Zelda awakes with a scream.

It leaves her heaving, head between her knees, hands in her hair, and eyes wide and staring at the bed's blankets. She sits back after minutes, hours - who knows? - but the images keep beating at the back of her eyelids.

A small, young boy, terrified, petrified, screaming and crying and kicking for his mother.

And it's all for the legend, they said.

She tears the blankets away from her suddenly, viciously, disgusted and guilty, and swings her legs over the edge, the soles of her feet pressed to the painfully cold stone floor. She ought to ask for a rug in her room, but she can't bring herself to, not to the servants, never to her father. A small measure of discomfort is much less than she deserves.

How could you let this happen?

The question weaves its burning threads through her mind, tightening and twisting, until it leaves her with a headache that pounds with her footsteps as she grabs her robe and heads out the door, down and down, ignoring guards and late-working servants, who rush out of her sight as soon as they see her.

She doesn't bring slippers.

The last flight of stairs to the dungeons are slimy and wet, and Zelda can't help but wrinkle her nose at them. But all it takes is a moment of remembering who it is exactly she is here to see for her bite her lip and bear it.

The guards, two, in nearly full armor, rise when they see her. One glances down at her bare feet and opens his mouth to say something, probably to ask why she doesn't have shoes, and the other looks as if he might offer his own for her to wear, but she lifts her hand and bids them to silence, because she doesn't want to know how stupid she is being or how useless this is.

She walks past and they quickly salute with a clink of metal, and as she turns the corner, she can hear them settling back down at their posts. She grabs a ensconced torch for light and pads her way, lightly, to her destination.

The cell, much larger than the others, had been two, once, but for its purpose, the wall separating the two had been torn down. There is much more light around its bars, even a small, high window. The floor isn't quite filthy, but isn't quite clean, and there is more than just a cot inside. It is what some poor soul might call comfortable.

She stops a foot from its bars, gut twisting so much she cannot draw closer. She tilts the torch toward the lock and leans forward ever-so-slightly to peer in at the form beneath the blankets.

The boy's side rises and falls, his face towards the wall. Zelda thinks to wake him, but that would only worsen things. And then the boy's breathing stills and he coughs slightly, and then he stirs and rolls over, sighing. He pulls the blankets tighter against himself.

And, blinking blearily, opens his eyes.

He bolts upright, his bed creaking, and jerks backwards so violently he slams his head against the wall behind him with the crack of bone against stone. He groans and tentively reaches for his skull and Zelda actually asks, "Are you all right?"

Because, really, how stupid can a princess be?

"You didn't just ask that," he says, softly, almost to himself. "Why are you here?"

"I…" She wants to say sorry, again. She wants to tell him it is for the greater good, even if it doesn't mean anything to him anymore. She wants to let him know she doesn't hate him, that that isn't why he's here-because he'd asked her if that was the reason, years and years ago, when he and she were both young and not quite sure what to make of anything.

"I know you're sorry." He meets her eyes, squinting in the light. "You can go. I've heard this too many times. I've practically memorized your spiel."

She bites her lip, then quietly says, "I wanted to pray with you, Link. Like we used to."

For a second the air is still and silent, and he simply stares at her, wide-eyed, one hand holding himself up and the other at his head. "What?"

And she realizes how desperate that must have sounded, asking for something they did together as children, so she shakes her head, laughs and shifts her gaze to his hand. "Do you…I'll go send for someone to tend to that." She bows, stiffly, quickly, clumsily, and doesn't lift her eyes again. "I'm sorry to have woken you."

And with quick steps, she walks away, past the guards and up the stairs, nearly forgetting to put back the torch. She stops in the hallway, just beyond the steps, back against the wall. She sighs and leans her head against the stone, shutting her eyes.

"Your Highness?"

Her eyes fly open at the sound of the servant's voice. The woman holds a wet rag in her hands, and her brows are drawn and frown heavy upon her face. "Are you all right?"

Something heavy sinks in her gut. "Yes," she lies, whistling it between her teeth. "Yes, I'm fine."

The servant nods. "For your feet," she says, twitching the rag.

Zelda glances down at her feet, which are dark and wet with grime. She looks back up at the woman and smiles softly at her. "Thank you."

She takes the rag from the woman, refusing help to clean her feet, and bids her leave. She even scrubs the spots where she had stood near the wall and, unsure of where to put the rag, finds another servant and passes it off to him. A few steps away, she stops and turns. "One more thing," she says, swallowing drily.

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"Send…send someone down to the Hero." She adds, "He's hurt himself."

The servant bows. "Right away, Your Highness."

She makes her way back up to her room, rubbing her arms, hands skimming over the soft fabric of her robe. She'll talk to him tomorrow. She will. She'll make him understand, even though it seems like he's understood quite well for some time. She nears her bed, the room dark save for the sliver of hallway light coming in from beneath her door and the pale moonlight filtering in through her curtained window, and places her hands on the mattress in front of her.

Then, kneeling, she prays.