—a squall gusting her ear. Feels the caramel strands of his hair sticking on her tear-streaked cheeks.

Joy quivers weakly beneath her breast.

She’ll let it survive if only to thank him for his sacred defiance.

“Zelda…” Her name vibrates right into her core.

“You didn’t have to—” she sniffles, “You didn’t have to do it. I— I can’t let you do it. It’s supposed to be your time off—”

“It’s okay.” She feels his fingers run through her hair—as gentle as his murmurs.

“I’m so— I’m so mad at you,” she confesses, because she is. “Link, how am I supposed to ever repay you? You keep on helping me, saving me, and I’ve done absolutely nothing for you—”

His hands clutch her back harder. “That’s not true.” He shakes his head, and she senses the motion of the tendons in his neck. “Zelda, that’s not true.”

Oh, but it is.

Yet they’ve been at this impasse so many times now because he’s simply too kind to think otherwise, and she can’t help but accept that kindness because how could she ever reject the product of his heart?

So she says nothing else. Holds onto him and marvels at the fact that she’s hugging him, in his room of all places, his chest pressed against hers, her heart aching in its fullness. Picks up his scent even through her clogged nostrils—fresh soap and burnt wood and somehow orange—and her greed rejoices as she inhales, inhales, inhales.

And in turn, she gives him the only thing she has right now—the honey of her sorrows, ceaselessly flowing out of her eyes. Her mouth mutters the only words it can—thank you and I’m sorry and thank you yet again, replied by always, Zelda and please don’t be—before it settles for just repeating the single syllable it loves so much, the one prayer it can utter that’ll never be in vain:

Link.

Chapter Text

The early winter morning comes bearing a stillness. The sun hasn’t yet risen, the kingdom hasn’t awakened; the only sources of light are the torches at the entrance to Inogo Bridge Inn, the fire blazing underneath the cook pot in front of her, and the face hovering above it—cast in orange, his contours sharpened by the complementary shadow.

If she had it her way, she’d eat something that’s quick to consume—rice balls, maybe. The Spring of Power is still a few days’ journey away, and it makes her jitter so restlessly that she nearly forgets about the sensation of his thigh, just inches away from hers. Sends bells ringing in her ears, their incessant chimes carrying the knife-jab of Father’s words from two days ago:

You are here wasting your time.

But Link insisted that he made breakfast that’d be ‘perfect for a cold morning’ with an anticipative smile, and she—well.

She’d never decline anything he’d deign to give her.

So she watches him quietly, wafts of boiled milk and cinnamon flooding her nose. Watches the way his wrist flexes a little as he stirs with a ladle, wonders how such a simple movement can appear so solemn—but then another part of her asks her in return: how can it not be?

Those hands have been blessed by Hylia to carry Her divine mission, to wield the holiest sword known to man—and now they’re serving breakfast, ladling porridge into her bowl.

Zelda thanks him and brings a spoonful to her mouth, the fruit of his labor sliding down her throat, settling in her belly warm and gentle—a comfort in this unforgivingly cruel winter. She smiles at the thought, and smiles even more at the sight next to her—Link wolfing down the contents of his bowl in record time and helping himself to a second serving.

Her cheeks feel stiff, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the weather or the fact that she hasn’t smiled a lot within the past two days.

And it seems that Link notices it, too.

He eyes her as he asks, “What is it?”

“You’re just…” she trails off, at a loss on how to distill all her thoughts into speech before settling for, “…eating much faster than usual.”

“Yeah,” he says, pawing at his hair, some of it falling over his eyes. His expression suddenly turns shy. “Since we have another hour before it’s light, I— I was actually thinking that we could do something.”

Even his tone is shy. Her heart picks up its pace. “…I’m listening.”

He exhales. Says, “I was thinking if you might want to brush up on some archery?”

She didn’t expect him to say that. Her lips part in surprise.

“I-it’s not that you need to— it’s just that we have some free time and—” he stops, pinches his eyes shut for a moment, tongue all tied. “I thought that you might want to—”

“Link.” She lays a gloved hand on his knee.

The stammered words stop flowing out of him. His blues meet her greens again through his bangs—and it makes her think of the sun peeking from beyond the curtains.

“I’d love to,” Zelda tells him, gives his knee a slight squeeze as a reassurance. She’d let it linger but the rest of the inn will soon awake and that would be bad for the optics, wouldn’t it—so she retracts it. “It’s almost been seven years since I last held a bow, so,” she pauses, licks her lip, “it… it would be nice.”

At that, Link smiles wide—the curve of his lips a sickle sinking into her center, a welcome ache.

He rises and cleans the cook pot with some snowmelt, then jogs quickly to the paddock to his pack—already fastened onto Epona’s saddle—and retrieves his bow along with his quiver of arrows. Jogs again to the other side of the yard, where a large crate holding the inn’s dry waste is stored, and fishes out a few empty cans from it. He sets them on top of the fence, equidistant from each other.

“There you go,” Link says, regarding the makeshift targets, then turns to face her. “It’s not as fancy as the wooden dummies at the castle, I know.”

Zelda breathes a laugh and shakes her head. She’d take shooting cans and eating rice porridge from a communal cook pot over royal-grade amenities any day.

“This will do just fine, Link,” she replies and grabs the bow. Hooks two fingers around the string and pulls, testing its flexibility. It’s made out of hardwood—sturdy but light enough—akin to the ones usually wielded by squires. As Link picks up his quiver, she asks, “You didn’t bring your Royal Guard bow?”

“No, that one’s quite heavy,” he says. “It’s powerful but not very durable. It’s not a good bow for, y’know,” he pauses and nods at the weapon in her hold, his expression sheepish, “practicing.”

The realization punches her sweet. He planned, hoped to teach me.

“Thank you,” Zelda says, a little tremulous. Her grip around the handle tightens, imagining that it’s his hand instead. “Though I sure hope it still serves as a useful weapon to you.”

“Yeah, don’t worry.” He smiles. “It’s a good bow for us both.”

Her heart clenches again upon hearing the word us—that primal thing inside her stirring in its nest behind her navel. She doesn’t try to smother it to nonexistence anymore—because when has she ever succeeded in actually doing so? So she does what she likes to think she’s quite good at:

She holds it down gently, knowingly, as her teeth would hold her tongue—not to hurt or kill, but to calm, to subdue.

Thankfully, Link doesn’t say anything else that would undo all of her painstaking internal work, and begins to take a few steps backward. He stops when the distance between him and the fence is far enough, and she follows until they stand side by side once more.

Zelda searches for her old tutor’s teachings in her muscles and assumes the proper stance; she sets her left foot in front of her right—the space between them as wide as her shoulders—and angles her body to the side. Pulls out an arrow from the quiver leaning against Link’s leg, then nocks it as she raises the bow, her index and middle fingers right behind the feathers as she draws the arrow back, back, back—

She lets go.

It misses the first can by a few inches.

She sighs aloud. Next to her, Link murmurs “That’s okay.”

So she tries again. Nocks another arrow, draws the string—

And misses again.

There’s no sighing this time; she attempts it once more and then another one—nock and shoot, nock and shoot—frustration gnawing at her. Her brain goes into overdrive—what is wrong with me why can’t I do it why can’t I remember—driving her arm to reach for yet another arrow until Link lays a hand on her own, a gentle press.

“I think you should slow down,” he says softly, and it makes her eyes climb up to meet his—seeing the kindness stored in them for a fleeting moment before he averts his gaze. “Take a deep breath as you nock the arrow.” He does as he tells her—inhaling audibly as he demonstrates the movement to her. Even without an actual bow, she can see the strength of his left arm—straight and sure in the air. “Even out your breathing as you aim, and then…” he relaxes the fingers of his right hand, “…loose the arrow.”

She squints at him. “That’s what I did.”

“Yeah, I know, but just…” he seems to wrack his brain for a second then looks into her eyes again, “…don’t second-guess it, I guess?”

Her own fingers curl around the handle of the bow, the leather of her gloves straining against her knuckles. The years she’s lived yawn angrily in her limbs that have long forgotten the things they used to be able to do. All they know now is to kneel and clasp her hands beneath her chin in supplication.

And they’re not very good at even that.

“Well, it’s easy to say for you—you’ve been wielding a bow since you were five years old!” She laughs bitterly. “If I were even half as gifted as you, I wouldn’t be second-guessing myself either.”

“Zelda, I’m not—”

“No, you are, Link—stop denying it.” She drops the bow unceremoniously—a concession to her failure. “We are not the same.”

The silence that immediately follows carries the rest of her sentence:

Because you’ve always been blessed by Her, whereas I am not.

In front of her, Link presses his lips into a thin line, scrunches his nose—as if spending the force of what he wanted to say through the muscles in his face. What’s left is the blank façade she knows so well—a placid lake veiling the flesh of his mind.

“I’m sorry, Princess,” he says quietly.

The frustration still roils in her gut as she watches him pick up the bow at her feet, slings the quiver around his shoulder, then makes his way to the fence where the cans are. He climbs the barrier, collects the still-intact arrows from the ground. She stares and stares, her tongue slack behind gritted teeth, until that frustration is succeeded by horror.

Because she’s misfired yet again. Wrongfully inflicted her resentment towards herself upon Link—the man who saved her from being held captive in the castle for the winter. The man who just now tried his best to give her a piece of her past that she once thought irreclaimable.

The man who, two nights ago, held her close in his room, stroked her hair, and whispered so softly to her.

Remorse rumbles in the meat of her lips, in her feet. They step forward, picking up their pace as her heart floods her throat—

“Link,” she calls out his name.

He must’ve not heard her; he doesn’t look up. She keeps walking his way until her trajectory is thwarted by the fence, and then does her best to reach for him—her hand barely grazing the wool of his winter robe. “Link.”

He turns around. His whole figure is swallowed by the dark; the sky hasn’t lightened that much, and most of it is obscured by the tall oak trees that surround the property. The only thing visible to her eyes is the meager light from the inn framing his face—his beautiful face, paved over by that trademark inscrutableness, her own doing.

“I’m sorry,” Zelda rasps. Her arm is still stretched out—her hand grasping at the air an inch away from him.

The pavement breaks upon the furrowing of his brows.

Link takes her hand in an instant, walking towards her until the fence does the same thing to him—stops him in his tracks, putting itself in between them. Never has such a little space seemed so excessive.

“I’m so sorry for lashing out at you,” she says, her windpipe all tight.

He squeezes her hand—leather on leather. She wishes she could feel his calluses against her palm, but thinks that this is more fitting; she doesn’t deserve it, especially not after what just happened. But still, his voice remains soft, his eyes kind—sugar upon knife.

“Zelda, it’s okay,” he tells her, then smiles feebly. “I think I’m just not very good at teaching.”

She breathes a watery laugh. Sometimes his sheer goodness truly pains her, makes her question reality. “Goddesses, Link—you are. There is just… simply too much going on in here.” She touches her temple with her free hand—the house of her torment.

“I know,” he murmurs.

“I really was quite good at it all those years ago.” She smiles sadly, remembering that final spring with Mother—coaxing her to learn archery. All the women who came before us could wield bows, she had told her. Some of them were even master archers. I’m certain you will be one of them in the future.

“I believe you,” he says. “That’s why I— I want to help.”

She has to suppress the urge to laugh; he wants to help, when he has already done that a hundred times over. When her debt to him has piled into another Mount Lanayru—the weight of it so great it corrodes and tears her limbs in two directions: to deny herself of him and give him all that she has at the same time.

It translates into her hand tightening further around his. Even the tips of her fingers ache to touch him—digging into the leather glove like they can perforate through the fabric and reach him, somehow.

“Just— try to bear with me, all right?” Zelda says quietly. “My body has forgotten a lot of things from that time, I think.”

Link inclines his head—so heartbreakingly earnest. “Of course,” he says. “We can always try again another time, when you feel ready.”

Oh, that, she’ll never feel, unfortunately; all she knows is the pursuit of it—trying her might to reach a state of readiness, then failing and criticized for said failure. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat.

But in front of her, Link stands steady, the bridge of his nose dusted lilac from the brightening horizon, the dawn illuminating his irises where she can find the gleam of a little, precious truth:

That she can feel unready but safe at the same time—because his presence brings safety, brings comfort.

Brings no judgment.

Zelda smiles. “Let’s try again now.” She lets Link’s hand go to climb the fence, careful not to knock down the cans that still line the wooden railing—joining him on the other side, outside the boundary of the inn together. “We still have a little bit of time.”

Link nods. Smiles, too—another dawn in itself.

So they walk out and put the same amount of distance between themselves and the fence as they did earlier, but this time, they’re enveloped by the woods, her back facing the leafless trees behind her, away from the windows of the inn. There is only Link—a hand thrust out to her, the bow in his grip. She inhales deeply and takes it.

He takes a few steps back, trying to make room, but she stops him—lays a hand on his forearm. To her chagrin, she can’t feel much of him through the thick fabric.

“Could you just…” Zelda starts. A gulp down her throat. “Could you maybe just show me how?” she asks. “Perhaps that’d be easier for the both of us.”

She knows he understands just what she meant when she spots the familiar glister of hesitance in his eyes. She also knows that she doesn’t need to say it twice—knows he’ll find his needed reassurance in her body angled towards him, her arms slightly open.

“Yeah.” Steam puffs from his mouth. “Yeah, I can do that.”

She looks away before he can find more than just reassurance. Fixes her gaze on the cans some meters in front of her, the crunch of snow beneath his boots thundering through her ears as he positions himself right behind her.

Then she hears him—quiet but sharp. “All right, take an arrow.”

Zelda heeds his words. Pulls out an arrow from the quiver and nocks it, every movement of her fingers filled with intent as she begins to draw it back—

Until Link closes the space between them, his front pressed against her back, his right hand atop her own, his left wrapped around hers on the bow’s handle. She continues to pull but now feels little tension; Link bears most of it as he guides her hand further back—the motion slow and smooth, a counterpoint to her heartbeat.

“Draw until your thumb is more or less aligned with your ear,” he instructs into her left ear, and does as he’s said: pulls and pulls and stops when the base of her thumb presses against her cheek, his gloved hand grazing her earlobe. “Like so.”

She can only nod. Ignore the electricity blazing on the sides of her neck.

“Now’s the crucial part,” he says. “You aim while you take the surroundings into consideration.” The muscles in her arms no longer strain and tense; Link has completely taken over the bow, allowing her to simply listen to him. “Like the distance between you and your target…” he continues, each syllable vibrating her eardrum, buzzing signals down her spine. “The wind’s direction…”

Zelda tries with every fiber of her being to focus on the wind and not Link’s breathing—whispering against her baby hairs, a gale to her mind. Pays attention to the strands on the top of her scalp instead, all senses lost in the direction of the breeze—

“The left,” she breathes. “It’s blowing to the left.”

Link exhales softly; her left cheek feels it. “Okay, so…”

He doesn’t need to finish his words; somehow, their thoughts align and their muscles follow suit: he eases his hold on the bow just a little so that she can pull it a few millimeters to the right—taking the westerly breeze into account.

When she’s done aiming, she returns the control to him as he takes it from her, or maybe the other way around—but realizes that it doesn’t really matter in the end. There’s an eerie naturalness to the way they operate now—their limbs knowing what to do even before their minds catch up. It’s not unlike their clandestine slow dance in the Royal Gallery when their bodies moved in perfect synchronicity—driven by instinct rather than practice.

Well, at least for her—she can’t really speak for him.

“Like that?” Zelda asks.

“Yeah.” Link nods—his chin ghosts the shoulder pad of her coat. She can hear his smile in his voice. “Just like that.”

No, she thinks, her heart kicking. It’s not just me.

With the arrow aimed at the leftmost can, her posture as right as it can be, all that’s left to do is—

“Let go,” Link tells her. “Breathe in,” he says, inhales loudly so that she can hear, can feel— “then breathe out, and let go.”

Zelda does as she’s told. Takes in as much air as her lungs can, then exhales as she looses the arrow.

She hits the can dead in the center.

It flies backwards, the arrowhead piercing through the metal and taking it in its parabolic course before landing on the ground with a clatter.

Satisfaction quivers in her chest. It’s nothing compared to her archery skills from a decade ago when she could hit a target from this distance with ease, but her victories are few and far between these days, so she’ll count this as one.

She grins and tilts her head sideways to look at her teacher, to share that victory with him and thank him, but finds that his face is only two breaths away—his lips so fatally close, a smile unfurling across them.

“You did good,” Link says, still holding the weapon up. Her arms are getting quite sore from being raised for a while but his hands remain wrapped around hers, squeezing a little, and she’d be a damn fool to ask him to lower the bow now.

“You really think so?” she asks, her greens locked with his blues, luminous in the dawn.

“I do,” he replies, his sincerity so palpable, seeping through his teeth. “In no time you’re gonna outshoot me, I’m sure.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “Sure. I’m going to outshoot you, outshoot Revali, become the best archer there is in Hyrule and have my own signature bow,” she laughs, her utterance thick with sarcasm.

But Link merely shakes his head. “I’m serious. You’ll be better than all of us.”

Zelda almost tells him to stop, yet it only takes one extra pass over those sapphires of his to know they bear no lie (they never do,) that he is serious and that he’s not just talking about archery anymore.

It’s cosmically impossible that there’s a world where she’d be better than him, so she counters with:

“Link, I’d be perfectly happy to just be as good as you.”

It’s her dream, her truth. It’s the hymn her blood has been singing since before she ever laid her eyes on him, to follow in her lucky foremothers’ footsteps and create the most perfect equilibrium of Princess and Hero, Hero and Princess.

She suspects he can read it all in her face—that dream and a myriad others threatening to burst forth from her skin—but can’t find it within herself to care. She keeps her gaze open all the while she watches and welcomes his own—taking in the flare of his nostrils, his flushed lips as they open then close then open—

A distant yell punctures the atmosphere.

“Now who the hell is shootin’ arrows this way?! My property ain’t a shooting range!”

Their gazes break in favor of facing the voice—and finds the innkeeper with the deepest frown she’s ever seen as he stares at the garbage at his feet: a spent arrow through a metal can.

They stand frozen for one, two extra seconds, but the innkeeper simply turns his back and walks away, his muttered curses growing quieter as he returns to the front porch, and then it’s just her and Link again, the wailing in her heart and his quiet exhales louder than the songbirds that herald the sun.

Her lips tremble, itch as she watches his—chapped but Gods, she couldn’t care less, she can wet them herself, summon his blood to the surface and keep him warm, so warm, and something inside her body feels like the arrow she and Link just loosed—at the mercy of its wielder, ready to fly forward whenever it’s allowed to.

But it never does. Her wielder is her own brain—aching, tempestuous, keeping the rest of her in check, forever nocked and drawn back but forbidden to go anywhere else.

Link, fortunately, makes it just a tiny bit easier to ignore all of that; he lets go of her hands and takes the bow away as he withdraws himself from her.

“I think it’s time to leave,” Link says, his tone suddenly casual, his head bowed—blue eyes hiding behind tendrils of wheat. “It’s, ah, pretty light now.”

She nods and smiles—albeit bittersweetly—at him, at another truth illuminated:

That he must be exercising as much restraint as she does.

Akkala Citadel seems as dauntingly tall as it was when she first set foot on its grounds—a mere four-year-old with ribbons in her hair, trailing behind Father as Mother shook the hands of her soldiers—ever the humble monarch. That four-year-old wanted to climb up all the way up to the highest battlement, to see her motherland in its sprawling splendor and gather every hill and valley in her eyes.

But those ribbons are long gone now.

And that little girl has metamorphosed into something else—skin stretched to accommodate for bigger bones and organs, forming a yawning crater that must be filled with divinity. A glorified ornate shell—walking and breathing, but just that: a shell. Empty.

Soldiers move around and about, the metal plates of their standard armor glinting bright underneath the winter sun, the refraction stinging her eyes. Still, she keeps her head high and rides until she meets the end of the bridge where her former appointed knight awaits her.

Her mind swells with fragments of the past; her eyes swell with moisture.

Perhaps that girl with the ribbons in her hair is still extant.

Sir Reno greets her with a genuflection, his face strangely more weathered since Zelda last saw him outside of the Sacred Ground half a year ago, before her current knight swore his life to her in a shortened oath that still befuddles her until today.

She ignores the latter thought. Slides off Ares’ back and shakes her head as a reply to the kneeling Deputy Captain of Akkala Citadel.

“Sir Reno, please.” Zelda smiles, her hands curling at her sides, guilt crackling like static on her gloved fingers. “No need for such gestures—we’re old friends, you know.”

At that, Sir Reno rises to his feet. Though he’s upright once more, the genuflection lingers in the curve of his eyes—reverent, dutiful. It makes her want to look away because she doesn’t deserve such reverence, but she stays put, looks him in the eye. It’s the least she can do.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Sir Reno replies, his wan smile a little hesitant—a look not too novel to her; she’s seen that kind of hesitance on Link’s visage many times over. “It’s a pleasure to have you at the Citadel. We’ve prepared the royal chamber for you, and the adjacent chamber for Sir Link.”

She and Link follow the older man’s lead, crossing through the threshold and trading the cloudless winter sky for brick walls and vaulted ceilings and braziers hanging on rusted chains. Her steps rebound off surfaces, and she focuses on that rather than the low voices of the knights around her, speaking of the Sheikah’s impending visit to the Citadel to scout the area and eventually station a number of Guardians there.

Her lips curve a little by their own volition—a strange place between a smile and a grimace. She tells herself that it’s great news, that the excavated Guardians are finally being put to use, but alongside that satisfaction is inevitable bitterness, for her contribution is unacknowledged, omitted.

The royal chamber itself is exactly the same as how it used to be when she last visited it: the queen-sized bed stands by the windows, the study desk is set right across from it, and the painting of Tabantha wheat fields still adorns the wall above the fireplace. The only sign that it has been years since she’s been here is the varnish that has significantly yellowed upon the canvas.

The evident passage of time leaves a sour taste in her mouth, so she swallows, and hopes whatever unease that has bubbled up would follow along to return to her stomach. She watches as Link sets her pack on the ottoman by the bed, listens as Sir Reno asks her if he could borrow her knight for a few hours to give a refresher to the squires in swordsmanship. Link immediately refuses, but Zelda steps in.

“It’s alright, Link,” she tells him. His eyes meet hers—blues alight with worry. She replies with a reassuring smile. “You’re the best there is. All those boys could always learn something from you.”

“Thank you, Your Highness!” Sir Reno chimes. “My boys are hardworking and pretty talented, and I’m a fairly all right teacher myself, but you’re exceptional,” he continues, and Zelda can’t help but nod in agreement. “Not to worry, I will guard Her Highness in the meantime.”

Link’s eyes don’t leave her, his wheat brows still ever so slightly furrowed in concern, and the sight makes her heart twist.

His dedication to his duty—to her—has always been an exceptionality unto itself.

“It’s alright,” she repeats it to him, more softly this time. Her smile widens with a distinct warmth her body seems to reserve only for him. “It’ll be great for me to catch up with Sir Reno, too. And perhaps even visit some of the local shops.”

It takes a beat or two, but he finally relents, the subtle tension leaving his countenance. He inclines his head at her and asks Sir Reno the when and where of the training. As the knights discuss the logistics, she thinks of her own training this morning; thinks of how lucky she is to have received such a lesson from her gifted knight—a private lesson, at that. Thinks of his hand upon hers on the bow, his breath gusting her cheek—a fireside.

Thinks of how she can possibly thank him for that and for everything else he has done for her and her kingdom.

Well, she should’ve learned from the previous times she’s had such a thought: repaying Link is an impossible feat—unless she could harvest and distill every single thing that is good in this world and proffer it to his holy hands. But that is also impossible, so she resigns to wandering around Military Village, her eyes flitting about the few small shops that decorate the otherwise bare area. Sir Reno makes good on his promise to Link, faithfully following her slow steps, three paces behind.

She’d tell him that there’s no need for that, but if he were to fulfill her wish, he’d be breaking royal protocol on broad daylight on her account, so she quietly concedes. Resolves that she shouldn’t make his knights undermine his merit as Deputy Captain just to make her feel less princess and more girl.

Around her, knights bow their heads at the sight of the Goddess Descendant. Shopkeepers stare, whisper.

She ignores.

“Say, Sir Reno,” Zelda starts, “if you wanted to buy a birthday gift for a friend…” she gulps. “…What would you buy?”

Sir Reno lets out a thoughtful hum. “I think it would depend on said person, Your Highness,” he replies. “If it’s a colleague, like someone from the Citadel, I’d buy something utilitarian.”

“Utilitarian,” Zelda echoes. He’s definitely utilitarian, all right.

“But my dear wife told me that the rule of thumb is to give something the recipient won’t normally get for themselves.”

She remembers what Mother used to say, too—It’s about the gesture, not the value—but truly, what item could she possibly give him that would be an accurate encapsulation of what she feels, of what she badly wants to say? Thank you and I’m sorry and I lov—

She halts the small voice in her head from finishing that.