Well this is old, but I just now remembered I had it. The idea came from a prompt I found on Pinterest: "My mind has the scary capability of being dark and demented.
Disclaimer: I do not own Zelda or the prompt.
With a gasp, the princess flings herself up, breathing hard and pushing back her hair from her face. Her heart pounds fitfully while she struggles to bring herself back to reality—this is her room, in her castle, where she is herself—but no matter how hard she tries, she can't shake off the feeling of panic. Taking a deep breath, she rises from her bed, knowing tonight will not be a night for sleep, and goes to stand at her window.
Nighttime settles over Hyrule with an odd, fragile tranquility. Creatures roam the fields at night, and karagoks come out of their half-nocturnal state to scout the night sky, scouring the land below for an unfortunate traveler. In the night, one can hear every sound in the stillness as the lands blessed by the goddesses sleep: the crickets in the front courtyard, keese screeching around the trees, the fountain in the middle of the town babbling quietly to itself.
Night is eerie in Hyrule, the princess thinks from her perch at the window. The moon coats the land in a cool white light, too different from their golden sun; different, and yet the same. Its white light gives way to shadows that one would never see in the day. Eerie and beautiful.
By now her mind has woken from its slumber and frantic half-thoughts and is fully racing to form complete ideas, and she resigns herself to a midnight walk, slipping easily past most guards and breezing confidently by others. It's probably general knowledge among the staff that the princess has a routine of late-night strolls.
Not that any of them blame her.
When she trades cool stone for the soft tickling of grass beneath her feet, she wonders how she could have been so foolish as to forget shoes, only to remember that they never stay on her feet anyways.
She takes a deep breath of the crisp air. It's comforting and lucid, and she can't get enough of it. Oh, to be out of her dismal castle, how wonderful it must be to traverse the traverse the beautiful lands which she rules but does not know.
From outside the walls, a karagok cries, and she turns her attention to it in the distance, admiring the way it floats through the air.
Squishing her toes in the ground, she rounds the corner of the castle and enters the back courtyard. Shadows make the statues and hedges long and lean, and they cause her to shudder as she looks around as if someone could jump out at any moment.
No one jumps out, however, but she does notice a lone figure perched on the lip of the fountain, peering up at the stars as if willing them to take him away. She doesn't blame him. She's quiet, as always, and it allows her to get a good look at him, a genuine one, something she hasn't been able to do before, and this thought surprises her and makes her look more carefully.
His face is strong, and kind, and very wonderful, she thinks, scolding herself after. He has a hard gaze, not scalding, but intelligent and perfectly discerning. Even though he'd been provided new clothes by the castle, he's still clad in his green, which seems oddly comforting though it had seen better days. But she supposes he has as well.
"You should not wander the grounds alone at night," she says, and he doesn't startle. Perhaps he had actually noticed but hadn't cared to acknowledge her.
"Are you one of those people who never follows their own advice?"
She likes this answer, as no one else would be so bold as to say it, and she perks up. "Perhaps I was coming for a visit."
He smikes. Or rather, he smirks. "You didn't know I was here."
"Very cynical, I see." Her face remains as stoic as always.
Now his smirk turns into a smile. "My apologies, princess."
"Don't mind me," she answers, taking a seat next to him. "Zelda."
"Princess Zelda," he corrects, but not without a teasing glint in his eye and a sarcastic shake of the head.
"No, no. Zelda." She offers something akin to a smile. "We have been through enough that I think formalities have passed."
She almost regrets saying it, watching the playful expression disappear off his face, instead being replaced by a trying-to-be-hidden pain. He tries to smile, struggling with it and failing miserably, until it ends up being nothing more than a snarl. "We have."
He waits a moment, inspecting her carefully, and she feels the sudden need to cover herself. "I forget the part you played sometimes."
"I can understand why."
She should feel some sort of indignation at his words. How could he forget the part she played, what she went through? He wasn't the one trapped in the castle, having to surrender it to save them. He doesn't understand that their hearts were one. That she bears the burdens of two.
Then again, she doesn't know what he went through, what toll the countless days fighting and surviving took on him. She wants to be upset, but she isn't. He bore the burdens of the world.
"You never told me what you were doing out here," she says, attempting to change the subject and lighten their mood; sadness doesn't suit his features.
Thankfully he seemingly perks up. "Well, you never did ask."
The traces of a smile flit across her beautiful stoic face, and if she isn't mistaken, he grins even more. "Why are you alone on my fountain, Link?"
He shrugs, and he slinks back into himself. "I couldn't sleep."
"I apologize. Perhaps we could move you to a different room, or—"
"No, it's not that. I don't sleep." He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. "My mind has the scary capability of being dark and demented."
Suddenly he isn't the airy boy he makes himself out to be. His eyes are hard, shockingly blue, and his face is determined. He's strong and heavy-hearted, and he isn't a boy at all really. Now she notices the way his skin stretches gauntly over his cheeks. Suppressing the urge to run her thumb across the bags under her eyes, her smile disappears. "You're afraid to sleep?"
Then, so quietly she wouldn't know had she not been able to read his lips: "Yes."
"So am I."
She doesn't know where the burst of honesty comes from, but she doesn't regret it. He cocks his head and studies her with such icy, discerning eyes that she feels terribly naked.
It's taken months for her to feel something other than regret and uneasiness, and the relief at finally realizing she has an ally fills her like a flood. They did not endure the same trials, but they suffered at the hands of the same evil, and that's enough. It'll have to be.
Somewhere in his mind he must realize the same things, that this is as close as he's going to get to someone who understood, for his face softens, and he lets the pain show. "We've met with a terrible fate," he says, just loud enough that she can hear.
"We have." But at least I've been given you.
The mark on his hand has faded greatly, so much that only the one on the bottom-right is really visible. She looks to her own, equally faded, though she can't decide how she feels about it. But she covers his with her own, offering what little comfort she has. He meets her eye; his are so familiar, it seems, so familiar yet frustrating because she knows she's seen them but just can't place where, but it's oddly consoling, knowing that this isn't the beginning, nor the end. Not really.