The origins of the word 'Zonai' came from the word 'nazo' in ancient Hylian literature, meaning 'mystery'.
The Zonai tribe, supposedly long forgotten to time indeed met this requirement. Within ancient times, they were named as a savage group of individuals, mostly of Gerudo origin whom made their home within the Faron region. They were supposedly barbaric shape shifters and magic wielders, donning clothing of bone and hide, praising and worshipping otherworldly, ethereal forms, such as dragons and inscriptions of magic which floated throughout the air and divulged within their cold-blooded skin and flesh. Everything about them was otherworldly—they had their own language, illegible by the translators across Hyrule, one similar to that of ancient Gerudo and yet distinctly different, and one that faded with time as the pages of hand-written books turned to wilt and ash.
The cultures across Hyrule lived in fear of them, for legend told that with the closing of a enchanted wielder's hand, an individual would perish with misfortune and decay, their influence spreading to their loved ones whom would also suffer with such afflictions. They were feared, that is, until the Sheikah approached them, lo, ten thousand years ago—wishing to cultivate their magic into their own, embedding it within a physical form in order to ward off a common evil in which the two tribes shared the same foretold prophecy toward in ancient time.
Such physical forms came to be known as the Ancient Sheikah technology; the Guardians, the Divine Beasts—which the Sheikah worked in conjunction with the Zonai people to produce. The Sheikah energy, derived from deposits within the land itself was embedded within the Zonai and Sheikah people's various hand and tool carvings of stone in which they created together; the power bringing the inanimate objects life and purpose—that being to seek out and destroy calamity. With their purpose fulfilled, Calamity Ganon having been sealed away ten thousand years ago with the use of the Beasts, the Guardians, the Princess whom held the blood of the Goddess and a Hero, they eventually faded into time and became legend itself—little remnant of them remaining, apart from their intricate carvings and detailing within the architectures still found throughout the realm of Hyrule.
But there was, supposedly, another prophecy. Forgotten by time itself, faded into legend, much like the people of the Zonai tribe, it's memory dispersed throughout the ages as descendants became ancestors and so forth. The Hero of ten thousand years ago, his origins thought to be that of Gerudo, became possessed by the God of Demise; his soul intoxicated with thoughts of hatred and malice incarnate for the blood of the Goddess which ran through the royal heritage and it's Kingdom; the Princess foreboding the name of Zelda as a descendant of the Goddess and her powers whenever the need would arise as proven by gossip mongers and wargs. The fearless knight who braved death offered his life, his physical embodiment as a vessel of such to contain the evil, his love for the Kingdom and it's people far too great to watch it perish with his own demise; and upon doing so, he was promptly buried deep beneath the Earth, sealed by the powers of the Zonai people. Within a temple, strewn with luminous stone the Gerudo people said hold the Zone souls, buried within depths that ensured no constructionist nor excavationist nor weary traveller would ever reach by normal means. His sealing, as a matter of fact, was thought to be the very demise of the Zonai tribe—the unspoken of rituals transcending all laws of nature requiring abundant amounts of energy and magic from both the earth and it's people; which in time became remnants within stone as the seal was finally laid.
However, such a prophecy was thought of nothing more than a story told to children, forgotten by time immemorial.
The Gerudo man, supposedly a descendant of Calamity Ganon's Gerudo form that existed ten thousand years ago believed it was a lie, but something knotted his chest each time his Master Eris spoke of it within his presence. He felt somewhat drawn to the castle, his dreams recurrent visions of its interiors, the cursive writing of ancient Gerudo which he could barely distinguish despite his knowledge; a peaked curiosity, he thought, but he knew it was something… more. Something that he couldn't quite name.
Master Eris, a pale, tall figure with sleek black hair and black, soulless eyes stared the Gerudo figure down, his fingers reaching up toward the Gerudo man's jawline and grazing over his dark olive skin. He then grabbed his chin and tilted his head downward, forcing eye contact between them.
"Inglis," Eris whispered, almost like a hiss. He turned his head, letting his hands fall to the Gerudo man's lips as he parted them with his thumbs. "Are you sure it wasn't them?"
Inglis gritted his teeth, waving his hand in front of Eris to dismiss him. "Of course, sire."
Inglis almost choked at his own words—despising the utmost fact that Eris had a hold on him, being the secret of his Gerudo origin. Gerudo males, being born once a century had an ulterior right to the throne, deemed as the King of the Gerudo, the King of Thieves—which his mother rejected due to the past stigma and history that ran through Gerudo culture, being that Gerudo-born males bought nothing but dismay and misfortune. So, she sent him on a sail boat upon a river, wrapped in a cotton swaddle, within it a scroll of parchment paper sealed at the edge by wax with the Gerudo symbol, only to be picked like fresh fruit into Eris' arms, twenty years ago; his Mother hoping that he would have a better life than he would within Gerudo Town. Eris managed to give him such life; his dirty-work barely making enough rupees to feed them both until Inglis was of age and able to inherit such skill. From a young age, he was slicing the throats of innocents with a shining dagger, still attached to his belt as of yet—robbing men, women and children of their hard-worked spoils, instantaneously slicing them at the throat if they even began to protest by shedding a tear or opening their mouths to scream, just as he was taught. He began to be haunted by them; their dismantled corpses coming to chase him within his nightmares, to provide vengeance, justice, revenge—but Eris laughed at him every time he would wake up sweating and heaving, and he began to grow accustomed to the nightmares out of shame.
Inglis walked backward, unbuckling his belt which held a vast array of shining daggers and dropping it to the floor; untying his long coat and letting it fall as he slid down against the stone wall, his knees propped up to as his arms leaned onto them to cup his cheeks. A female figure by the name of Yara with thick, brown locks tied into a bun that wafted messily atop her skull took her place next to him, in turn sliding down against the stone as her hazel eyes glared into the fire.
Others within the room watched peevishly, silently judging as their eyes fell between the members of the trio as the conflict unfolded.
Eris loped back into a creaky wooden chair behind him, his right eyebrow twitching, his knee bobbing impatiently and his fingers throbbing as he bit as his fingernails and cuticles. There was silence for a while as he couldn't seem to remain still until he burst out, his hands in the air as he yelled, "Please, how wasn't it them, Inglis?" His hands went in his hair as he ruffled it. "Have you ever seen a pair, let alone both with golden hair? A glowing sword? A rectangular device with fancy engravings? They're exactly who I described, the bonafide deal, and yet—"
"Cut him some slack, sire," Yara spoke, interrupting him. Eris gritted his teeth, almost spitting as he leant back in his chair, his neck tilted up toward the ceiling as locks of his hair sought to cover his eyes.
"Inglis, you know I treasure you, you're my prize, after all…" he looked at him just above the edge of his eyelids. He then leant forward, unsheathing his sickle from his belt; his bare, ripped and torn calloused fingers uncovered by his black leather gloves going to slide along its sharpness. His eyes began slowly darting between Inglis and Yara, a downright dangerous grin tugging at his cheeks as he whispered, "But, if you're lying to me… I'm afraid you won't like the consequences. I'll soon see for myself, anyway."
Inglis gulped, his Adam's apple dislodging in his throat as he swallowed his own bile.
The first thing she always heard was a heartbeat, echoing to the tips of her ears and down her spine, trailing to every nerve ending within her body. Her vision, after a while, eventually cleared in the darkness encompassing them as fire began consuming another torch which Link doused before her; a dense oak shaft with tightly woven linen and cloth as it's wick which was soaked in naphtha and swabs of cooking oil and sealed with stearin and beeswax.
Link scouted ahead of her, his foot steps light and echoing throughout the glistening luminous stone lined cavern. There was also the sound of his sword, the way he would snap it from it's metal sheath with the flick of his thumb, the hissing, ominous sound of cutting flesh—and then silence, before he would yet again return to her; never volunteering any information regarding the fresh blood staining his boots.
Their descent bought the attention of soot, choking and intoxicating them with each singular inhale and exhale. Their torches became ineffective, leaving them in but a mere circle of warm amber light as they were blanketed in even deeper darkness than previously. But there was a glow—that of the foreign inscriptions the same colour of the luminous stone lining the cavern which appeared before them spontaneously.
Her instinct told her to follow it; to seek out its truths.
Upon doing so, they eventually reached a room; an atrium, of sorts. The inscriptions which swirled toward the entry ceased upon their arrival; dispersing into the air as mere embers and azure dust alike that of luminous spirits. She placed her foot onto the newfound flooring, a step lower from where they previously stood, and the torch she held flared; its viscous flame dulling and faltering into nothingness alike the inscriptions. Link quickly grabbed another torch from the summoning of the Sheikah slate, dousing it and striking a piece of flint with his sword unto it to no avail; so she grabbed his hand, forcing him to drop it. Together, they walked forward in the darkness; hesitantly taking steps into the unknown, the unseen. In the centre, it became clear that there was a figure; what seemed like an arm, a hand, the same colour and hue of the inscriptions which led them there, along with the luminous stones. It enlightened the room partially, allowing the pair to view its unique characteristics; long, slender fingers and animalistic claws, its length shackled with dulled, golden jewellery and fine detailing within its glow and pulsation. It trailed taller toward the ceiling and eventually began to fade into the inscriptions, swirling and whirling their way up to a sort of pedestal upon what seemed like the ceiling in a spiralled animation.
It wasn't until she heard a slight crack that she noticed there was something else—something larger, a familiar figure; a body within the shadows. She was riveted at the sight, the horrors of the truths she sought to compel against. The ominous hand laid planted and, as if acting as a seal, clawing at what seemed like a rotting, desiccated corpse frozen in time; it's mouth gaped open in shock as if gasping for air and pleading for mercy, it's body staggered and overbalanced with long, dusty red hair flowing and billowing beneath it's skull. It perfectly captured the moment of the figures demise—and a flash of light told the story on the walls for a brief second before disappearing before their eyes, leaving them to notice the roots and tendrils of malice which stemmed and writhed from it's core beneath it like chaos; floating up toward the ceiling, encompassing the flooring, wafting throughout the air, trailing toward them and toward Link and—
-=o=-
She woke up, gasping and heaving and spluttering, propping herself up with her elbows.
Link was by her side instantaneously, handing her a piece of paper and a freshly filled fountain pen wet with ink. She readied herself to write what she remembered, bowing over the piece of parchment, but her memories left her just as quickly as they came, as if she had amnesia. Her powers were failing her, she was failing herself, yet again—as she was forgetting something which she knew was important, a sign—an omen, whatever it may be.
He helped her stand up from the bed onto the azure stonemasonry flooring found within the entirety of Zora's domain within the Lanayru region. She breathed and sighed in frustration, clenching her fists as she stood beneath the shelter that the dock which overlooked Reservoir lake provided. Stumbling outside of it, kneeling to splash her face with the cool water contained within the reservoir, her gaze led up toward Shatterback Point, it's height dizzying, even from the ground—the sunshine beaming down through the holes in the cloud cover almost blinding her.
She stood and turned to find Link before the shelter conversing with Sidon quietly, watching him as he shook his head and Sidon frowned pensively—his mouth moving, but she could hear no words. Sidon noticed her gaze and quickly bowed toward her direction, and she dismissed him from afar with her hand; smiling insincerely as he approached her. Her vision was flooded with the crimson red and pearl white scales from Sidon's stature as he towered over her, dressed in his royal Zora gear which entailed gold and silver metals and the Champion blue detailing completing the look.
"I assume you are well, Princess?" He asked, looking down at her as he was almost double her height, even when slightly kneeled.
"Yes, thank you, Sidon," she smiled, crossing her arms against her chest.
"How are your, um… nightmares? Visions, I should say. My apologies."
She shook her head. "Not at all. I've still no luck."
"That is truly unfortunate." He looked sincerely sorrowful.
He eventually turned and walked toward the dock, turning to face her direction again. "I'm off to the beast," he announced, diving off of the platform and into the water with graceful elegance toward Vah Ruta; diving and landing in the water again repeatedly alike a dolphin with speed. Vah Ruta activated within his presence and roared, beginning to move with Sidon's conscientious command.
Link walked over to her as they watched the beast. "He wished you good luck."
"I figured," Zelda hummed, placing her index finger on her temple and her thumb on her chin as she watched him disappear down the stairs. "He's a nice guy—I mean, fish; no, Zora. A suitable Champion. Thank you."
They had been there for two weeks, as of yet. The first thing she sought to do was give her apologies and condolences to King Dorephan, which he gladly accepted with a hearty laugh and a dismissive smile; extending his hospitality to her, for however long. She then appointed Sidon as a Champion upon King Dorephan's and Link's recommendation that she rebuild and establish new forces—which she, however hesitantly, agreed upon doing, despite her thoughts opposing her in fears that she would leave harm upon them once again. And then, there was the inspection of the Divine Beast—a week ago. Vah Ruta, no longer accessible through the Sheikah Slate's controls peaked her interest, and she sought after it with boisterous, impassioned energy.
-=o=-
She could recall the encounter through ethereal visions that would unveil themselves as she found herself blearily staring into the abyss.
She fell onto the floor inside of the divine beast, dropping the Sheikah slate before her as her palms spread out on the cool, ancient stone carvings which maintained her stature from completely collapsing. Link leant against the inner wall of the beast, breathing heavily as he looked up toward Vah Ruta's gears which spun with timely precision; the very cause of the constant downpour bestowed upon the domain, given that they could no longer control her.
Sidon stood between them, standing tall—unfazed by both the exertion which it took to run toward the reservoir, as well as the drenched state which was natural and something of which the Zora tended to embrace. He walked over toward Zelda, extending his slender, scaled fingers to help her stand, which she gracefully took.
She stood and regained her balance, her gaze landing upon Link who walked over toward her, barely pushing Sidon out of the way to be within her proximity. With hasty fingers, he unfastened his cloak at her neck and pulled it around her shoulders, allowing him to wring it free from it's water and further throw it onto the floor away from them. He then further helped pull off her chemise, pulling it above her head and messing and tangling her long hair within the fabric in the process. She laughed, pushing him backward as he frowned, dumbfounded, allowing her to free herself; leaving her in nothing but her undershirt as she proceeded to wring her long, golden onto the stone.
"Princess, are you alright?" Sidon asked humbly, looking down at her earnestly. He then kneeled to pick up the slate for them, handing it to Zelda which she took gleefully.
"Yes," she huffed. "Thank you for your concern, Sidon, I—"
"It's not a problem," He said with his hands outstretched and welcoming before giving a measly thumbs up with a glistening, teeth-baring smile.
They proceeded toward the bottom wing of the beast where the central terminal laid. When she approached, even from a distance—she was expecting malice, given the dwindling of her powers over the past century that may have failed to seal Calamity Ganon and his remnants completely. But there was none, not even a mere particle, given the information that Link provided pointing out specific areas where he found malice during the time he spent freeing Ruta from the calamity's grasp.
Around the pedestal, a peculiar luminous script began to waft into the air toward them. Link walked backward several steps, as did Sidon, but she was entranced—it reminded her of something, something that she knew she had forgotten, something that she knew was important. The letters glistened and glowed within the enlightened sheen of her emerald eyes, and she reached out; her hand going to grasp the letters and symbols but failing to latch as they spiralled up into the air and dispersed into embers and dust. Her mouth half-gaped open in awe as her eyes widened and her eyebrows raised in curiosity. She turned, looking toward Link who watched her, the same expression as her own painted across his face. He reached out his hand toward her shoulder, his slender fingers barely scathing over the cloth of her undershirt which stuck to her damp skin. Seeing his gaze, his slightly concerned and awe-stricken frown, his hand reaching out toward her to grasp—that's when she realised that she had seen the inscriptions before.
Like lightning, a sharp pain stabbed at the back of her skull, and she fell to the ground, gripping her head and pulling at her hair as she groaned and screamed. Link fell with her, yelling her name and attempting to shake her to consciousness as her emerald eyes seeping with pained tears were dull, emotionless and devoid of all life—blearily staring into his soul as she viewed the visions through them in their current time. They came to her like a flood, vivid as day, coursing through her veins and arteries in her blood stream, reaching the peak of her spine to her brain and rushing down each and every one of her nerves. The luminescent text shared the same colour of the luminous stones said to hold the souls of the deceased. Within seconds, she recalled every minor time whereby she had come across them throughout their travels, and she could finally see the embers and flames within the azure, bright glow that illuminated with coming twilight and shadow.
It held the same flames and embers she believed she saw atop Hyrule castle that fateful day upon defeating Calamity Ganon, the spirits and souls of the Champions and her Father whom looked down upon her before dispersing into the wind, into the depths of the castle. It held the same flame that she occasionally saw within Link's eyes every time she had looked into them within the darkness, the luminescent and azure sapphire glow looking down upon her, into her soul—a small flame lingering and burning within them with a passion, allowing her to look into his own soul, his very being.
She suddenly came to, a coat of sheen glistening over her impassioned eyes as opposed to the null, void darkness they had during the visions. Her tears ceased and she mustered the energy to smile at him, weakly, and then instantaneously fainted into his arms, energy spent, entwined within his hold.
-=o=-
"She's awake," was the first thing she heard, barely audible. "Get Link." It was Sidon's voice, deep and masculine and unfamiliar, as she mostly only recalled and recognised his child-like voice from a century ago.
She opened her eyes, clearing her vision; met with Sidon who peered down upon her stature.
Sidon sighed in relief. "I'm so glad you have come to, Princess."
Shocked, she propped herself up from the waterbed of the inn onto her elbows as she searched the room. "Where's Link?" She burst out. "What happened to him?"
Sidon was taken-aback. "N-Nothing, your Grace. He is fine, he is just training over at the reservoir."
"Are you sure?" She asked, leaning forward, allowing her hands gripping Sidon's shoulders as she shook with worry; for her nightmares had been taunting her during her rest.
At that moment, Link, heaving from running from the reservoir back to the domain appeared in the corner of her peripheral at the entrance to the inn. Tears welled in her eyes as she released Sidon and outstretched her arms toward Link. He dropped his sword to the inn's stone floor and ran toward her, falling into her and embracing her lightly, one of his palms going to rest on the top of her forehead to check her for fevers.
He leant back, evidently distressed. "Are you okay? How do you feel? What do you remember?"
Zelda was shocked. She had never received such a bombardment of questions, let alone from Link who barely spoke. "O-Oh… I'm okay. What do you mean, what do I remember?"
"Do you remember being in Vah Ruta?" Sidon interrupted.
"Y-Yes…" She stuttered.
"Then?" He persisted.
"I, um… I don't—I don't know. Am I supposed to remember something?"
Link sighed at her words, leaning back from her embrace with his hands in his hair.
Sidon took the lead yet again, explaining to her the details of the glowing inscriptions amongst the beast's central control terminal, along with her physical and emotional wreckage.
"We went to the beast. Without problems, at first, apart from the rain," he began, smiling awkwardly. "Then, we went to the pedestal—but there was luminous inscriptions, scribes, I couldn't understand them, nor could Link—and that's when you fell to the floor, screaming and crying."
"Oh. Well, I don't exactly remember… that. The inscriptions, however… I remember them. They feel familiar, but that's all I really…"
"It's fine," Link said, his hand going to rest on top of hers briefly before returning to his hair.
"You're okay. You're alive. That is what is important, here, dear Princess," Sidon said. "I'll let you two catch up."
Sidon left, allowing the pair to be alone again—which is what they preferred. He told her how he, with ease, initiated Sidon as the pilot of the Divine Beast. Once she had interacted with the inscriptions, they disappeared; allowing control of the beast to be initiated with the Sheikah Slate once again.
"I used the slate to initiate him as the controller," he said, pushing the slate toward her to view. "He then heard the voice."
"That's great. All went ideally to plan, I predict?"
He nodded.
"How did he go with operating it?" She then asked.
"Well—"
"Difficult? I would have expected that, but—"
"No... He's fine, now," Link stuttered, as there was some… initial shock and miscalculations when operating the beast under Sidon's conscience. That is, Sidon caused heavy downpour for a whole day by not factoring in Vah Ruta's internal gears within his consciousness.
She smiled weakly, her eyelids drooped as she reached out toward him and pulling him closer to her again. His gasp and shock came out as a muffled gasp within her chemise which caused her to laugh, tickling him from the vibration. He then wrapped his arms slenderly around her, and bought her down to the bed's surface, allowing his hands to explore her long, golden locks like thick, silky twine and thread throughout his fingers.
-=o=-
Her face turned sideways to Link who stood beside her; their shoulders almost touching within their enclosed proximity as she looked out toward the reservoir. She thought of the memory—him within her arms, the warmth of their conjoined bodies encircling them both.
He was never like that, a century ago. He used to be stiff, almost like a statue. But together, when they were alone, they didn't have to worry about the castle, the crown, the court, the order that was unmaintained for a century. Now, there was no retreating to solitude with sleep when they were on the bed together out of common courtesy. Now, there was companionship, in which the past Link would have froze upon and perhaps only followed through as something in which he viewed as his duty, his role as his appointed knight, common courtesy.
It was different. It was what she wished for, a century ago. It was what she despised, a week ago. But finally, now, she was grateful.
She laughed, for no apparent reason, perhaps at her trivial thoughts—and he smiled in return; leaning and resting his head against her shoulder lightly, allowing the tip of her pointed ear to poke the softness of his cheek. She blushed feverishly; her eyes wide, her eyebrows raised, her mouth, previously entranced with a laugh gaped open in a gasp in shock.
"Let's go," He whispered calmly, his eyes closed peacefully as he leant against her with a warm smile spread across his cheeks.
For the remainder of the second week, she had begun formulating proposals, hypotheses—regarding the inscriptions and vivid visions and nightmares she sought to find the truths of onto jumbled pieces of parchment paper and diaries gifted to her by the Zora within the domain. One of Impa's subordinates had also met with her during the week, delivering her a letter with the Sheikah seal waxed over the press. The letter was written by Purah, detailing her recent discoveries regarding a form of ancient magic and technology that she had detected upon searching for energy deposits.
She read it aloud to him when it was delivered in her hands, and he watched her as she raised her eyebrow and without a second thought announced their plans to redirect their course to Hateno village, yet again.
"Yes," she whispered in reply to him, sighing contently as she finally leant her head against his.
Spring wildflowers wilted in the afternoon sun which turned to summer heat, even in the gentle hills and cool pastures surrounding Hateno and outside of the quaint cottage which were protected by mountain scapes. The ethereal beauty of twilight seemed to revive them a little, and the morning dew would do the rest of the job—and the process would then repeat itself, yet again throughout the day.
Much alike she.
Zelda took the long way back to the village, gathering every herb, mushroom and flower that peaked her interest—somehow managing to juggle them between her arms against her chest. She didn't really need to; they had more than enough rupees to buy anything, and between the pantry and storage crates in the cottage and the extramundane summoning technology of the ancient sheikah slate, they probably had more food and materials than what was in all of Necluda as a whole.
But she was lost in thought—entranced in prophecies, theories, hypotheses and the like and inconclusive results given the evidence of energy sources sited across the realm. She was trying to find a source, the origin of her visions and nightmares which entranced her with every sleep and left her with every wake just as quickly.
She squared her tense shoulders and stepped onto the main road that led down to the village from the ranch—greeting the villagers who waved to her and offered their words of welcome. She had gotten better at this, she needed to—given that a constructionist had spilt word of her royal tittle; so she smiled back, accepting the small items they would tuck into her already full hands and making small talk where necessary.
A particular woman caught Zelda's eye—a Hylian, no taller or broader in stature than herself. She was pale skinned with brunette hair in a bun atop her head, her uncontrolled hairline kept at bay by the use of a red bandana tied around it. She was no ordinary villager, nor traveller—rather, a fighter. She had two swords attached to either side of her belt along with an array of small daggers and knives which didn't seem to weigh her down in the slightest. She had a bow, whose string was wrapped around her chest and it's quiver full of dried, bloodstained arrows. Haggling with shopkeepers within their stalls, she could clearly see that the Hylian eyed her in the corner of her peripheral, her line of sight—a weak, insincere smile spreading across her thin lips as she dismissed the shopkeeper and tossed them a rupee for their troubles and walked away.
-=o=-
When she got back to the house and dumped the things into the crates, she practiced her swordsmanship for about an hour in the flower field. And then her archery for another thirty minutes, splintered arrows from sticks and twigs landing in the log of the tree to be reused time after time. Link said she didn't need too—she was already adept; that is, greater than the ordinary traveller, and he knew she was torn between dedicating time to both her combat skills and studies; but she shook her head, vowing that it would prove useful one day.
Afterward, she bowed over her work yet again, folding herself on a floor cushion—spreading out the precious maps of Hyrule that Purah had leant to her across the floorboards of the cottage and weighting the corners with pebbles she collected and skipped across the river and ponds. Beside her, she had her stacked notebooks, diaries and odd, jumbled pieces of parchment paper—some already filled to the clean and jagged-cut edges with ink, some blank and ready for words to be written upon them. In her hands, she held the slate. It showed everything the maps showed and with greater accuracy than anything drawn on the fragile parchments—but the slate and parchment, intricate-ink drawn maps only held the terrain world of Hyrule alone. It knew nothing of the world which may lie beyond the vastness of treacherous seas and desolate riverbeds, or what hid beyond the scouring sands and unpredictable thunder storms within the Gerudo desert. It showed only what was on the surface—lacking intel into the caves and caverns which she had ventured and braved within her journeys by his side, a hidden underground kingdom unbeknownst to mankind.
"This is ridiculous," she announced to herself, almost swearing under her breath as she dropped the slate and her hands went in her hair, clawing at her skull. She was trying to pinpoint a location of the energies, the supposed magic Purah had entailed, relating it to her visions—but her results came up inconclusive.
At that moment, Link walked through the door. She knew it was him by the sound of his quiet steps after he kicked off his boots with a few taps of it's tip against the floor. He smelt of horse, even from the door—likely, their own horses to the side of the house—the sweet smell of hay, fruit and freshly cut grass wafting toward her. He trudged up to the loft, hitting the creak in the third and seventh step, gathering fresh pants and an undershirt from the drawers, opening the windows beside the stairs and the bed and leaving out the front door yet again. Without a word.
A few minutes after, the sound of water splashing suggested he was bathing in the pond—as he usually did. Even though they had a perfectly good wood-fired bathtub to the side of the house and a basin in the washroom. He even used them both on came the tune of a flute, an ocarina to be specific, hand woven by himself, which wafted throughout the air as Link's creative fingers toyed with the embouchure holes in sync with the wind he blew through it's thin maple shaft. It was the indistinct but recognisable tune of a common lullaby sang to Hylian children as they wafted off to sleep, alike that of which her mother hummed and sang to her with an angelic voice before her passing.
Afterward, he walked into the cottage—a towel flung over his damp hair which cascaded messily around his shoulders, untied from it's usual ponytail. She looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow before turning toward her work yet again. "You're going to catch a cold dressed like that."
He looked erratic and downright dangerous, dressed in nothing but a thin chemise and shorts which revealed the contours, indents and scars littered upon his skin. He shrugged at her as he walked over to the stove, lighting it by turning the valve with his hasty fingers, watching as the low gas flame enlightened the old, dainty casket pot from beneath.
He gaped at the ingredients in the crates and wooden basin which stored the fresh cold dairy goods wrapped in cotton, positioned at the edge of it's curved wall in such a way that the cloth came into contact with the water and kept them from spoiling. He picked up the jar of cream and the glass bottle of milk that Zelda had received earlier in the day, dishing out half of the cream into the casket and pouring in three quarters of the milk before twisting the cork screws back in place and positioning them back into the water. He watched the fluid gurgle and bubble over his shoulder as he organised various flavourful and colourful ingredients onto the wooden cutting board on the table in the centre of the room, a freshly sharpened knife at the ready; allowing him to cut mushrooms into fine slices and dice leafy herbs, garlic and onion into fine portions. He incorporated and tossed them altogether in a bowl with his hands before dumping the mixture into the broth and sprinkling grated rock salt on top of it. In another pan, he quickly doused it's surface with oil and cut up a large piece of fresh venison from a kill into bite-size portions, tossing and simmering it with sweetly spiced rice and quinoa seed.
Soon enough, he equally distributed the meat and rice onto two deep plates, perhaps, a spoonful or two more on his own—placing them on either side of the table and pouring the creamy mushroom broth into a flagon. In the centre of the table laid left over fruit cake from yesterday's banquet blanketed with cream and fresh fruits resting under a woven breadbasket. To the side, he poured her fresh herbal tea.
He signalled to her by pulling out her chair and nodding to the table with a smile. She took her seat and he pushed her in quickly, the wooden chair legs scraping against the floorboards roughly. He ran to his own, messily sitting down on the edge to dig into his feast—taking the initiative to pour the broth to the side of his meat and rice before picking up a piece of simmering, oil-slicked venison with his fingers and practically sliding it down his throat.
"I visited Purah again today," she announced after finishing her meal, wiping the edges of her rosy lips with a handkerchief.
Link hummed in reply, tipping his chin to acknowledge her. "She say anything different this time?"
"No," Zelda confessed with a sigh.
Link hummed in reply again.
"The data is inconclusive. A scatter plot, at best," she signalled to the Sheikah slate laying upon the floor in a mess of parchment maps, papers, diaries and books; referring to her inconclusive results regarding the origins of the energy and seals now evident across the realm, deep within the earth. "Do you think twenty-three is a lot?"
He raised his eyebrow, his tea cup in front of his mouth. "Depends. Rupees, no. Murders, yes."
"Not what I meant," she replied with a grimace, continuing, "twenty-three plots all over Hyrule. Twenty-three potential locations deep beneath the earth."
He placed his teacup into it's saucer, stirring the metallic teaspoon around its rim which created a sort of brainwashing echo throughout the room.
"There's no way we will find the source of it—that is, the cause and origin of my recurrent visions. I know it's a warning—I know it, and yet, there's a hundred thousand anomalies whenever we put the sources together, and there's no pattern whatsoever. No matter how I sort it. No matter how many times I retry, thinking perhaps, just maybe, I made an error." She clenched her fists against the table. "Even if it's only twenty-three, we have to factor in excavation and the mere time, cost and technology it would require to reach such depths. Along with people, that we don't really have."
He dropped the spoon to the side of the saucer and sipped from the edge of the teacup. He then cut a piece of fruit bread, gesturing the dull breadknife to her to which she shook her head at, her elbows meeting the auxiliary table surface and her palms meeting her cheeks as he held their silence for a while. "What do you feel?" He asked suddenly after he had chowed down on a slice.
"The data—"
"I'm not referring to the data. Not everything fits neatly into numbers and columns and formulas, like Purah and Robbie think." He stared her down intently, setting his tea cup aside into it's small saucer. He then wiped the breadcrumbs off of the corner of his lips with the back of his hand.
"Feelings don't matter. It is data which will lead us to some conclusions here."
"Maybe," he pouted his lips and shrugged ignorantly, "But your powers didn't awaken for you a century ago because of data. It was the opposite."
She crossed her arms. "I suppose so, but I didn't really... feel anything before the calamity. I certainly wasn't tantalised by nightmares and visions of prophecies forgotten by time and also myself once I woke. I certainly didn't stress over where to find further information regarding them also, as all of the books I read that should hold the slightest detail just… don't. Ripped pages. Missing information. Gaps within the timeline. The thoughts themselves never even arose, alike now. The powers just weren't there, one minute, and the next, they were."
"But what about now?" He positioned his fingers beneath his chin, his elbows positioned into the wooden grain.
"I can't let my feelings bias my work," she said abruptly.
"But what do your feelings say? What does your voice tell you? That sounds… stupid, but you know what I mean."
"I don't know... I don't know how explain it, really. It's not really a voice more than it is a feeling. It's a feeling I've had since we encountered that Gerudo man and he mentioned the word. None of the data Purah or I conclude supports it, though, so again, I can't let it bias my work. She's written to Robbie, but he won't be coming down for a while until he organises a way to bring along his tech—or, Cherry."
Link sighed. "Taken together, all at once, it does look like spilled rice."
She nodded. "There's chaos and havoc everywhere. More monsters, stronger than usual—you already know that. Ancient technologies still thriving weakly with bits of corroded malice within their engravings, as we saw past the fort. It just doesn't make sense. Any of it."
His eyes slipped closed in thought, remaining that way for a few seconds before he breathed, "Well, where is the most havoc?"
She paused, looking up to the ceiling as she fumbled the pad of her fingers against her lips. "South west."
He stood, stacking their plates into a messy pile of crockery and utensils. "Then we'll go south west."
-=o=-
Hours later at the dawn at night, Link was well asleep. She escaped to the pond beside the house, carrying a bundle of fresh clothes against her chest. She felt a change was necessary—so she used the pond instead of the basin in the bathhouse or the wood-fire tub to the side of it.
She was bare and naked in the chill of spring's night breeze; her hair propped up on the rocks behind her back as she rested against it's cool surface, scrubbing at every inch of her skin with her fingers, knuckles and a damp towelette. Unalike Link, she was out in a few minutes, unable to stand the cold—she wrapped the towel that hung over the tree branch around her figure and messily pat-dried herself with it's edges and corners to the areas that it could reach. She then sat down against the dry rocks, her fingers going to brush and coax at her long, silky golden locks that encompassed her figure over her shoulder as she brought it to her frontside. She began braiding it low—her fingers intertwining with it's threads and interlocking the strands with precision and care.
She was half way done when she heard the sheathing of a sword, and she jumped forward instantaneously, a pure reflex—hugging the towel to her chest and dropping her hair.
All of her senses heightened in that moment. Her nostrils inhaled the familiar metallic, iron and dust-bound scent of blood. Her ears twitched upon hearing drips—the subtle sound of liquid falling into the tall blades of grass in the night beneath her. Her eyes hesitantly looked down upon her stature and saw golden locks of her hair, spread around her and in her grasp like fallen leaves—along with red, vicious blood like malice oozing from the peak of her stature and dripping down her now stained towel, trailing down her arm and to the tips of her fingers where they fell unto the earth, shrouded in the shadows of twilight.
She turned in shock, pressing one hand against the peak of her left shoulder to be met with a vicious sting and copiously flowing moisture—fresh blood from herself, an open wound; a deep laceration down to the subcutaneous layer of fat and nerve upon her shoulder as she looked toward it in the corner of her eye.
The other hand went to grip where her sword would have laid fastened to her belt in it's scabbard; that is, if she was dressed in her traveller's gear—as she continuously gripped at air and failed to latch. Instead, she held her towel, pressing it hard toward her bare and barren body in attempts to maintain some privacy and dignity before she met the figure in front of her.
Brunette hair atop their head in a messy bun—a bandana wrapped around their hairline to control the wisps. Deep, hazel eyes which stared her down intently, half-closed and relaxed, accompanied with a light smile across her thin lips which peaked at the crevice of her dimpled cheeks. It was insincere, as if with hidden intentions—the same of which she had seen from the Hylian earlier in the day who haggled at the shopping stalls in the village, as if murderous intent and acts were mere child's play.
She held a sword in each hand propositioned before her, unsheathed from either side of her belt, an array of sheathed daggers of different lengths and shapes along it's length still remaining. She took long, agonising and burgeoning steps forward toward Zelda; each causing her to stagger backward another, her mouth opening to call Link's name to find that her throat was choked and deprived of words which would be either her saviour or demise.
It wasn't until she noticed the sapphire blue overcasting her shadow in the moonlight shrouded by clouds that she turned, the clear hysterical tears slipping from her eye slits and dispersing into the air as she rotated with haste, her hair following and shrouding her in darkness and the hue of his sword—and there he was, looking forward at the Hylian and staring her down intently with incorrigible frustration.
She had seen the unfamiliar expression of his before, once, close to two months ago when he had the tip of the sword directed at the Gerudo's vitality, barely seeping into the dark olive skin of his throat. This time, though, his gaze was more intense—threatening; animalistic, even, like the eyes of a beast stalking his long awaited prey in the shadows. His sapphire eyes glowed, beaming and fierce alike the sword, enlightened with a ferocious, savage anger and a blazing, dancing flame which left a flickering strand of blue light as he lunged himself toward her with the speed of the wind.
At that moment, she would have believed him if he called himself a God. It was truly, utterly veracious—as if the spirit of a God alike herself with the Goddess resided inside of his feeble bodied stature with such exhibition of power and courage.
The Hylian propositioned the two swords in front of her defensively, the two blades forming a cross as they came into contact with Link's own, the sound of metal against metal striking and echoing throughout the night—her feeble blades barely exhibiting enough strength to prevent the shaking of the hilt in her grasp as the hold of his own goddess-forged steel became stronger and greater against her. One of her blades faltered, allowing him the brief chance to push forward and bury her into the earth—his sword which would have sliced at her vitality prevented by the now single blade she defended it with.
"Who are you?" He hissed at her, his other hand going to grab her hand which gripped the spare sword and positioning it above her head. He pressed his knee against her thigh, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pressing his knuckles into them, in turn feeling a snap within the skin against his own—the bone and tendon lining her from within cracking in the slightest, forcing the Hylian to scream out in pain and drop the weapon.
She then smiled, opening her mouth to speak, "Just someone," she explained between winced shaky and heaving breaths, "trying to deliver the untold prophecy." Her knee then positioned itself beneath the gap between the two of his legs, suddenly nudging upward which allowed her enough leeway to grab at one of the sheathed daggers in her belt and heave it above her, toward Zelda's direction.
His eyes widened and he gasped in shock, spluttering and gritting his teeth at the impact and swell of pressure between his legs. In a second, he stumbled off of her, steeling himself to chase the dagger, only to watch it land in the oak trunk of the tree which overshadowed the pond—a way's off from Zelda. He hastily turned back to face her, ready to deliver a divine retribution; but she was then gone without a trace—a few messy, mud-trudged footsteps leading off of the cliff face and then disappearing in thin air. He was prepared to chase her—to grab his cloak from the coat stand just before the door inside the cottage, throw it over his figure to disguise himself and stalk the perpetrator off into the night until Zelda whispered his name like a prayer off of the peak of her swollen lips.
He turned in response, walking over to her and falling before her on his knees in exhaustion, dropping the sword to the side of them which glowed and illuminated the pair in the darkness within it's safe sapphire hue. She sat there in front of him, golden locks of hair fallen around her like autumn leaves leaves, her left side and her right arm stained with fresh blood as she gripped at her wound with it—the escaped trailing down onto the towel being all that covered her from the night breeze and his shadowed, sorrowful eyes.
"O-Oh," he whispered shakily, his trembling hands reaching for her left shoulder, his calloused fingers grazing over the open wound's length gently as she moved her hand away and permitted him access. He quickly lifted his shirt above his shoulders, bundling it together in a messed heap of cloth and placing it on the wound—which she hovered her hand above and pressed firmly into her now branded skin.
He threw the sword over him and shuffled closer to her on his knees, his arm wrapping around her back to the underneath of her unharmed shoulder and the underneath of her knees, and she flailed in protest; weakly thrashing her limbs and hitting and kicking him with her legs as she held her towel in one hand and the shirt upon the wound in the other, her cries coming out messily, muffled and ashamed as she pleaded for him to leave her be. She eventually gave in as he waited there, looking in the other direction to give her some sense of dignity as he swaddled her against her jurisdiction. Once permitted, he carried her up toward the loft in the cottage, avoiding the creak in the third and seventh step; his steps more even and steady, his movements more slow and gentle than she could ever recall as he softly lowered her onto the bed and faced her toward the wall.
He closed his eyes, looking in the other direction as his fingers tucked beneath the ruffled seam of the towel against her back; and in a brisk movement, he pulled it toward him, discarding it to the wooden floorboards beneath the balustrades of the loft, leaving her bare and exposed. She trembled in protest, a strangled cry and whine escaping her lips, but he quickly replaced the towel with the futon blanket—wrapping it around her cowered stature and tucking it into her sides which she gratefully took and enveloped herself within.
He then retreated to the drawers next to the bed, just in front of the stairs—pulling out old, unneeded shirts and quickly unfolding them, ruffling them in the air—tearing and ripping them at the hem where they could be used as bandages to spiral and envelop the entirety of her open wound. He walked up to her again, biding time behind her as he waited for her to lower the blanket to her chest, which she did cautiously; allowing him to quickly cover the shirt she held in place with her hand with a segment of ripped bandage—wrapping it around the awkward position between her shoulder and her armpit tightly and sealing it with a hastily knotted bow.
He then stepped back, dumping the rest of the clothing sheets tangled within his shaky hands onto the bedside and opening his mouth to speak with a hitched breath, "What—what do I…"
"Hyrulean herb," she whispered shakily in reply, looking over her shoulder as perfect beads of moisture formed within the swell of her eyelids and her eyebrows furrowed in thought. She recalled the times whereby she dressed his own; hyrulean herb for hastened healing properties, armoranth for the formation of scars and rock salt for the absorption of infection and any additional moisture that could cause it. "And… armoranth. Rock salt. The pestle... is—is downstairs."
He nodded, hastily running downstairs as his bare-footed movements on the floorboards echoed throughout the room. He began to sort through the items in the crates beside the wall and within their various bags and knapsacks just laying around—his eyes suddenly landing on purple and green, the correct materials, and he pulled them out flush and eager, not caring for the clambering mess he made in the process as he tucked them toward his chest in the nooks of his arm and ran to grab the mortar and pestle which rested on the small surface of the kitchenette. He sat down on the bed next to her, dumping the ingredients before her and she turned, using the slight movements of her weak fingers to snap the herbs from their stems, removing the buds of the Hyrulean herb and placing them into the pestle and gesturing for him to remove the armoranth seeds from their tough shell. He did, cracking the intricately scaled casing open with his teeth and pulling it apart with his strong, flexible fingers before dumping the various seeds in and grinding it with a singular rock of slightly pink hued salt—adding a dollop of water from his waterskin to the mixture and grinding it to form a stagnant sticky, greyish-brown paste.
She nodded when it was ready, turning and gesturing toward her back as she lowered the blanket to her chest yet again, leaving her shoulder and back barren and bare and exposed. "Don't be scared," she proclaimed, half biased by her own words.
He shook his head, swallowing his own bile that lavished in the base of his throat. He proceeded to pick up the thread of cloth, tearing it into small bandaged pieces and lathering the herbal concoction onto its surface methodically with his index and middle finger which shook involuntarily against his will. Laying the strips to the side, he then quickly proceeded to remove the inadequate, hastily-made dressing which blood still barely seeped out of—and hesitantly, he placed the strips of new dressing upon the wound's surface; causing her hiss through her gritted teeth, from the sting of the salt, she thought—tears forming in her eyes and falling down her red and inflamed cheeks as she begun to whimper, clenching her fists in her lap. She didn't know how he did it—every time she would dress his newfound scars from battles, how he would not flinch; perhaps, maybe, they were not nearly as painful as the burdens upon his shoulders that she had caused.
Upon hearing and feeling her reaction below their point of contact, he hurried his movements; quickly sealing the dressings lathered with sticky sludge with the shirt wrap by which he wrapped and pulled tight around her skin and sealed with greater pressure than before with a tight reef knot upon her frontside, right next to her collarbone. He frowned at his work. How inadequate, he thought—he already knew that she would scar greater from his incompetence.
"I'll—I'll run a bath," he announced, unsure of what to do next. She nodded, looking down between her knees which crossed themselves and sunk into the futon. Her eyes slipped closed, a furrow forming between her brows as she bit her bottom lip, and she looked ashamed and guilty and sorrowful and utterly enthrallingly beautiful, all of the new areas of soft, porcelain skin and her exposed to him somehow peculiar in a perfect way. After being entranced in an incorrigible stare for a few brief seconds, burning the image of her into his memory and hoping and praying to the Goddesses that he wouldn't forget it even if he were to be carted off to the shrine of resurrection once again, he turned and waddled outside, dousing the fire pit beneath the bathtub next to the entrance to the interior of the bathhouse and enlightening it with the striking of a piece of flint upon his sword. There was already some water in it, but he quickly retrieved another few buckets from the pond—pouring them in and waiting as the water slowly heated and gurgled above the logs in the basin.
He then summoned her, holding and gripping her hand tightly in reassurance as her other held the blanket around her pressed to her chest, and he slowly brought her down the stairs and to outside; luring her on the gravel pathway which trailed to the back of the house where the bathhouse entrance laid. He put out the flame by throwing a bucket of water onto it—leaving the water hot and them both in darkness; the only thing they could see being the crescent moon and the warm light emitting from the glass-paned windows of the house which didn't seem to reach them.
He heard her drop the blanket onto the dirt and stone and step into the water leisurely; her curled toes testing the sultry water before she sunk into it's depths and picked up the cloth laying on the panel end. Scrubbing the blood off of herself without drenching her newfound dressing proved quite difficult, but she managed—either way, it wasn't long until the water smelt of blood, her blood; metallic and dusty and intoxicatingly choking with every breath. When she was done, she made a quiet noise, a hum, and he helped her step out of the water onto the gravel and handed her fresh clothes; their limbs fumbling for each other unknowingly and unanimously in the darkness. He helped her weave her now crooked, unevenly cut hair through the shirt, gently threading her arms through the sleeves and pulling it down her back before kneeling down and allowing her to step into her undergarments which he slid upward; careful not to touch her or even graze his skin upon her own in the slightest. He then wrapped a clean blanket around her, careful and gentle as one hand slithered it's way around her unaffected shoulder and the other cusped her palms in front of them to pull her in toward the house, directing her to the fat floor pillow in front of the lit brick-strewn fireplace which encompassed the room with warmth from it's dancing flames.
He briefly and unwillingly left her to make other arrangements—such as dousing and lighting the outside pot fire and burning the impure, blood-stained bandages and clothings within it's licking flame. When he came back inside, she was sobbing, strangled cries and whines alike that of an injured child—one hand clasped against her chest with the blanket clutched within her fingers like a vice, the other gently scathing over her injured, softly bandaged shoulder as she held herself there.
He walked up toward her behind and kneeled, as he would a century ago—his knees embedding themselves into the hard wooden floorboards, un-faltered as if practiced. His arms slowly creeped up toward her figure to wrap around her frontside, his arms forming a cross, his palms scathing upward to find their destination upon the flesh of her forearms close to her shoulders which he lightly gripped, his head going to rest against the back of her own. It was gentle and warm and perfect, however hesitant and tentative he was—and she cried, unfiltered, unceremoniously, unbecomingly; leaning back into his hold and envelopment, her forehead meeting his cheek as she felt his own silent tears fall onto her neck and later trail down to the small of her back barely stuck to by the loose muslin shirt.
His hands then slowly trailed down toward her hips, gently planting themselves on her exasperatingly contoured curves with a light squeeze and tenderness in his limbs; and her hand went to cusp his cheek behind her as he pulled her backward into his chest further. She could feel the way he folded into her, the way he enveloped in her warmth—the contours of his stoic, bare and barren chest which she lavished in and memorised and the gentle, softer flesh of his lower regions and limbs which wrapped around her own. He pushed her back by the shoulders, slowly turning her to face him; a hand behind her affected shoulder to assist the process smoothly. Planting his knees on either side of her hips, his hands retreated to his own sides and formed into clenched fists, and she reached for him—a palm scathing over his cheek and cusping him with a light squeeze and a weak smile painting her face. He grabbed the outstretched limb and pulled her into him again, and they embraced each other properly this time—Zelda rising onto her knees and climbing into his lap, her arms looping around his back and her heels pressing at his small; his legs intertwining and locking her there as he embedded his head in the crook of her neck.
She tilted her head to lean against his, smiling weakly as she looked to the creaky wooden door which enclosed them in privacy within the cottage. "It's okay," she whispered, her palm going to stroke his luscious, wild locks now longer than hers in propriety.
His eyes widened and he gasped through gritted teeth, his searing hot breath planting itself on the skin of her neck as his own buried itself within her shoulder to hook her closer. His arms gripped and clawed at the fabric of her thin white chemise just below her ribs, close to the small of her back—desperately seeking purchase, seeking her impassioned and boisterous self to provide him some closure. He had been holding it in for a while—he never really showed true empathy, fear or sorrow; not with her, not to her, not for her.
He finally pushed her back after his and her own cries calmed, planting one of his palms around her luscious cheek, the other tilting her head slightly downward to look at the floorboards between them and between their legs, shaky and faltering. He moved closer to her by shuffling just barely, hesitantly—allowing their proximity to near. His ears then began to twitch, the subtle flicking sound which reminded her of crickets jumping in the grass, her blood dropping onto it's blades—and she finally realised.
He was nervous.
Link—the Hero of Hyrule, her appointed knight chosen by the sword that seals the darkness and the prophecy untold. Link, whom arose from the shrine of resurrection after a century without memory or falter, dedicating himself to his unbeknownst quest by climbing the highest mountains, scaling the greatest waterfalls, harnessing the lightning contained within the unpredictable desert storms and braving fire and ice without so much as a second thought for his own life. Link, who sealed the calamity with a final blow and found his way back to her with just the goddess-forged sword upon his back and the courage in his heart—was nervous.
He felt her smile against his skin. "Why are you nervous?" she queried with a whisper, "It's just me."
He shook his head repeatedly, leaning back to look her in the eyes. She could only describe his face as a look that entailed pain, sorrow and failure—squinted eyes, furrowed eyebrows and lips parted just a fraction where his teeth could be seen grinding against each other in anger. It then turned into a look of tenderness that she could only describe as reverence, his eyes burning into every inch of her skin and his hands twitching against her cheeks as if she was so fragile to the point of breakage. "It's—It's not just you… You'll never be just anything, Zelda…" He then leant closer to her again, his pointed, curved nose with slight sun-kissed freckles from their travels slowly making it's way toward the left side of her face. He found his destination within the crescent swell of her left cheek enlightened with a soft rose hue; where he pressed inward and against her just slightly—just enough for her to feel the pressure and his presence alongside his shuddering hot, rigid breath which trailed down her jawline. He then made his way across her nose to her right cheek, doing the same and giving it equal amounts of attention before he finished at the peak of her forehead—his head shaking from left to right slightly to rub his nose against it. His thumb then went to graze over her soft, plump lips—parting them slightly as he pressed before retracting the now sweet, plum-scented thumb and placed it against his own.
She remembered. It was an intimate form of affection that existed between Zora couples to be wedded within Zora's domain; his second home-bound city during his childhood. He too remembered seeing the acts, despite fragments of his memory shattered into fine pieces of glass.
"Zelda," he breathed her name off of the tip of his tongue as he lightly pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes slipping closed, his hands retreating to her cheeks yet again as his fingertips levelled in the roots of her golden locks. She began to mewl, barely audible sounds escaping her closed lips originating from the base of her throat. How dishonourable, she thought—how unbecoming of she, a princess, to writhe and shiver in his very hold at the result of the actions of his hands against her skin. She thought she should stop; she reminded herself to not act out of turn despite her want to touch his bare chest, to feel his scars and contours of his physique, to kiss him all over, to hear him whine like she in her own hold.
He heard every one of her exhilarating rasps and strangled whines as his hands continued to venture upon her skin; and he squeezed and pinched her cheeks between his fingers in reaction, a reflex—mostly, in disgust, shock and dismay at his own impure, blashpehmous thoughts that began arising within his consciousness. He thought that despite his touch, the ethereal warmth of her skin seeping and burning into his own, his want and need to divulge further into the hidden parts of her skin unbeknownst to his delectable eyes, it was improper; she's a princess soon to be Queen, and he's just a knight.
But little did he know—she doesn't care about royal titles separating he and she, coronations and proclamations of impeding laws and statutes or meetings with potential suitors in the impeding future that Impa would undoubtedly soon offer organisation for. Because, truly, she just wants him, in all of his entirety; his kindness, his fierceness, his loyalty, his intelligence and braveness along with his love, his sorrows, and even his body; the contours of his physique, his scars and linings as burdens on his skin, his unseens only for her eyes. She turned her head into his palm deeper, exposing the surface of her neck which allowed his other hand to skim over her against his own jurisdiction before trailing up to her free cheek. He then finally pulled back, looking her in the eye as both of his hands finally interlocked with her own. He leant forward, agonisingly slow; her vision incapacitated with the colour of his skin and the length of his contoured neck and shoulders as he closed the proximity between them by planting a soft, feather-light kiss onto her forehead with his trembling, swollen and bruised lips.
"Was that necessary, though? You could have killed her." The Gerudo male frowned down upon the feminine figure who cleaned her two blades coated with blood, polishing them with an old grey handkerchief with pre-existing blood stains upon the corners and seams. They sat upon the roof of the Hateno inn, Inglis' cape blowing in the breeze and disguising their figures in the dim crescent moonlight.
"Nay, nay, worry not, Inglis—my holy empress, the King of Thieves," Yara laughed sarcastically at her own words, sheathing her blades into the scabbards upon her belt. "They say the blood of a goddess makes you stronger."
"And you're willing to test that theory?" Inglis asked, half-disgusted as he waved a hand in front of his nose as if he was smelling something foul.
She grabbed the handkerchief and wrung it into a waterskin half-full with mead. "'Course I am."
"I don't think it'll taste good."
"'Course it won't, i'm not a cannibal—I only kill. That's why I'm disguising it with the taste of alcohol."
"Crazy alcoholist," he said suddenly.
"Chicken shit," she replied, grinning as she twisted the cap of the waterskin and shook it vigorously.
"Just get it over with before Eris finds out they're here."
She nodded, then proceeding to down it with a few heavy gulps—and Inglis watched as her the peak of her throat bobbed up and down with each sip. She then sat there, staring at her hands for a while as she began to flex and stretch her fingers in their tight leather gloves.
"Well?" Inglis questioned.
She laughed. Her eyes widened as she stared up at him as he looked down upon her questionably. "Oh yeah," She practically moaned, her hands going to scathe over her throat and then to her jawline in pleasure. She smiled, pulling her lip with her fingers as her eyes slipped close and she moaned, yet again. "I can feel it."
Inglis laughed at the joke.
They seemed to lose themselves to time. Each sunrise and sunset closed the distance between them and another day.
She knew that no day's feelings could last forever; everything seemed to pass fluently without fail in the construct that defined the realm, and it was beautiful. She knew everything would come to an end, eventually—difficulties would arise along with those already impending... but she was okay with that.
So long as he were by her side.
He was the sole reason she began to love certain parts of her life that she tended to despise, even mornings.
She used to hate them, for a sole reason—being that they reminded her of whenever she would wake from her eternal slumber within the castle, her eyes opening to view nothing but calamatious darkness, her body begging for freedom only to be withheld within Ganon's physical embodiment cocooned within the peak of the castle by chains and shackles binding her stature.
She loved mornings, now, because they meant new horizons, new journeys for the pair—reminding her that, although scars never fully disappear, they did heal and eventually fade, dwindling to mere remnants with time, alike those upon his and her own skin and the Kingdom which continued to slowly rebuild itself and traverse from its past.
Mornings now meant scrumptious breakfasts, each delivering a unique, pleasantly intoxicating scent which lingered to her bedroll wherever they rested; in tents, in the cottage, in inns—possessing her to the very point that her body would move on its own accord, involuntarily against her sleep-stricken thoughts, running down stairs or to the outside where Link awaited her with a plate with steaming hot food and tea, having already finished his own servings.
Mornings now meant holding hands and warm, soft embraces; as reaching for each other during their nightmares and merely holding each other eventually evolved. She craved more within her limitations, allowing it to become the light tracing and lacing of her petite fingers upon the scars and contours of his physique, mainly, his chest underneath his loose-fitting shirt which he specifically wore to allow her such ministrations. He eventually began reciprocating her gestures—lightly drawing figure eights on the small of her back and looping his arms beneath hers to envelop her upper body and pull her closer, inhaling her smell of grass, leather and oiled parchment paper from preserved books.
Mornings now meant being with each other, holding each other—the lingering of their intertwined hands whenever one was predestined to leave, and the reaching for each other whenever they were to return.
Mornings also meant an abundance of other things; waking from her persistent nightmares only to forget them like an amnesiac, involvement in her swordsmanship and archery along with her studies which she bowed and cowered over on the floorboards or the grass outside—her head in books, parchment maps and the Sheikah Slate—but they all mattered too little, the most important part of her mornings was always him.
"How does it look?" Zelda asked him nervously as he sheathed his sword in its scabbard, watching the last locks of gold fall from her shoulders onto the grass around them.
He was thankful for the warmth of the afternoon spring-bound breeze, as the small blush which painted his cheeks, the tip of his nose and the point of his ears couldn't really be distinguished from the weather or his own jurisdiction—at least, to her. He sat cross-legged in front of her, opening his mouth to speak but unable to find the right words that would suffice. "It's very... you."
"Me?" She echoed his words, filled with question and curiosity.
"I mean—it suits you," he said quietly. He leaned forward and wrapped a loose strand of hair around his fingers, tucking it behind her ear.
"Thank you." His hair was now longer than hers, cut just above her shoulders in a neat, fluffed bob. The front had two splits of hair which diminished into two perfectly shaped strands which sat before her ears, perfectly tucked out of her line of sight with two blue clips, the way she liked it. Behind it laid an intricate braid made by his own artful hands; its strands kept slightly longer than the rest of her hair by her request. He ran his fingers through her short locks, admiring both his work and her new look that was different to what he knew.
She blushed, a warm, sunset-pink hue painting her cheeks, and a strange, childish feeling as if there were butterflies in her stomach resting in her core—forcing nervousness to take hold as she began to ramble, "I just felt that I needed a change as well, you know? Summer is coming, too, and it does get in the way with—"
One of his hands went to cover her ear as the other outreached a finger to press against her lips, halting her explanation. He shook his head and laughed, heartily, cheerfully, teeth-baring and wholesome as it dwindled into a smile.
She raised a hand to shove his away, scolding and crossing her arms. "You're not allowed to cut yours, though," she proclaimed, "I like yours." She insisted on the fact, appreciating the way he kept his locks long, shaggy and somewhat unruly in the messiest way that made him starkly familiar—and she didn't really need anymore unfamiliarity, despite how good he would probably look with his hair pushed back out of his face. Oh, Goddesses.
"I won't."
-=o=-
Time was fluid, she knew, and yet she still fancied herself lucky to be witnessing yet another full moon. She had seen hundreds in her lifetime, over the century, each just as beautiful as the other as the sky filled itself with a galaxy homed with glistening stars which illuminated a pure blue and white overcast upon the Kingdom-her Kingdom. For all she knew, the last moon viewing she could recall could always be her last at any given moment.
She stared up at the bright sphere partially shrouded with dark cloud as she rode her horse toward the pivot of the Kingdom; her hips gently swaying from left to right as their two horses slowed from the gait of a canter to a patient trot.
"It's beautiful," Zelda breathed, her head turning toward his direction to her left, watching as he pulled back his cloak with his fingers free from the reigns to look upward. The moon glistened in his eyes, and his mouth opened just a fraction to simply breathe at the sight. He never really paid much attention to the scenery.
They neared the Sacred Grounds just before Hyrule Castle and the town, having followed Hylia River upstream to where it trailed from the goddess-bound Lake Hylia all the way toward the castle. The grounds, circular and flat, were now the constructionist's settlement, it's surface and surroundings within the dense woodland trees strewn with various tapestry-canvas yurts which smelt of leather, oil and dust, supported with sturdy wooden beams, illuminating the darkness with the fire-lit oil lanterns within.
They were directed toward their temporary lodging—Zelda insisted on having just a tent that was simply weather proof and just enough space for them both given their short visit on their journey toward Gerudo town, but the builders had already decided for them—practically bowing before them as Karson led them in toward the yurt and pinned the tapestry curtain, sealing them from the outside.
Bolson eventually knocked on the wooden beam with delight in his three chronological taps. He parted the curtain, peeking through the shadows to be met with two smiles as he walked over to the pair.
"Oh baby, I absolutely love the new hairdo," Bolson proclaimed.
She ran toward him, fluid and graceful—Bolson's arms open and outstretched toward her direction. She practically fell into him then, and he gave her a quick squeeze before pushing her back by the shoulders to look at her face and trace his fingers around her jawline.
"Oh, so perfect, it suits you to an absolute T," he said as his fingers crawled into the depths of her hair and cusped the ends. Link watched over Zelda's shoulder, a shadowed, almost jealous gaze painting over his face which caused Bolson to retreat his contact.
"Calm down, you look a bit judgemental. I see it in your eyes." Bolson puckered his lips into a smirk and directed his gaze backward toward the yurt curtain. "By the way, baby! We've already started work. Without you. Sorry."
"So I've heard and seen," Zelda smiled.
"My apologies! Y'know—I forgot that is why you came in the first place."
Bolson gave them… a tour. The great remains of the castle town brick-strewn lodgings had now been built up with wooden frameworks, additional blueprints, of sorts, following the originals on paper—which allowed the construction workers to continue building with haste. Zelda's hands grazed upon the oak wooden frames and beams here and there, ridged on the edges and seams with bolts and nails, and she rubbed and tapped her knuckles against their surfaces to test the sturdiness of its facets. To no surprise, a wide smile is painted across her face, like an artistic memoir—and the thanked Bolson tirelessly, almost to the point of getting on her knees and preaching a prayer.
"The workers were insistent on fixin' the castle first~" Bolson began, his gaze directing toward Zelda as they sat around the low-burning fire in the centre of the town. "Well, the people want their Queen, I suppose!"
A certain guilt rose in her chest. Yes, she was next in line for the throne given her royal blood. Yes, she knew it had to be done eventually. Yes, she was already taking responsibility and acting as if she had such authority. But the thought of being coronated, a fine crown of gold being placed upon her head within the castle's throne room where she laid dormant for a century and to then take her place upon the golden chair a tad too big for her after having a blessing bestowed upon her by the Goddesses supposedly residing within the temple of time made it all seem… too soon.
Part of her didn't want it. Part of her didn't want to be queen—to be adorned in the Kingdom's finest jewellery and clothes and never experience a day lacking wealth. Part of her didn't want the responsibility; the wisdom, courage and power it took to be a true royal, given that she had failed the Kingdom once already. Part of her wanted to be free, to travel and journey to the corners of the Kingdom with only enough thoughts and worries for herself and him. It was unbecoming of her to even think such things, as the final, withering part of herself screamed at her that it was her duty, her obligation to her father and her Kingdom, alongside the Champions whom she all failed. She promised herself that she wouldn't fail them a second time, and yet—
"I mean, who are they to run around and say, 'Oh, wah, we have no queen and it's depressing and unmotivating!'. We haven't had a ruler for a century, darling. So tell you what, I told them off! I mean, who are they to boss me around?" He rambled, his hands crossed against his chest as he over-exaggerated his hand gestures. "Only you can do that, sweetie!"
"Thank you. I appreciate it. Truly." She smiled. "There's still a few more things I… no, we need to do."
"Well! It's time for me to get leisurely, baby! And by that, I mean I need sleep, thank you," he nodded toward Link and Zelda. "Do stay a while, though."
She nodded.
A few days later, she awaited him outside of their yurt lodging, their belongings already organised into knapsacks, the remaining tied to the saddle. "Shall we be off?" She asked, one hand behind her lofty hair as she held the reigns of his horse in the other.
"Where?" Link asked sheepishly, still half asleep as he ruffled his hair to wake himself.
She tossed him his travellers cloak which he caught mid-air and flung around his shoulders, fastening it at his collarbones. Her short hair blew throughout the breeze and she smiled, proclaiming as if he had forgotten, "South-west."