Author's Note: Thank you choosing to read this story! I am slow to write, but this story is never far from thought. Link, Zelda, and what they represent to me write themselves on my heart and I spend hours thinking about how to and how to convey it in a story. Thank you followers for your undeserved patience. Look for me on every second and fourth Tuesday here on fanfiction. One chapter of the month will focus on the main story. The second (like our story below) will unpack and explore the subtle details hidden in the first. For now, feel free to introduce yourself over PM, share your own work, write down questions, or request artwork based on this story. For present artwork, feel free to visit "FirlyManorChronicles" on tumblr! Thank you for joining me in this journey, as you know, it's dangerous to go alone. LitBlueEyed

Composure

Why did he tell her? He should never had told Impa! Weeks of silence and careful conversations? Broken for that? What was wrong with him? He couldn't handle the measly voices? Were the apparitions that hard to deal with? He slammed his travel bag at the ground, up-sloshing a cake of grass-soaked, Kakarikan mush.

What did he expect to happen? Restlessness, sleepwalking into creeks, and now voices in his head and now mentioning apparitions fluttering around Kakariko? He watched his bag laying in the soaking mud, thinking he should really pick it up. He could have kept it to himself. He could go weeks without saying anything! Why did he have to say something? All morning he was running all over in his thoughts, going back and forth, packing and unpacking, forgetting things, leaving things, pushing things. Between the alleyway, he dropped the tea kettle from Epona's saddle bag, picked it up, and threw it against a rock. A mighty clang rang out and echoed between the walls of the inn and the bow shop. Silence fell. Epona coughed. Composure. Composure. Red cheeked, he scurried over to the dented kettle with hasty apologies, scooped it up, and stowed it back in the saddle bag. The horse's ears were pricked; she was watching him in confusion when he realized that he was confused too. Maybe even a little scared. it was so early in the morning. He sighed at the thought of waking anyone else up.

A presence emerged behind him; he whipped around in indignant hopes that the Elder herself had come to revoke her word and stop him from leaving, but in the next moment, the person was at his side, tightening the girth around the belly of the horse. His stealth mask clung to her face; his ivory scarf obscured her shoulders. Although a long straw hat shielded her eyes, he would forever know that this wasn't the elder, but instead the Princess. She wore the same fringed shawl as she did last night during the farewell dinner, but the garment was now mud-licked from his travel bag she lugged over her shoulder.

It couldn't have been more than one week ago where Impa had Link lend the Princess a spare uniform to hide her from the Hylian travelers who trespassed the sanctuary looking for a doctor. They had brought a whole winter sickness with them, and the Princess insisted on getting close to observe the symptoms "I've made potions before," she credited herself during the village meeting, "I just need time and a face mask." The sheikah mask would do. Link had thrown himself into showing her how to tie the matching scarf. Cross the ends, tie the simple knot, double back the ends, and done. Right? But, he had stood a second too long in the sticky silence that sat like thick mud. He was really close to her face. She was looking down. So was he, staring at the gap between their bare feet on the wood floor of Impa's cottage, acknowledging in himself that he had been looking forward to seeing her all day. And, if he was allowed, he would like to see her everyday. His hands clammed up beneath his gloves. No, no, he took a step back, gestured to the knot, and jostled out something that sounded like, "and there you go."

That whole sickness fell dormant to some concoction she pulled out of twenty-two hours in her cluttered room. But, she was still wearing the scarf and mask-even now, as she pieced through his saddle bag, making room for the medicine bottles and roll of gauze bandages. And, he stared for a moment, as this was the Princess of Hyrule, the stranger girl from his dreams, fated partner in blood and horror, now packing his things as if she were just a normal person. But, normalcy, like contentedness and satisfaction, even after the end of the Calamity Ganon, was only just a disguise. But, even so, a shy relief melted his freezing insides, as if this was Hebra in the middle of the snowstorm and he had just slipped into a cozy cottage where the fire was lit.

"Thank you." Said he, as clear as day. She half turned. Their eyes finally met, but he sank his gaze to her shoulder, needing a place to fall. "I-Impa" He stuttered, twisting Epona's reins in his hands, "I-Impa gave me your packet," he paused, "f-for Purah." Why was this always so hard? What else could he add? "A-And I'll take care of the slate until it reaches her."

In the end, she carried his bag and escorted him out to the ancient sheikah gates.

"Link?"

He spun around around-his breath a hot puff in the cold, dark morning-reluctantly doting on pesky hopes that couldn't afford to explore.

"I'd like to hold onto these." She said through the mask and tugged at the scarf.

He could only nod.

"But, I," she was stammering. Why? "I returned one of your uniforms in your bag." She held it out for him to take, telling him not to look for it. But, a vibrant shade of light blue lit up the crease of the pack, and now he needed to pretend like he didn't already know what was in there. Some sort of emotion swayed up from deep below, jostling his vision, but his hands found his saddle and caught him in his dizziness. He pretended to test the saddle for balance, as if it was one that needed steadying. He mounted, and eventually-somehow-left. But later in the journey, somewhere between Kakariko and Hateno, he carefully withdrew the Champions tunic from his pack and pressed it to his face. He chucked at the word "uniform." No more blood stains. No tears. She had darned the sides.

Author's Note: See you next Tuesday!