FOUR
DETOUR TO WETLAND STABLE

I can always hear when Father approaches my study.

He is always hurried: his footsteps are not clumsy, but the sound of them gives me ample warning to stash any reading material he may disapprove of. Sometimes, I don't even bother. It seems to make no difference.

I am reading something which is clearly too advanced, as I forget it the moment my eyes leave the page. I stand up from my desk and await my father's entry. One of his guards knocks on the great door.

"Enter," I say, hastily adding "please".

To my surprise, Father is alone – or as can be. His guards wait just out of sight.

"Father." I lower my gaze and bow my head.

"Good evening," he says in a strained tone, eager to dispense with the pleasantries. He is an impatient man. Many times I have heard his booming voice cut a swathe through the empty platitudes of much braver men than I.

"Zelda, you will retire for the night. We leave for the Spring in the early morning."

His words pierce my heart. I swear that I whisper "no", but my father's face contorts as if I have shouted my disagreement directly into it.

"Do I need to stress once again the importance of prayer?"

So this is where our conversation must lead, once again. I long to clench my fists in rage and sorrow, but that would be too obvious: instead I slowly grind the heel of my boot into the carpet.

"Zelda, you-"

"I will, Father. I will take to my bed now."

"-are heir-" He crosses to my desk. Sees the book. Lifts the book between his hands.

"Please, Father, I am-"

"-to our Kingdom-" his voice rolls around my bedroom like a clout of thunder. His back turned, he begins to twist the book until I can hear the spine rending.

"Father-!"

"WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!"

The book flies across the room, over the bed and into the unguarded fireplace. The flames leap up and greedily swallow months of hard work, effort and discovery. The fire crackles and roars.

"Heir to a throne of failure! A kingdom of disappointment!" The fire blazes in Father's livid eyes. I back away from him, around the desk as he advances upon me, pushing me towards the open flames. "As you grow neglectful of your duties, so I grow tired of your contemptuousness!"

Heats lick at my back and the palms of my hands. "I am doing everything I can, and more!"

Suddenly I am choking, falling, and back I roll into the fire.

"Father!" I scream, my arms thrown desperately forward as the flames surge and swallow my body.

And that is how I awake from my first night's sleep in a real bed. Covered in a dewy sweat of shame, with the covers engulfing me like fire, and the curtains on the posts drawn to enclose me in darkness.

Sleep-blind, I slip out of the bed. The sky outside is as dark as the rest of the inn, but strewn with pearly stars. I cross the floor barefoot and almost fall out of the front of the tent. The campfire's embers still glow, and I can hear the horses swinging their heads and tails, grazing. I sit heavily on a dry log and stare out into the night.

I haven't forgotten my father, but I wish my more recent memories showed him in a better light. We were close when I was younger, when our family was whole, but the urgency of the threat to his Kingdom pushed my father, who in turn pushed me.

I feel the occasional sting of resentment, quickly dulled by a cloud of grief. There seems very little sense in raging at those no longer with us.

Link passed my Father's words of regret to me: he was quick to put my mind at ease, and shared his conversations with the dormant spirits of the Champions. I would never have believed in such a thing had it not come straight from his lips: spirits were locked away in the same part of my head as cautionary tales, unchecked myths, word of mouth. I could have accused him of trying to placate me, but I know that Link would never lie to me, just as I know without even straining to hear that he is surely standing behind me, at the entrance to the stables, right at this very moment.

"You don't have to keep your distance," I say aloud, but quiet enough so as not to wake any of the handful of other inn patrons.

Link sits by me, with a concerned expression.

"A bad dream," I explain, nudging one of the smouldering logs further into the embers. The night air is getting a little chilly. Link sparks a flint he has produced from his seemingly bottomless pocket onto the dead coals, and leans behind the log for some kindling.

We sit by the fireside in peace. Of all the friends I've had, I have never found someone I haven't felt the need to keep entertained with endless chatter, but then my life has never been rich in friendly company.

The evening air always makes me think of Urbosa. Whenever I think of someone, I tend to remember them in flashes: with Urbosa I first think of her laughing heartily, hands on broad hips, the top row of her teeth shining like pearls. Then I remember her lightning-fast temper; particularly the day she casually slapped Link about the head for swapping her full cup of water for an empty one as we all dined together – I had been so struck by the sound of her bracelets jangling, the hollow thud of the slap, and Link's shocked expression as she snatched her rightful cup from the table and took a deep swig that I had laughed like a child watching her sibling receive punishment. I remember how she lulled me to sleep after long talks, how she smelt soft and earthy like warm sand, and how once her furious edge was worn down by the presence of more easy-going folk, she became fiercely protective of Link and I.

For that reason, I feel her loss most keenly. I came to know and love each of the Champions, but there was something about Urbosa and I: the talks we shared, the glance that passed between us whenever Link and Revali traded barbs. The budding friendship we had that was cruelly cut away like a thread: one moment there, the next gone, which made the loss so great.

Link asks if I am hungry. I pause, unsure, and as I am thinking he produces yet another apple. Where in Hyrule does he get so many? I never see him raid a tree, like the village children clumsily do.

He tosses it into the fire, and after a few minutes, fishes it out with a nearby stick. It rolls and smoulders in the grass. After a few moments he picks it up, and neatly twists it in half.

How have I never thought to do this to an apple before?! When the flesh is finally cool enough to bite into, it is sweeter than a raw apple, and the skin is coated in its own leaking juices which run out of my mouth and almost dribble down my chin. Link bites into his and absent-mindedly slurps the juice, before looking slightly embarrassed.

I chuckle softly as I take another bite, slightly earlier than my hungry mouth is ready for. Juice spills down my chin and my eyes widen in surprise. Link laughs, and lifts his hand, shuffling closer to me.

The fire suddenly spits, and he stops. He regards his own raised hand as if it was acting completely of its own accord. Did he mean to-?

I clear my throat and look away, as if I hadn't noticed his errant hand, and he quickly places it in his lap and tugs self-consciously on the edge of his tunic.

What was-?

I wonder if I am still in some bizarre dream. The apple burns warm in my hand.

Now the silence is awkward.

I sit and stare into the fire, memories rolling in my mind like ingredients in a stirred pot. Link had joked earlier, before the ambush when we seemed to have time for jokes, that between us we had almost a full set of memories.

Sometimes, I look back on events as if they were stories somebody told me. I remember being there, and I vaguely remember how something must have felt: the pangs of loss, the fear and the humiliation I went through. But I know there is something missing.

What more clarification could I need?

I am eager to speak with Impa. Once my duty to King Dorephan is fulfilled, we will head to Kakariko with or without an escort.