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It starts with a sneeze.
Zelda is measuring the convex angle of the Guardian laid before her and comparing it to the data she’s already collected when she hears it, soft and distinctive as Link clears his throat. She looks up to see if anyone else heard it but shrugs away her concern and returns to her ledger.
Another sniffle leaves her Knight as she lubricates a gear.
Without lifting her eye from her where her quill wets the page she asks that Link bring in some tea for her, she equally requests he joins her so it doesn't go to waste. Link steps out and brings her a large cup of tea sweetened beyond recognition, his own only has a cloud of cream. He conspicuously leaves the cup near her notebook and quills for her to discover and returns to the side without another word. She doesn’t leave the lab until her cheeks are thoroughly smeared in grease and her arms are exhausted from holding up the various guardian gears. The Princess frowns when her companion's cup has chilled next to her own.
As the afternoon light stretches in the window of her study, the door creaks open. She is greeted with a warm plate of stew. He doesn’t linger, but his fingers gently nudge the bowl of food into her line of sight. It’s with concerted effort that she doesn’t act like some blushing maiden from the kind gesture. They part to little fanfare. He smothers another cough into his inner shoulder sounding hoarse. She contemplates the softened celery floating among the gravy-like stock thoughtfully.
“I’m not terribly hungry, would you like some?” Her knight shuffles his hair avoiding her gaze. “It’s really okay,” her hand sliding the bowl further from her. It is only after much time, and significant cooling that a tentative hand reaches over for the porcelain lip. Through the veil of her bangs she watches curiously as he drinks. His skin retains its pallid color. Politely his hands sign thank you as he returns to his place by the door, bowl in hand, face still indifferent. It is only in the soft clearing of his throat that she becomes brave enough to catch his eyes. They are weary. They find hers and dart away.
Zelda hardly hears the sniffles that follow while she is reading in the library alcove under soft candle light. It’s followed by a rasping sigh and her eyebrow quirks up to observe her knight. He stands as still as ever, eyes trained around the room unaware of her observations. She should just go back to her reading regarding silent mushrooms' divergent evolutionary history in comparison to Silent Princesses and Blue Nightshades. Afterall any direction by her seems to be ignored regardless of her feelings on the matter. Her knight shivers as she considers him, and a plan formulates on the tip of her tongue.
“Sir Link, I’m afraid that it’s quite drafty here, it would suit me better if we were to continue this in my room, would that be possible?” She asks as though his answer is significant. There's a long stare. Heavy-limbed he collects her tomes and awaits her initial steps. She doesn't realize how red-rimmed his eyes are until she stands, herself. “I can take those,” she offers.
As always he remains rigid, always three paces away. It benefits her then as they travel the halls. He does not hear when she leans to her handmaiden asking for cool safflina tea. Equally, the hand maid then does not see as the Princess drags her Knight behind her closed door. Perhaps were he well he would stand stock eyed ready to protest. But today he weakly sets the books on the desk and awaits her next order.
It never comes.
“You are unwell,” Zelda attempts to comment breezily. Her voice instead is pinched with transparent anxiety. A dull pink comes over him so unlike his typical tone. “I implore you to take the rest of the night to yourself, if not this week,” his hands lift to begin signing a refusal, “but I know you would refuse me. So please. Sit.” She gestures politely to the bed making sure to keep her movements collected and slow.
Behind watery eyes is a stubbornness she has only ever seen in herself. Another coughing fit is buried in his crossed arms but still he stands, if not a bit wobbly. There’s a split second where she prepares to reply nastily that he is most likely contagious and shouldn’t be spreading his germs about. But his breath is shallow and his stance is weak, and the eyes that are usually so mirror glazed, dull under warm light. She tempers her frustration if only in consideration that he is truly sick.
“If it is my safety you worry about, then I will send for another guard. There is no need for you to remain if you do not feel well,” he blinks back at her as though the words are draped in layered meaning. It is after much thought that his hands raise into curated movement. The Princess’s knowledge of Hylian sign is rudimentary. It leaves her knight to reply bluntly.
‘Yiga. Not safe.’ Zelda finds herself lost in the undertow of her observations. The movement of his hands is as assured as when they wield that cursed blade. But it is in their gentle curve and elongation that she finds herself drawn in. They are beautiful. He is beautiful. It had once been something she only admitted to the pages of her diary in anger. It is strange than she thinks about it openly. Zelda swallows her awe.
“I appreciate your concern,” Zelda feels the ribbon of her thoughts slipping through her fingers as his eyes burrow into her own. His intensity makes her mouth struggle to sound. “But the castle is safe,” she announces finally. His eyes remain trained on her own and she sees it once again, the way their careful pools had reflected her so clearly under the suffocating Gerudo sun. Her youth only feels so obvious in her knight’s stare. Zelda attempts to envision herself as Urbosa to steel her nerves. “If you insist on standing on duty till your replacement comes, then sit.” The chord of his throat jumps and Zelda should not be aware of the motion.
Carefully he lays that scared blade beside him as he sinks into her bed’s mattress. Perhaps it is the adrenaline pumping in her veins or the weary expression he wears, but for a moment Zelda imagines laying next to him and whispering her worries into his ear. Imagines him, laying back arms crossed behind his head listening with a humoring smile. Would his eyes reflect her then? Careful to avoid his guarded gaze, she sits and continues her reading. His posture remains stiff, but his eyes flicker with exhaustion. Another sniffle leads her to politely hand him her handkerchief.
Their fingers graze for a microscopic second. The touch radiates a heat to her heels. a fire ablaze through her face to her ears. She can only stare helplessly where their fingers graze. No one has ever touched her bare fingers before and certainly never a boy. Perhaps it really does burn for his own hand flinches away.
“Sorry,” Zelda whispers. Panic oozes from his gaze instead and he signs it back in kind. Another pulse blooms from the sight and steals what breath she had parsed out for herself. A rattled breath leaves him as if replying to her own. Its quiver unhinges something in her. But her mind that never rests supplies thought before instinct. “Are you running a temperature?”
Her knight stares back and it's the most off-kiltered he's ever looked. Hair stuck to his forehead in matted patches. Dark bags that bruise beneath glassy eyes overtaken by a muffled cough. It is at this moment another horrible thought occurs. One to rival her admittance to his beauty.
How very fallible he is.
No longer stone perfection or unbending steel. Hylian, like her with flesh that creases and folds, and heart that thrums, and with cheeks that flush. With corpus that becomes ill or injured. Flush?
Sure enough his cheeks and ears were warm safflina pink as his throat clenched in uneasy motion. Were he not her knight she might think he was nervous. Without thought her hand rises and sweeps through the space between them. She should stop herself, she thinks as his eyes widened at her approach.That does little to silence her wild impulses. For a moment she imagines how it might feel to run her fingers through the field of wheat he called hair. Wonders after the soft bow of his lip. It was wholly sudden when her palm makes contact with his forehead. In his exhaustion or maybe her own she feels him lean into the touch. There was only one sensation in the world then as her fingers wove carefully between his bangs.
Warm.
It was the only observation she had time to make before the knock on her door alerted the pair into action. Standing suddenly too close the pair broke away, her knight to stand by her desk, the girl making her way to answer the door. The Princess’s handmaiden then was none the wiser as Zelda presented herself tidily at the door, albeit jarring only barely open, taking the warm cup in hand.
The sound of the woman's steps echoing away along the hall finally broke the silent tension that had unknowingly blown through. “The tea is for you, it will help your symptoms. And the fever,” her breath shuddered on the word. It was a fever. There was no other possible explanation for such flushed cheeks and dilated eyes and well of course it was a fever he was sick after all. Unhelpfully, her scientific mind supplied that dilated pupils and flushed cheeks could be symptoms of other things.
The Link of her bed had returned to Sir Link, wielder of the sword to vanquish the darkness. Without much more to say he gave her a curt nod and began to leave. The girl returned to being a Princess and sat before her desk. Her quill left a smear where it had rested on her pages and she considered it with a crinkled nose.
“Thank you Princess,” a hoarse voice said. She was standing before she could think better of it. You talked to me; she wished to exclaim. But the words didn't come. Instead she watched as her door latched closed. In the silence, her hand still warmed by his forehead, clutched to the small of her chest. Her heart is practically in her throat. The feeling is so clear it aches.
It's the stomach bug he has. Probably.
◇◇◇
That had been three days ago.
Her guardian project was turning its spokes in clay mud. Zelda's teas were bitter and she had forgotten to break for food or water until she stood with weak legs. Her library visits were brief, the ambient noise deafening, her prayers especially tedious with four guards in tow. All these things were frustrating.
Yet that was not what left her brushing her hair absentmindedly in the evn8ng light. Not the thing that made her stare at her fingers calloused from small tools. No, her attention was purely reserved for the warmth that continued to infect her palm. The same warmth that ran to her cheeks when his voice rang through her ears again in the echo of her stone bedroom.
After the fourth day of nameless guards, talkative companions, and broken quill tips Zelda found herself asking after him. The verdict: contagious, he was to be left alone.
Zelda instead found herself standing for an indeterminate amount of time before his door with several elixirs clinking together in her rucksack. It was a terrible idea. Her guards must be panicked looking for her through castle town. Her father furious she missed her prayers. It still didn't stop her from knocking. She was prepared to leave when the door creaked open.
Zelda only meant to leave the medicine behind. She didn't mean to pry.
His room was simple. A soldier's through and through. The evidence of a cold stained the room. Rumpled bed sheets, a bucket suspiciously close to the bed, and half eaten bowl of what Zelda could only assume was barack porridge. It wasn't her place then to linger. Yet she could not step away
Not when along his white washed walls were sketches of places she knew well; mountains, deserts, rivers, valleys. All places they traversed in their journeys to the Divine Beasts. Rendered in charcoal their journeys came to life. Zelda only regretted having left the Sheikah slate to capture the drawings before her. Some were quick outlines, others detailed in shading and subject. All were faithfully stunning.
Only one made her eyes stop.
The Ancient Columns laid before her. But more than that, so too did its shrine complete with a rough sketch of a woman. The hand which had felt permanently warm ran icy as guilt traveled up her throat.
It had been a taxing day. Revali, although kinder to her, often left her self conscious, and on that day more so. Her nerves had been frayed from prayers before a mute statue in harsh winds and her newly appointed guard seemingly gawked at her every failure.
Zelda had only meant to be away for an hour. To release the tension that built in her jaw, the tears that threatened to streak down her face, and enjoy what she did best. Her frustration with the sheikah shrine was stirring when he had finally come up on her. She expected him of course. It was his duty to be her shadow. Eventually she knew he would come for it was his duty. Just as it was her duty to perform to her father's expectation, Hyrules's expectation.
Alone, hurt, and angry she had lashed out. Watched as he became flustered and withdrew. She had been furious. Doubly so when her heart clenched and she tossed and turned in her Rito bed with regret. Yet still she could not admit her wrong. Still she was too proud.
Zelda had lost track of time when the door to the room swung open. Caught she attempted to hide her face as though her gown and hair were not immediate giveaways to her identity. When no further sound came, she felt foolish. Of course Link would come back eventually. With a deep breath she turned to greet him.
Wet hair clung to his face as too did his sleep wear. It was logical. He must have gone to bathe and hence the wet clothes and hair. Her eyes drank it in as though it were a frivolity she was deprived of. Unwell still, his impassivity slipped to make way for shock. Her excuses began to roll off her tongue.
“I brought medicine and the door was open so I came in to leave it but I heard a sound and I was just leaving! I touched nothing!” a wild blush overtook her now and it was her turn to look shocked at her babbling.
Link continued to stand rigid at the door as though closing it was a crime. She supposed considering the circumstances perhaps it could be. Zelda didn't let the thought bother her too much. “So I'll be going,
soon. Well I should tell you what these do. I didn't make them! I purchased these, so…they do work of course,” inarticulate had never been something she was plagued with. His hands rose unmoving as though the words were hard to come by. Slowly one moved to his chin.
‘Thank you. Sorry. Room.-” his hands stilled and he contemplated. Finally he merely gestured to the small space and frowned with a shake of his head.
A laugh broke the anxiety.
“It's quite alright, expected even,” a part of her that yearned to connect wished to offer to stay and reorder his few possessions. She looked instead to his private gallery. “These drawings are very good. You have a skill, truly, these would rival our appointed scenographer,” her voice unstabilized over the compliment. Zelda's nerves got the better of her as she began to unload elixir after elixir. Each brought its own dosage and explanation. Yet still he stood frozen by the door. When finally no more corks brushed her fingers she decided she should leave.
She imagined a different Zelda, the one who unlocked her powers with great flourish would turn to her knight with a smile and shyly retreat. Perhaps again his voice would ring into her ears to treasure. An even less great one would merely storm out of the room. The one in this room now with her sniffling knight did neither.
“You should dry your hair or you'll get worse,” Zelda commanded. Her voice held more strength than she meant. His eyes darted away and he nodded. The thought of running a warm towel through his golden locks drove her mouth to foolishness. “You had never spoken to me before yesterday,” Zelda's hands fly to her mouth as she stumbles away as if he pursues her. Her calves hit the edge of the bed she impromptu sits upon as her knight strikes into action. His hand is extended to catch her as she stares up at him in an unfamiliar change of height. Quickly he pulls away into a coughing fit.
“I should leave, I'm sorry, I just…what a foolish thing to say, excuse me,” Zelda is clamping her marked hand. The very hand that had once so gently laid on the man before her, who for a moment had been close enough to touch.
“Don't, don't, don't leave,” Link gasps. The spinning wheel of fabrication stops in Zelda. Oh, her knight stutters. A million feelings bloom in the place where speculation had laid tucked beneath her ribs. Her hand is closing the door before she can think of propriety and onlookers. His posture folds in on itself and she realizes all too quickly how very alone they are. On so alone as they were at the Ancient Columns.
His hands break the staring contest in their quick movement as he articulates thought. She finds herself embarrassed again at her rudimentary understanding of his language, of him really. But in the fluid movements she catches a general picture, one that is unfortunately familiar. Her ever dedicated knight chose a vow of silence. A hero, observed by all, carried the burden of expectation. A boy who stutters does not then uphold such expectations. His hands fall limp to his sides. He is only a year older than her. Yet he is already so tired. It is not his cold alone that drags his limbs.
There are better people than Zelda to discuss such fears; ones who held hope in destiny and the Goddess. Zelda contemplates her next words carefully.
‘I like you. Talk good Talk Bad. Same. I like you talk,” Zelda is slow and deliberate with her hands. Fluidity is lost on her stumbled movements. In a strange turn of events he covers his mouth and his eyes alight like a star. Then there is an inking of a sound. The Princess realizes he laughs. It should embarrass her that he laughs at her attempt at communication. But his eyes contain stars.
Carefully he lifts his hands. He gestures. “That’s like,” he repeats the movement she made during her attempt and taps his heart. “That's love-love,” his ruddy nose nearly glows red as the words leave his mouth. Zelda privately screams and curses her tutors and textbooks. She nods amicably. Still she is seated on his bed as he hovers over her. She's on her feet to right the far too pleasant wrong.
She takes a last look at the Ancient Columns haunting his wall. “Link, I'm sorry. For yelling at you, for being unkind, more than once. It was undeserved and unfair. I'd like it if we could try again. To spend some time with you and get to know each other better, I hope that's okay,” her heartbeat felt strongest in her hand as it warms to unimaginable heat again. It is in the forge of the moment that her knight surprises her. With a smile and nod he lifts his hands.
‘Yes sorry yes. I love you talk with me,’ he sniffs and shyly catches her gaze again.
“Thank you,” with a deep breath and an escaping heart she begins to leave. Her voice catches on the door jam. “Did you mean love?” Zelda turns to watch her knight. The once stone face of him melts into flesh as he smirks back at her.
‘Good evening Princess, thank you for medicine,’ a soft hiss of a laugh passing his lightly tinted lips. His good manners have him kneeling before her, her upbringing has her lift her knuckles to him. The brush of his lips is electric and wholly unexpected, unnecessary. Diplomacy taught her merely to smile and nod. The door closes just in time for her to dart away.
Through twists of turrets and breezes of halls she swiftly navigates. Zelda tosses the doors to her room open flying past her guards slamming it into their inquisitive mouths. She latches it and lays upon her bed. Above her is a canopy of embroidered silk and tangles of tassels. Her warm hand lifts to her heart, but still it is not close enough.
The hand lays against her cheek. Link’s, she imagines are calloused. She wonders then if friends imagine their other friend's hand baptized in charcoal dust as her hand intwines stained inky black. In her daze of fantasy she lifts her knuckles to her own lips. The chance there is a trace of him still leaves her mind numb to heartache.
It is the late hour of the night when only a moonbeam keeps her company that she can diagnose the flighty symptoms that leave her heart racing.
A crush.
◇◇◇
The Princess only awakens to the tintinnabulation of her tea cups as Link sets them down. For a week she has remained sick in bed, her only company books and her knight. Stew satisfies her for meals so long as the celery is picked out. She only stirs now as he retrieves her current reading from where she let it fall from her hands. Link reminds himself to ask if he may borrow her copy of ‘Living Life in Charcoal’. He imagines he is her most recent research subject.
Her breathing has finally cleared as she sleeps heavily tucked beneath comforters. The blankets twist about her form uncovering her shoulders. His forehead burns at the sight of light freckles lining her arm. Stealthy he rights them.
Her eyelashes are fluttering when Link finds himself staring too long. His chest feels lighter as he breathes in. No longer clogged in mucus, no longer weighed down by uncertainty. There is however a new painful strum of misplaced affection. Friends she had agreed when he returned to his post, well-rested and hopeful. Friends he had signed back knowing a sketch book laid beneath his mattress filled with sketches of the Princess before him.
Carefully Link withdrew from the room blowing out the leaning candle that threatens to drip on her notes. Careful to reset her quills in their ink wells and her papers into their organized mess. He turns once more to observe her. Her breathing has leveled out and she no longer gasps for every breath.
He lingers a moment longer to consider her cocooned form as it depresses under a sleepy sigh. Beautiful, Link’s mind supplies.
Crushes wane the young knight assures himself.