Here is chapter six! This chapter is rather...ahem...sexual, as a warning. Not to deter anyone. There's not anything TOO explicit, but it is all rather heavily implied.

BUT THERE IS CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT SO IT'S NOT JUST SMUTTY I PROMISE.

So a word about the different perspectives in the story. There are multiple characters from whose point of view I'll be writing. About five or six, I think. More as the various characters are introduced. But their perspectives will be told in 'chronological' order. So if Link is doing something one chapter, and Zelda's doing something else in the next chapter, then they're either at the same time or happening consecutively. I hope that makes a little bit of sense. I think it'll make more sense once the story continues.

Enjoy!

xoxo


Chapter Six

Love But No Love

Shad lived in Northern Castilia, while Damita and Link lived in Western Castilia. So when they decided to leave the tavern for the night, bidding Telma their fond goodbyes, they parted ways in central plaza. He to the north, and they to the west. The two hardly ever went north; it was the noble part of town, nearest to the castle, where the aristocrats and the noblemen and the diplomats and the fat, wealthy councilmen lived. Only when an assignment called for it did they even look toward the northern part of town.

Damita, surprisingly enough to Link, had not gotten as drunk as he'd been expecting. She could not walk in a straight line, of course, but she was relatively aware of her surroundings. Today must have been a good day.

Most days, Damita was stubborn, feisty, rebellious, loved to laugh and tease. Glowed with something vibrant and attractive.

But she had episodes—bad days—during which she would talk to almost nobody, drink her weight's worth in rum, and cry at night when she thought Link was asleep because she didn't want comfort. (The problem was that Link hardly slept at night, anyway. A part of the reason why he was such a religious napper. Something about the night drew sleep away from him.) Thankfully, it had already been a week since her last episode. Making progress, Link thought.

As they walked the familiar path, she wrapped her arm around his waist and pinched him playfully, leaned her cheek against his arm. Link did not look at her or say anything, but he liked being this close to her. It was late—the streets were nearly empty, and those they passed were the usual drunks trying to find their way home after long, thirsty nights at the local pub. Even if he had been blind-drunk, Link was convinced that he would have been able to find his way home. He had walked this path, straight from the inn, perhaps more times than he had walked any other.

Link and Damita turned a corner and saw the armory. Above it was the flat in which they lived together; they had been friends for five years, living together for four years (sleeping with each other for one and a half). The armory was on the corner of the street, in between a boutique and a sandwich shop, its door pitch black. The sign hanging above it seemed even flashier than usual, and definitely fancier than one might expect for an armory and a smithy. In beautiful cursive letters, painted a shimmering white, 'Damita's Armory' was written. As they stood on the front step, she stepped away from him, reached into her pockets, then groaned.

"I can't remember where I put the keys," she mumbled to herself. She was chewing on her nails, a dastardly habit she'd had for years. "They were right here."

"Here, babe." Link steadied her. The only way to deal with Damita (drunk or sober) was with a clear head and a soft voice. He had had plenty of time to learn that she responded well to his voice at its most soothing. She was not one to deal with any temper other than her own. As he kneeled and reached into her boot, she began cursing herself under her breath and leaned against the door. He knew that she always kept her keys in her left boot—her lucky boot, she always said. The click of the key in the door was like music to his ears, like the sound of coming home. For this place truly was the closest thing he had to a home.

The silver-haired smith had closed the armory hours ago; it was completely empty and completely dark. There were a few chairs scattered about the room, where her customers sat during the day. Toward the back of the room were a large counter and the register, where Damita sold her weapons and made a relatively obscene amount of money every day. Link always wondered why she continued to live in the fashion that she did. She could easily have afforded a house (a nice one) on the northern end of town, but for some reason, she always chose to stay on the western side. Even as one of the most revered blacksmiths in Hyrule. There was a large wall behind the counter, and an opening embedded in the wall that lead to a room in the back where she actually forged the weapons.

On the wall behind the counter, weapons of every variety hung. Swords, bows and arrows, spears, axes, rapiers, shields, lances, everything one could imagine. She had forged every single one herself, kneeling in the heat of the furnace every day in an (successful) attempt to supply Hyrule's citizens with only the best-crafted weapons. The two of them knew the armory like the back of their hands, and could navigate regardless of the presence of light or the presence of drunkenness. Together, Link and Damita walked up the stairs on the other side of the room, which led up to the three apartments above the armory, each stair creakier than the last.

Surprisingly enough, neither of them knew very much about their neighbors. Simply that they existed. The man who lived directly above them was extremely old and owned the sandwich shop beside the armory. And there was a girl who lived at the very top, perhaps around 20 years old, who worked at a pet store a few blocks away. Sometimes the chirps of birds of the barks of a dog wafted down to Link and Damita's apartment while they were trying to sleep. The old man and the girl were both relatively reclusive, so Link and Damita never saw very much of them. But they did trust them enough to give them keys to the armory—after all, the armory was the only way to get up to the apartments.

Link used the same key that he'd used to open the armory to open the door to their flat. Damita stretched out her arms as she sauntered in, while he dropped the keys and his sword on the nearest table, lit the lantern there, and took out his hair until it fell down against his shoulders. The apartment had three rooms: the main room with a table and a couch and a punching bag in the corner, the kitchen, and the bedroom (connected to a small bathroom), with nothing but a two-person bed and a dresser with a mirror. Damita had already taken off her shirt by that point, and her bare back was to him. He stopped and stared for a few moments. It was a familiar sight, her bare body like that, but it still intrigued him every time.

On her back were countless scars. Red, blistered lines popping out from her skin and shining in the light of the single candle that she had lit. They covered nearly every inch of her back, up and down and left and right. His smile still soft, Link stepped out of his boots, put his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the doorframe. Just watched for a few moments while time slowed down and he forgot everything else. She kicked off her shoes, wiggled out of her pants, and threw her clothes into a dark corner of the room. Where they would, he knew, stay for the night.

"Close the door, would you?" she said in her slurred voice, turning over her scarred shoulder. She knew they were there, of course, but she had grown accustomed to pretending that they did not exist. In a way, Link was jealous. At least she remembered what her scars meant—all of his meant nothing to him. No memories remained from the first fifteen years of his life, except for his name and, luckily enough, his skills with a sword. He stood still for a few more moments before smiling and stepping inside. The door was almost completely silent as it closed behind him.

Finally, she faced him, magnificently beautiful and magnificently fiery. She walked with a confident aura that made every step tremble, and her skin looked warm in the dim light that perhaps shouldn't have even been there in that room. And he saw, as always, the tattoo inked on her skin. It began in the center of her chest, a flower in bloom. Then its roots, drawn so intricately in black ink, weaved their way down, around the center of her stomach and circling back, until they reached just beneath her belly button. A beautiful tattoo, he had always thought—he had tattoos of his own, but hers had always appealed to him most.

Link's skin was already tingling. He grabbed his shirt and began lifting it over his head, only for Damita to step forward and grab his wrists. She was so close that he could feel her breath falling just at the base of his neck. He tilted his chin down to graze her forehead with his lips. From so close, her hair looked like pure silver—like the kind of silver one might use for the most valuable embroidery.

"What?" he asked. She blinked her bright green eyes and let her hands just sit, like butterflies, against his wrists. Her lower lip jutted out just slightly.

"I wanna do it," she murmured, her voice like that of a child's. Link raised his eyebrows and chuckled. Some nights they were fiery and intense and impatient, moving as if the world were about to end and ripping each other's clothes off. But some nights, like this one, they were slow and passionate and relished in every moment. She ran her fingers through his wavy, sandy hair, pulled lightly on the small blue earring at the top of his left ear, then grabbed his left hand in both of hers. Slowly, she pulled the black glove over his fingers and let that drop to the ground, too. On the back of his suddenly exposed left hand was a rugged scar, in the shape of a triangle. He had had it ever since he could remember (not very long, unfortunately). But he liked that she was holding it so tenderly.

He shrugged. Damita smiled then. She rested her hands against his chest and let them float down to his stomach. First, she pushed the brown vest he was wearing—unbuttoned, as always—off his shoulders until it fell to the ground. Then she straightened the high collar of his old, loose white shirt, tugged lightly on its edges. The silence that hung between them as she gracefully pulled the shirt over his head was such a nice silence. One in which they understood one another, but also understood that words would have ruined everything. Then the shirt was on the ground as well, and his exposed skin, bronze from his days beneath the sun, felt hot against her light fingertips.

She pressed her calloused palms against his chest and, each time he breathed out, she breathed in. Like their breathing was that of one. Her lips hovered above his skin right in between his collarbones, sent shivers across every other inch of his body. He realized then that his own calloused hands had moved to her arms, and his rough thumbs were softly moving back and forth. Almost in perfect time with the beating of his heart. Unbelievable, the way they connected, releasing his body to her while she released hers to him: they were both rough, both scarred (inside and out), but both soft in an indescribable way.

Her fingers began moving along his chest, tracing the outlines of every toned, tan muscle and inventing patterns of their own. She pressed her lips harder then, until he could feel every detail of them. Her fingers moved to his shoulders and down, down to his wrists, his hands, weaved through his fingers, squeezed until he squeezed back. She took another step closer—was dangerously close now. Her lips moved from his chest to his neck, where they lay tender and provocative. She pushed a little bit harder, until his back was against the scratchy wooden surface of the door. They were chest to chest now, his hands intertwined with hers, his mouth on top of her head. Her hair smelled like fire, and he breathed it in as deeply as he could.

"Damita?"

"Hmm." Her hands had moved to the edges of his pants and were slowly, deliberately, untying them while he put his hands on the sides of her head.

"Come with us tomorrow."

"No," she smiled as his pants fell.

"Come on, babe," he said. His voice was practically at a whisper because, if he was being truthful with himself, he was scared of her reaction.

"Are you seriously bringing this up again? I don't fight. You know that," she sighed. He thought that she might have been much more angry if she hadn't been busy kissing his neck.

"You fought me today in the tavern."

"Stop it. I haven't fought—actually fought—in three years, I'm not going to fight in this mission, and I'm never going to fight in the future. I deal with your weapons, okay? That's it. Now will you stop asking me that and just kiss me already?"

He decided it would be best to just listen to her. He grabbed her face and lifted it, brushed the corners of her eyes with his thumbs, leaned back against the door. And he kissed her. He kissed her hard. He could feel her lips smiling beneath his, could feel every vibration of her body. She grabbed his hands again and pinned them against the walls, stood on her tiptoes, made him wonder which heartbeat was his. Then, just as he thought he was about to lose his mind (in the best way), she stepped away and let go of his hands. Her cheeks were red now, her breathing hurried. Without a word, she turned her back to him and walked, knowing that he was watching, to the bedroom. She climbed on top of the mattress and dropped to her back, her eyes looking up. Outside the window, Link could hear the sounds of the city coming alive in the night. Footsteps, conversations, dancing and singing and lights flickering. But he didn't care much about what was out there.

"Come here," she ordered. He obeyed without a second thought, clambering beside her. He wrapped his arm around her bare stomach and pulled her in closer, kissed her shoulder and buried his face against her neck. It was during moments like this that he forgot everything else—all of his problems, the open-endedness of the future, the nature of the world in which they lived. All of it just disappeared for a few hours.

They were a dangerous few hours, he knew.

"When are we going to stop being so stupid?" he whispered against her skin. But he didn't give her a chance to answer.

He lifted himself until he was on top of her, pressing his tongue to her neck and feeling her back arch. Her deep, freed breath crashed into his ear. Their legs intertwined and he felt nothing but her. Wanting to feel nothing but her. Her fingers dug into the skin of his back as she closed her eyes, breathed out each time he touched her. While she moved beneath him, he grasped the sheets of the mattress, wondering what good he had done to deserve this feeling.

"Maybe when we fall in love with each other," she sighed. "But until then, we'll keep doing this."

"What about after we fall in love with each other?"

"I don't know. I've never thought that far."

"Who will fall in love first?"

"You, definitely."

He chuckled against her neck.

"And anyway, I'm never falling in love with anyone ever again. Remember?" she continued.

He didn't want to hear her talk anymore, so he brought his lips to hers and stole any words inside. And then they made love—spectacular, glorious love—without being in love.