I think this story requires a bit of explanation. As you may or may not know, Zelda is named after F. Scott Fitzgerald's wife. Their marriage started out happily enough; unfortunately, she was diagnosed with schizophrenia. This led to a strange train of thought. I wanted to write a story about Link and Zelda sort-of based off of the Fitzgeralds. Zelda, in this story, has schizophrenia. I did some research on the disease so as to make the story more realistic. I hope it appears I've done my homework. Also, Link has a bit of a drinking problem, just as F. Scott became an alcoholic. It's in Link's POV, by the way. I've also put a few references from Ocarina of Time in here, even though it is an AU. Enjoy (and please review)!
Disclaimer: I own nothing of The Legend of Zelda series.
Listen
"Are you feeling okay?" I ask gently, noticing her distant look.
"Are you listening?" she counters, not seeming to have heard my question. Her hand stills on the page of the book, and I think she forgot she was ever reading its words.
"To what?" I am confused, as I hear nothing.
"You should listen to her, listen to her, listen to her, listen to her, listen to her…," she repeats, over and over, like a broken record.
"There's no one here except me," I say firmly, trying to draw her back into my world even though I know she has long since gone.
"She wants you to listen to her. You never listen to her, and she bothers me about it," she pushes forward, refusing to let go. She doesn't look at me; it's been forever since I've seen her, anyway, and not her disease.
"What do you want for dinner?" I ask calmly, attempting to force our past reality into her foreign mind, pushing this current topic away.
She pauses and thinks for a long while, eventually spouting in a rush, "Well, I don't really understand why we eat so late anyway. Some times are better to eat, because at certain times digestion can interfere with your sleep or cause you to have nightmares. I try not to eat after eight at all, because it bothers me when I sleep," she finishes, not seeming to realize she's not answered the question at all.
"What do you want for dinner?" I repeat, my tired mind beginning to grow frustrated.
She sits still, corpse-like, until I clear my throat in an attempt to draw her back. "Quiet," she says, "I'm trying to speak," only to fall back into the silence of the grave.
An illogical force commandeers my body in rush of violence, and I stride over to her, lifting her up and roughly shaking her by the shoulders, "Then speak to me for once! Stop pretending like this all the time! Stop running me through these stupid games all the time and just WAKE UP!" I roar at her, squeezing her shoulders tightly and forcing her to look in my eyes.
Those beautiful, lost eyes shimmer with tears as she stares at me, truly speechless. Disgusted with myself, I gently set her down. As soon as her feet hit the carpet, she rips her shoulders from my hands, clutching her arms around her protectively. Impossibly, my heart breaks even more as I watch her, and I clench my hands, hands that had harmed her.
"I…I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—" I begin remorsefully, only to be cut off by her shaky voice.
"No. Don't. I won't—" She stops, mid-thought, and picks up the book that must have fallen from her lap when I picked her up. She slowly sits back down on the couch, turns to a dog-eared page, and reads a page I know she has read a thousand times before. She is lost to me now, fallen into her own little world, and I know there will be no extracting her from it for hours.
I watch her silently for a few minutes, and life almost seems normal. Her golden hair falls over her shoulders, framing her beautiful face. Her eyes, those wondrous ocean eyes, flit over the words silently. For a moment, it is easy to pretend we are young and untainted, still reveling in each other. I pretend she is healthy again, and she is only reading this book, this page, yet again because it is her favorite.
Dreams never last long in reality, though, and I take my own advice to stop pretending. I grab my coat from the back of the kitchen chair and sling my arms through it; I watch her wistfully as I slowly button it closed. Part of me wrestles with leaving her alone here, but I feel like I don't even deserve to be near her right now. I rummage around in my left pocket for my car keys and bring them out from a plethora of loose change. I pause and, after some thought, toss the keys onto the kitchen table. I shouldn't be driving tonight; I intend on getting as drunk as possible.
"Link? Link, are you okay?" she asks playfully, her lips quirking upward into an amused smile.
I blink my eyes, thrown by how such a beautiful creature could possible become even more beautiful with a simple smile. I was listening to her, I really was; I was just also struck mute by seeing my best friend in a dress for the first time. She isn't really a tomboy, or anything, but I've never seen her dressed up before. She has a very natural beauty that I assume a lot of girls must envy. She can roll out of bed, brush her hair and teeth, throw on jeans and a shirt and still manage to blow away those girls who spend an hour getting ready. I've always known she was beautiful, even before I started to like her, but I never realized how drop-dead gorgeous she would be if she decided to make herself up.
"I'm fine, I just spaced out for a minute," I answer, and she shakes her head, laughing.
This is the absolute worst thing that could have happened. Now that she's shown the true level of her beauty in public, no end of slavering boys will be chasing after her. That itself is somewhat of a problem, but my real issue is they won't care she's one of the most intelligent girls I've ever met, or how much wit glints in those blue eyes, or how when she thinks something's funny she lets loose a gut-busting laugh and crinkles her nose, or how she loves springtime only because it gives her more chances to run out into the rain like she loves to. No, they'll only see the exquisite beauty in her tempting, midnight-blue dress.
Over her shoulder, I see a boy being pushed by his fellows in our direction. Or, rather, her direction. He hesitates, takes one look back at his friends, straightens his tie arrogantly, and begins to swagger her way.
"Dance with me?" I blurt out clumsily to her, haste having stolen any eloquence I might have had. She blinks at me, startled, her water glass halfway to her lips; gloriously, a smile effloresces behind the crystal, and she sets it down.
"I'd be delighted," she says, rising from her seat, and her smile seems to suggest a genuine quality to that delight.
We dance to song after song, and I carefully waltz us away from any boys seeking to cut in. I don't know whether Zelda has noticed this calculated maneuvering or not, but she really seems to be concentrating on avoiding my feet more than anything else. Beauty she may be, but she's not the most graceful person in the world. I don't claim to be a great dancer either, so I guess we might look awkward from the outside. I don't feel awkward at all, though. I'm nervous as hell, but I try to just enjoy being with her.
Unfortunately, the bliss of dancing with Zelda starts to become interrupted by the pinch of my tired feet. As Zelda's heels look extremely uncomfortable, I can only imagine how her feet must feel in comparison. Although I hate to let her go, I ask, "Do you want to rest for a while?"
"Sure," she says, smiling, and we walk back to our table. She sits down and immediately kicks her heels off, wiggling her toes once they're free. I almost try to start a conversation, but I notice her tapping her fingers softly on the table; she wants to say something.
"So," she begins somewhat hesitantly, which alerts me from the start; Zelda is rarely hesitant. "Did it work?"
I'm not sure what she's talking about, or why she's avoiding my gaze. Dread starts to sink in my stomach, and I wonder if she only danced with me in an attempt to make another guy jealous. There are enough of them staring at her; she could just take her pick. Cautiously, I ask, "Did what work?"
"The dress," she explains, finally meeting my eyes. "Did it work?"
Still at a loss, I say, "I'm still not following you."
She pauses for a moment and then says, "Let me rephrase it, then." She leans forward, close enough so I can smell traces of hairspray, and kisses me softly, squarely on the mouth. "Did I finally get your attention, Link?" she queries against my lips, her ocean eyes trapping me at the same time.
"You've always had my attention, Zelda," I reply, and it is purely the truth. "I just always thought you'd be too smart to feel the same."
She laughs teasingly, saying, "And what about you? Are you brave enough to date a Congressman's daughter?"
I just smile and kiss her, reveling in my newfound honor to do so whenever I like.
I slam down an empty mug for the fifth time tonight, praying for the cold liquid to numb my senses. The buzz of intoxicated chatter surrounds me, and a crowd roars in time with a football game being shown on TV. The atmosphere and the alcohol helps drive thoughts of Zelda away, but I'm still too sober for my liking. I signal the barkeep, hand over money, and watch dispassionately as he fills it to the brim once again.
Just as I raise the beer to my mouth, a laughing, ruddy-faced man plops down in the seat next to me. "Hey, buddy!" he hails me, seeming to be under the impression that I'm in the mood for amiable banter. "Why the long face?" He claps a hand against my back.
I stare at his carefree face for a long moment before saying, "My wife is dead."
He stares at me, dumbfounded, and then bursts into raucous laughter, "Good one, good one! But it would a better joke if you'd said "My wife is still alive," huh, huh?" He chuckles at his own joke, flashing his wedding ring at me, and swigs down a swallow of beer. "Always naggin' and carryin' on about things that don't matter, am I right?" He watches me gleefully, expecting me to take part in the laughter.
I turn away from him and take a slow drink of beer. Glancing at him from the corner of my eye, I say, "I guess you didn't hear me correctly. I wasn't joking." My tone seems to finally convince him. With bitter satisfaction, I watch his smile drop as he slips away awkwardly. I down the rest of my beer and think back to the statement that had driven him off. My primary intention had been to rid myself of his obnoxious presence, true, but a part of me hadn't been lying. I married Zelda, the intelligent, beautiful, joyful, wonderful woman I fell in love with years and years ago; there is little of her left now that hasn't been taken over by the disease. I love my wife, I truly do, but I love and mourn her now as one of the dead.
The thought is sobering, and I drown myself further in alcohol.
"Marry me, Zelda...Will you marry me, Zelda Harkinian...Marry me...Please marry me?...Goddesses!" I growl, frustrated, and flop down onto my bed, defeated. It should not be this hard to ask a girl one question; I imagine the difficulty I'm facing right now probably defies the laws of nature and science. Then again, I guess when the girl you're trying to propose to is an extremely confident and brilliant woman who could have any man she wanted, it's no wonder the pressure is increased to an impossible level. I toss the small box back and forth between my hands, trying somehow to expel my nervousness with physical activity. I run through a thousand different ways to phrase the same question, and nothing seems to match her; she should have her name written in the stars, as far as I'm concerned.
I glance at my watch and feel a part of me sinking. It's fifteen until seven. As I slip the little box into my inside jacket pocket, I decide not to ask her tonight. There will be other times, and maybe I'll be able to come up with something suitable by then.
I walk up to her condo, feeling more confident now that my impending proposal has been delayed. The warm spring air adds to my feeling of well-being, and I feel perfectly normal when I knock gently on her door. Seconds later, Zelda answers the door, still managing to look breathtaking in a pair of dark jeans and a green shirt. She flips the lights off and locks and shuts the door behind her.
We walk hand-in-hand to a seaside café, Zora's Domain. It's not the most expensive or "high-class" place to eat, but the food is phenomenal, and the atmosphere is always great. We take our usual table outdoors and each order something different for one another.
Zelda soon starts talking about politics, and I try to keep up with her. "…completely unconstitutional, and yet they're still trying to put it through!" She sighs apologetically, "Sorry, I know you're not a fan of politic-talk; it's just so frustrating sometimes. I wish I could just march into the Senate and fix everything they've managed to muck up this year," she gestures helplessly, taking a calming sip of water.
"Just give yourself some time. You'll be the most brilliant Senator once you make it in the next couple of years," I try to soothe her in between bites of my salmon.
She laughs, "Not to mention the youngest. No, I've got a lot of time to go before I'll even be considered. You're sweet, though," she adds, smiling happily at me.
Twilight is captured in our clasped hands as we walk from the restaurant. Zelda is staring off into space, not really doing anything extraordinary, but I feel an inexplicable surge of love for her. Just being around her makes me feel invincible, and, at the same time, humbled. I am not startled to realize, watching her ocean eyes flicker into a world of her own, that I would do anything for her.
Suddenly, she stops, her lips curving into a smile I know all too well; she's planning something. "Scheming" would be a better word to use, I suppose, considering the mischievous glint in her eyes. I notice we are stopped on a sidewalk near the community park, and I wonder just what is running through her mind.
Zelda untangles her hand from mine, slips her heels off, and presses the shoes into my hands. She leans up and whispers, "You're it!" before dashing into the treeline, her laughter echoing into the night.
Grinning at the challenge, I rush after her, listening for sounds of her while I run. The night air is turning chill, and the bite of it somehow invigorates me. I finally crash through to the playground, and I catch sight of her nimbly leaping away; she is some sort of forest goddess, and I am the lucky mortal she shines upon. I follow her direction, pausing to leap over the sandbox and duck under the slide. I can hear her more clearly now; her breathing is starting to turn harsher with the exertion.
The chase continues for a few more minutes, but she eventually slows. Between the swings and the monkey-bars she falls back onto the grass in defeat, exhausted and laughing. I try to halt myself but end up tripping on some forgotten ball, stumbling on top of her and pinning her further. I grin down at her teasingly and say, "You're it."
I notice, however, her eyes are glued to something on her stomach. I follow her gaze and notice, impossibly, the small velvet box lying there. I realize it must have fallen out of my pocket when I tripped. I pick it up hastily, but there is no hiding it now. Her intelligent eyes are already connecting the dots, and I realize, whether I like it or not, that this is the moment.
Licking my lips nervously, I muster up all my courage and attempt to speak. Something clicks, and I start talking before I forget it, "You are it, Zelda. Out of everyone I've ever met, and, ridiculous as it sounds, everyone else out there I've never met, you are the only one for me. I've loved you since the day I realized girls do not have cooties and are actually a pretty cool, if not insane, species. I love you so much, Zelda, and…Goddesses…I can't even tell you how much you mean to me. I never dreamed I would find such an intelligent, witty, and beautiful person, or that she would also be my best friend. I just can't imagine living without you, and I know this isn't exactly the best place or…circumstance," I say, noticing our somewhat awkward position, "but the fact of the matter is I want to marry you, and that wouldn't change if I told you in Paris or your dad's basement. Well, except that your dad might go into get-away-from-my-little-girl mode and, well…" She laughs! Laughter is good, but I realize I'm rambling and need to wrap this up. "Anyway," I take a deep breath and say the words I had so agonized over before, "Zelda, will you marry me?" I open the black velvet box, revealing the ring inside.
She throws her arms around my neck with a happy, "Yes, Link! Yes!" and I feel like…like a scientist who's just discovered the meaning of life. Looking into her eyes as I slip the ring on her finger, I wonder that maybe I have, anyway.
I've lost track of how much alcohol I've consumed. All I know is the barkeep tried to refuse me alcohol, but I insisted I was fine and urged him to pour me "just one more glass" after another. I know I am definitely over the legal limit, and a morbid thought crosses my mind: I wonder if I could sit here and drink myself to death? I close my eyes and finish my beer, not noticing as half of it spills all over me.
I've always been able to hold my alcohol well, so I know I've drunk a hell of a lot when I can barely fish another ten dollar bill out of my wallet. I slap it on the bar, which turns out to actually be air. What the hell? I try again with similar results, only this time I lose my balance and fall out of my seat. The room spins and seems to warp around me, and I close my eyes. Once I've recovered from the dizziness, I'll get back up, I say to myself. I just need a drink to clear my head.
With this logical fallacy to comfort me, I pass out.
She stirs the pot angrily, a fleck of red sauce splashing onto her cheek. "Completely disregarding the octagonal warning, the imbecile, indubitably beget from an obtuse mule, proceeded to--"
I laugh, pausing from my work of cutting up tomatoes, and cut her off, "Zelda, easy, I'm just a simple soldier."
She blinks and laughs hollowly, seeming to snap out of something. "Sorry," she stops stirring the pot for a moment and then continues, "So, um, anyway, this jerk swerves out in front of me. I think he was just ignoring the stop sign, because as he…" I try to focus on her story, but something bothers me. It is only later I remember her hesitation and how strange her eyes looked during that string of stilted speech.
Her skilled fingers tie my bowtie slowly as she talks excitedly about the upcoming wedding, "…can't believe Malon is finally getting married! For a while, I thought she would never get over…What did you say?"
"What?" I ask, confused.
She stops her work and settles her hands on my shoulders, staring off to the side. "You said something, and I was wondering what it was because I always try to listen to what you say. You always say such nice things and I would hate to miss out on something because you thought I wasn't listening, I really was listening so I want to know—"
"Zelda," I interrupt, placing a finger against her lips. "I didn't say anything, it's alright." A strange feeling of uneasiness nags at me, and I force it down. "Are you okay?" I ask her gently, tracing her neck with my thumb; her eyes flutter shut as I do so.
"Yeah," she breathes out, "Yeah," stronger this time, and she opens her eyes, "Work's just been stressful lately," she smiles at me, and I believe it.
At first I think she's having a nightmare. I can hear her calling out, crying, and I think it should be easy to save her. I roll over and hold out my arm to shake her awake, only to realize she isn't lying next to me. My eyes snap open and I search for her, panicked. My adrenaline-charged ears pick up the sound of running water, so I head to our bathroom.
I find her slumped over the sink, weeping as she scrubs her hands harshly. She is muttering something, but I can't make it out between the gasping breaths and shuddering, body-wracking sobs. Quickly, I rush over to her, taking her in my arms. I turn off the faucet and cradle her, clutching her to my chest as I sink to the floor. I rub her back comfortingly and try to soothe her, but she cries all the harder, clenching my shirt and then drawing back in horror.
"What's the matter, Zelda?" I ask, secretly as terrified as she seems to be.
"There's so much blood…so much blood on my hands!" She wails, wringing her fingers together.
"No there's not, Zelda. You've never hurt anyone," I try to soothe her, but I wonder if she can even hear me.
"It was my idea, my fault! I…opened the way for him, and he…he killed everyone! He froze them, fed them to monsters, turned them into…awful things! It was my idea! Don't you see what I've done to them?" She asks, gesturing to a world contained in ceramic tiles and shower curtains. "Can't you see how they suffer because of what I did? These hands…these hands!" She sobs, clenching her hands together and leaving marks with her fingernails.
I gently pry her hands apart and hold her, no longer able to deny that something is wrong.
I can't save her.
The idea is only beginning to register, and I hate the way it tastes.
I can't save her.
Goddesses…why can't I save her from this?
She sits on the front porch, her hands clasped around her knees, and looks into a world I can't see. I decide to break her silence if I can and walk out with a glass of lemonade. "Zelda," I say, trying to draw her attention. With a little delay, she looks at me. "Would you like a glass?" I ask, gesturing to the sweet drink.
She reaches out her hand, and as she talks my hope rises, "Of course! Lemonade is good for a summer's..," falters, "…does it rain in Normandy?" and falls. Her arm drops back to her side, and she clasps it around herself once more, seeming to forget I even exist. She doesn't even seem to care I haven't addressed her question yet. For ages of silence, I stand there, waiting for entrance to her world.
With a sad smile, I bend down and kiss her on the cheek. "Of course it does, love." I turn back and head inside. Turning my head over my shoulder to look at her, the sunlight blinds my eyes.
"You should listen to her, listen to her, listen to her, listen to her, listen to her…"
"…listening? Link, listen to me…"
My eyes slowly slide open, and the harsh light seems to hammer into my senses. I feel terrible, and there is a taste in my mouth that coincides with the rest of my body. I have, probably, the worst migraine known to man. Memories of last night start to seep through the pounding in my head, and I correct myself: I have the worst hangover known to man.
A glass of water and an aspirin appears before me, and I don't hesitate to choke both down. I turn to look at the source of my melancholy, and I am surprised to see her nearly in tears.
"Zel…?" I slur out, my tongue feeling thick, "What's the matter?"
She just clings to me, her body shuddering, and says in a strained voice, "Don't ever do that again."
I close my eyes and hug her back. It takes a long while to process through my alcohol-soaked brain, but I eventually realize it is the Zelda I chased in the park all those years ago who is crying on my shoulder and not the disease. My heart thrills. Maybe these years were just dreams, some sort of terrible dream?
But the calendar on the wall disproves that idea, and I should know better anyway.
Gently, I draw back from her a little, staring into her eyes, and all of a sudden I'm hit with clarity. I wipe away the wetness from under her eyes with my thumbs, and I toss away all the brooding of yesterday. I am looking at Zelda right now. There is something of her still here, and I intend to keep her with me as long as I can. In the end, I know the disease might…take her…but I shouldn't give up yet. I shouldn't be drowning myself in alcohol every night; I should be diving into her eyes and rescuing every facet of her character I can. Together, maybe we can hold on.
"You'll fight this, won't you?" I ask softly, and where before I might have doubted it, I know she understands what I mean.
She nods. I see the strength in her eyes, and I feel like an idiot. "You've been fighting this, haven't you? And I was just…I wasn't…sober enough to notice," I say bitterly, hating myself.
She laughs; I don't think she trusts herself to speak. I think she forgives me, though.
She smiles into my eyes. "I love you, you, you," she bites her lip, cutting herself off. She looks at me, expectant; I think she's afraid I'll run away again.
But I smile back. "I love you, too." And for the first time in a long time, I say those words without the remorse of one visiting a grave. Zelda is still here, will always be here, as long as I listen to her.