They see her at the window, looking out. Her face is stone, perfectly formed porcelain. Emotion is a mask on her face. Her blue eyes are ice, and she wears gloves to hide cold hands.
Or so they say.
She could never love a man, and who could love her, more statue than person? She is a title, a crown on limp hair, a frown on folded lips. Who is to say a heart even beats in her stony chest? No one dares go near enough to find out.
They call her an ice queen.
They forget she is not yet eighteen years old.
She is still a child, a child with the weight of an entire kingdom on her shoulders. A poor family bring their newly christened child to her feet, their lips trembling. Who lifts a hand and murmurs a blessing? A famine tears through the southern provinces. Who sends food to aid the hungry? The neighboring province of Ordon are crafting a sword as a gift to the Royal Family. Who will accept the gift? Not her mother, whom childbirth stole. Not her father, long since passed away.
Zelda stands at the window, hands folded before her, worry in her eyes and in the lines on her not-yet-eighteen face. She watches the townsfolk mill about in the square, and wonders how they can call her an ice queen when all she has ever done is care for them.
She cannot carry a mirror to meetings. She doesn't know what emotions pass over her face, if any. Her words are soft and measured. But they are wise. They are compassionate. She signs an edict that will benefit the people. They grumble in their homes. They do not love the princess that loves them.
So without the love of her people, the princess withers.
She does not leave the castle. Once, when she did, an unhappy peasant threw vegetables to display his dissent. Tomatoes would leave a mark no one could ignore. Her dress was stained irreparably, and the peasant was imprisoned, later hanged. She did not decree it. She put on a new dress and did not watch as the man's body swung from the rope. She was not informed until later of his death.
If she could, she would have run, stumbling, into the streets, her chest rent with sobs, to apologize, to make reparations. She would have done anything to take his place.
But she is a princess. Sobbing is not her station. She wears necklaces of jewels, not rope. So she did nothing, just watched from the window, and a bit of her heart broke.
No one loves the princess who never cries.
.
.
.
When the hero strode into town, heads turned immediately. He was handsome, and attractive in a way that the princess wasn't: he displayed his emotions freely. His face was like an open book, across which were written courage and joy and grief. His hat was ridiculous, like a windsock. His movements were clumsy, his manners atrocious.
Everyone loved him.
They overlooked the darkness in his eyes, the tired weight of his footsteps.
He knew what had happened the day twilight fell over the land. The princess had made an impossible decision to save her people. Zant had attacked, a merciless conqueror flanked by terrifying beasts. The throne room was in ruins. Zelda had gripped her rapier and clenched her jaw, but in the end there was only one decision that would save her beloved kingdom.
The rapier dropped to the floor. The kingdom was enshrouded in twilight, but the people went about their business as spirits, and they did not die. The princess put on a cloak and waited in a tower draped in shadow for a hero wearing a wolf's skin as his own, and she could only watch as her land bowed under the weight of a twilit curtain.
The hero remembers the blue of her eyes. The townspeople liken it to ice, call it cold and uncaring. The hero prefers to think of it as blue fire, kept in a bottle, capable of melting the coldest ice. It is the warmest flame, but its color deceives the eye.
But the eye is fickle indeed.
"You were imprisoned?" The princess had looked terribly sad when she noticed the shackle around his leg. "I am sorry," she said, with such gravity that it was as if she were apologizing for every mistake she had ever made. Her heart was heavy, but it was not the cold hunk of stone the people took it for. Instead, it flickered like flame in her chest. Her hands were warm beneath her gloves.
She saved his life and the life of the Princess of Twilight. She gave up her entire being so that they might live. A smile had passed over her lips then. The imp whose life she saved later told him that Zelda's soul was hot like fire and big enough to bear the pain of an entire kingdom, no, an entire world.
They call her an ice queen, cold-hearted, absent, vague. They think she is the worst princess the kingdom has ever had. No one loves her.
The hero wonders to himself how things would be different if they had reciprocated even the smallest portion of her love.
Perhaps the kingdom would have fought at her side. Perhaps the soldiers would not cower with bent, shaking knees, knowing the ferocious love of their princess would not let them fall. She was like a mother, a fearsome warrior, a lioness, a queen. But she was also just a girl. And she could not do it alone.
Only after evil had been chased out of her body did she return to it to fight at his side, to chase that evil out of her entire kingdom. Her bow was quick, her aim true, her heart burning with the desire to kill this man, this evil man, to take back the lives he had stolen. The hero fought for the Twilight Princess, whose crown had crumbled in the evil man's hands. They were one in their desire, in the love that fueled the fires of their determination. They fought not for themselves but for the ones they loved.
And they had won.
The hero looks at her. He is a boy wrapped in a green cloak, and blood stains his face. She is a girl with the weight of a world on her shoulders, and still she smiles against the yoke. It is a small smile. It is also a large burden to bear.
The people call her cold, distant, uncaring.
But she is perhaps the only one who cares. And she cares enough for all of them.
When the Twilight Princess is gone and the hero is in a crumpled heap at the base of a broken mirror, Zelda puts a hand on his shoulder, and it is warm beneath the glove. Her heart beats against his shoulder, and her eyes are like blue fire, lighting the hearth of his heart, where broken glass and ash mingle.
She stands at her window, looking out at a world that will never love her.
He stands at his window, looking in at the remains of the hero the people loved too easily.
Her eyes are blue fire.
His are pools of water, deep and sorrowful and dappled with shadow.
Her fire keeps the ice from hardening his heart. He takes her hand and leads her out into the sunlight. The people look at them, and think maybe they're in love.
They are wrong.
She loves her people. He loves a heart that beats in a world beyond a shattered mirror, where no light shines and where he cannot follow.
But he takes Zelda's hand and raises it high, and the people cheer.
After the war, they call her the sunlight queen.
After the war, they look for the hero. But he is nowhere to be found.
Later he is lost in shadow, and the people forget him easily enough when a new hero rises to take his place.
They call her the sunlight queen. He is the hero lost in shadow.
And they are not in love.
.
.
.
A/N: Elsa is an ice queen. Zelda is not. Zelda is all the warmth of the sun and more.
I always hate it when people give TP Zelda the short end of the stick just because her presence in the game is limited. The game is called Twilight Princess. It is Midna's game, really. Zelda did what she had to in order to ensure the safety of the hero and his imp. Gave up her soul so that they might live. She is selfless and wise. How can you call her cold?
Dedicated to a certain someone who noted a lack of Zelda-centric 'fics. Here's one for you.
.
Reviews are much appreciated. Still, I understand my opinion may be uncommon, controversial perhaps. You may disagree with me. If so, you are not required to review. Act not in anger. Think about what you are going to say. And remember your flames are as nothing compared to the blue fire of Zelda's eyes.
.
Cordially,
godtierGrammarian