The wind howls cold through the trees — bark blackened and ossified, pimpled under the growth of a glaucous-and-purple fungus neither of them have ever seen before — and not so much as a twig moves. Sheik's hair alone blows free and thrashes about, strips of rough white cloth still knotted into her scalp. It's thick and matted and so long it dips below her waist. She hasn't cut it in seven years, she says, and Link is certain she hasn't combed it in all that time, either. He has a fascination with the sunny color, holds the snarls between his fingers and murmurs that there's silver and white buried in all the yellow. He presses his lips to the tangles and grins when she pushes forward, dead leaves crunching beneath her boots like splintered bones, flustered because no one's ever looked so closely.
She pauses after a few paces, pulls her hair from his grasp and twists it in her own, anxiously; nods to the ground in front of them. Whatever she's looking at, he doesn't see it: there's nothing there but fallen leaves. She nods again. Look closer.
Oh. Tiny black-bridal-veil mushrooms spring up from the pile, eerie and netted and utterly different than the white ones he'd eaten as a child.
There is life here, he offers.
No, Sheik says slowly, recoiling; these consume death. They were never here before.
Before? he wonders, as he covers the hand in her hair with his and they wind the knots between their palms, silver sparkling subtly in the little light coming from the canopy. What before? His arm circles around her waist and he nuzzles into her from behind, pulling her lithe body flush to his, perching his chin on her head as she still stares at the ground.
When she settles against his chest, the moment heightens, the question forgotten along with whatever explanation she was about to give. And his dirty hand is curling around the edge of one side of her mask as she leans in imperceptibly, and he's leaping over some unspoken barrier they'd long deemed sacred. But she breaks it before she's got the chance to think, the reflex even faster than the way she could slide knives into his flesh if he got too close, though of course she'd never choose such a horrible thing.
I don't believe you, he says slowly, there's always life.
Look for it.
She shakes her head and pulls far away, but sucks in a ragged breath and extends an arm. He can tell she's skeptical as a thin yellow magic streams from her palm and swirls the ground, until the tiniest of hidden seeds stirs to blossom forth into a golden flower, swaying and almost too heavy for its stalk.
It's a gift of the earth, an offering, a show of the wood's forbidden life; it's a risk for her to show such magic, far less could attract the attention of the witch who holds these trees, but Sheik's eyes fly open and the light spills, like frantic cascading sunbeams on the forest floor. It's exquisite, Link can tell, but his eyes stay on her face, on the arch of brow and the white and silver of eyelashes, on the only parts of her he's allowed to touch and everything she's bearing of what lies beneath.
Below the flowers, the ground stirs, and their gazes turn as needles flick across her fingers and the Master Sword pulls halfway out of its sheath. But it's only a Keaton kitten; wait, no—one, two, three, and four—disturbed from winter slumber beneath the leaves and each so mad at such a rude interruption. They chirp and squeak and circle feet and legs, their triple tails puffed to full capacity. Link tells them he's sorry and touches each tiny yellow head with a tender pat, but Sheik stays quiet, staring at their innocence with same intensity she'd turn on him when she thought that he was sleeping. And at her silence, he hungers for her laughter with an ache he's never known before.
There is life here, she agrees finally, and curls her palms shut.
The Keatons leave, disappear into the brush. Sheik moves to continue their march, but he pulls hard on her arm, rooting her in place. His fingers brush her hair, still free and soft with seven years of tangles blowing in the breeze, each knot bumping heavy on his fingertips. He stoops down and plucks a flower, tucks it behind her ear, and kisses the slope of her forehead. She startles into a smile so wide, he can see it behind her mask; and when she turns again, it's slower, and doesn't pull so far ahead.
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