It is so late right now and I am so tired but I am posting this anyway because I love you guys. This is actually one of my favorite chapters in the whole story. Stuff actually happens. People make progress. Link is angsty =3 It was just really fun to write, and I hope it is as fun to read! hurhurhur

Enjoy :)

Chapter Twenty-One: Letting the Dam Break

When Link's feet first touched the ground, he felt as if he were floating. Like there was a soft, thin, cloudy layer between the soles of his feet and the ground beneath him. The wind had carried him, though he couldn't decide how long it had been. Perhaps a moment—perhaps a whole lifetime. His sense of time had become distorted, almost nonexistent. So he stood for a few moments and gathered his thoughts, tried to remember what the word 'time' meant, what the strange apparatus in his hand was...and then he remembered that time was the monster that had him in its clutches, that he had just used it to his advantage (his disadvantage?), that he was carrying a pocket watch. Desperately, he grasped that understanding. Then he remembered the Hero's words and grasped for anything and everything to which he could still hold on. In case this terrible vortex of twisted time and space tried to rip it away.

He blinked a few times, took a deep breath, and then looked around. He was standing in front of the door to Hyrule Castle. The large, elaborate front entrance, which he had seen so many times. But it seemed different to him. The light shining down upon it was brighter, every beautiful detail stood out to him. He couldn't help but smile as he gazed upon it. His entire body was tingling.

Did it really work?

There were two guards standing at the door, holding their spears and staring straight ahead. Link walked up to them, smiled uncertainly, waited for their reaction. There was none. They simply stared ahead. Finally, Link spoke.

"Excuse me. What day is it?"

One of the soldiers told him. Link staggered back as the date solidified itself in his mind. The pocket watch had worked. He was in the past. At the exact day, at the exact time, he had set on the pocket watch. When he opened it, the clock read 5:01.

Tara, you truly are a genius.

Then, the real significance hit him.

Hard.

If I really am back to this day, that means...

"Excuse me, but I need to get into the castle," he told the soldiers.

They were silent, unresponsive. Did not even acknowledge that he had said anything. The rage was building up again, more quickly than usual. There was so much more at stake—he only had two hours. He needed this, or he would crumble.

"Please—"

"Name," said one of the soldiers. He hesitated, stumbled over his words for a moment.

"Link."

Both soldiers nodded their heads and stepped aside. As if his name were a password, or a spell, or some kind of charm.

"Our apologies, sir."

But even now, he thought, I've already saved Hyrule. Ganondorf has been defeated for about a month today. My name is a charm. I bet the tunic helps.

With a grateful smile, he hurried through the doors, trying desperately to calm his racing heart. The hall looked exactly the same. Its high ceiling, its grandiose architecture, the portraits hanging with those ever-watchful eyes. In a strange way, he felt at home there. But there was still a heavy sensation on his chest, and with each passing minute, it grew heavier. Like a built-in clock, tick, tick, ticking away. Of course, he didn't stop moving. He kept walking, as quickly as he could. At the end of the hall, he stopped to pay his respects at Zelda's portrait...

But as he stood in front of the wall—the blank wall—he recalled again the reason he had come.

It was a couple weeks after Midna's departure. He remembered this date specifically because it was the day, back in Ordon, that Link had received Zelda's letter. The one asking him to come see her in Castle Town. He had no specific goal for this journey—it served no purpose. But he remembered the date, and with this power, the first thing he wanted to do was see her face. Look into her eyes. That was all. And so, practically holding his breath, he made his way the one place where he knew she would be. Even on a beautiful, sunny day like this.

Link walked toward the castle library.

The castle was bustling that day, and understandably so. The kingdom was still in political turmoil at that point, even with the return of the princess. There was not a single person in all of Hyrule who was not trying to get his or her life back together. But he knew, in the midst of the craziness, Zelda would be taking a moment's respite with her books in the library before the evening's Royal Council meeting. His breathing was heavy and all of his limbs were shaking when he pushed open the wooden doors that led into the large, sunlit room. All of his senses were heightened, he was moving faster and was more jittery than usual. He could hardly contain the screams desperate to erupt from his lips. But he suppressed everything—at least for the moment. And he maneuvered around the shelves, around the readers, around the librarians, to the table at the back of the library. The table at which she had always sat, the table at which he sat in the present, the table at which he knew she would be.

Finally, he emerged in the small alcove. And there, sitting in an armchair beside the window, dappled in sunlight and engrossed in a book...was Princess Zelda.

Link was frozen. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. He could only watch. Stare in disbelief, in amazement, in relief. She didn't notice him, for her eyes were glued to the words before her.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. The sun illuminated every detail of her face, made the loose strands of hair falling around her eyes shimmer, gave her a glow of divinity. There was the smallest, gentlest smile on her lips. The kind of smile that only someone who knew her well enough, someone like Link, could recognize as a smile of true happiness. She was sitting in the armchair with one ankle tucked behind the other, her back as straight as an arrow, the book sitting in her lap. The dress she was wearing was one Link didn't recognize. It was white, embroidered in shiny blue silk, with a lacy collar and a slim fit. The only way he could describe her was angelic. Breathtaking. He couldn't move at all.

But he needed to say something.

"Zelda?"

The princess looked up, so innocent, so unaware of everything. Her eyebrows slightly raised, her lips parted in surprise, her eyes only a fraction wider than usual. But how they glowed, how they glimmered. As she looked into his eyes, he felt the tears rising to the verge of his eyelids. Her smile grew wider, like a silent beckon. He took another step forward, out from the shadows of the bookshelves and into the light of her little reading spot. Zelda put her book, face down, on the table, and stood up.

"Link!" she said. "You startled me."

"I..." His voice trailed off. He wasn't sure what to say. But he stepped closer again.

"It's so funny," she smiled. "I just sent you a letter! Well, if I had known that you were coming of your own accord, I would not have bothered."

He was finally close enough to reach forward and grasp her hands. They felt so natural, so beautiful in his. Like food given to a starving man after days and days without food. The princess blinked and, though she didn't draw back, looked confused.

"Is that really you?" he whispered.

"Of course it's me," she said. "Who else would it be?"

The longer he looked into her eyes, the more the tears threatened to spill. He held them back as best he could, but he knew the dam wouldn't last forever.

"Link, are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost," Zelda said. Instead of responding, he squeezed her hands more tightly and began slowly shaking his head. "Please, tell me what's the matter. And why you've made a journey back already! It's only been a few weeks, after all—"

"You're so beautiful," he murmured.

Her cheeks turned bright red. Just in the way that he remembered they used to.

"W-well, thank you."

He let go of her hands and placed his palms on her cheeks. Zelda still didn't draw back. But he didn't see the same gaze of affection, the same gaze of passion, she used to give him. He knew why—it was because she hadn't fallen in love with him yet. But he didn't care. He didn't care about any of it. All he cared about was that she was here, in front of him, smiling that subtle smile and looking at him with those serene eyes.

"You're very sweet," she added.

That was when the dam broke.

He didn't have time to see the concerned expression on her face. As soon as the tears began flowing, he wrapped his arms around her, held her against him. The tears spilled from his eyes down against her neck as he buried his face in her hair, held as tightly as he could. Anything she might have been saying was drowned out by his sobs. The shock of it all. The wonder of it all. And yet, in the back of his mind, the knowledge that it was temporary. And the knowledge that she didn't love him. Not yet.

Finally, after a few moments, he felt her lift her arms and hold him as well. She began rubbing his back, up and down, and he could just hardly hear her saying, "Shh. Please don't cry." It only made him cry harder. But he managed to muffle his sobbing, loosen his grip just slightly. He refused to let go, though. And Zelda didn't let go, either.

"I'm right here," she said. "You don't have to cry."

"I'm sorry," he choked.

"I know it's hard for you," she said. Almost as if she understood. "But everything is fine now. You can rest."

He sensed her loosening her grip, and it scared him.

"No, no, please don't let go," he whispered. "Please."

"I won't let go, darling. I won't let go."

He felt her sigh against him.

Each time he felt as if the tears were finally subsiding, there was a new wave, even stronger than the last.

"You poor thing," she murmured. "You're in so much pain."

"Just don't leave," he said. "And don't let go."

"I'm not going anywhere."

It hurt Link to hear her say that, because he knew that she was lying. She just didn't know it. So he kept silent, let the tears fall, and held her as tightly as he could.

Tempest brushed her hair in sections. After he was done with the first section, he gently placed it over her shoulder. Then he moved to the next section, brushed it until it was as smooth as Tara had ever felt it, and then placed that one over her shoulder as well. She sat, cross-legged and silent in front of him, eyes closed. The brushing had become rhythmic, so rhythmic that it nearly lulled her to sleep. But she stayed awake, just so that she wouldn't miss a moment. Nothing had felt so nice in a long time. And the silence between them was a smooth kind of silence, a silence that only felt natural.

As Tempest finished brushing the last section of her hair, she sighed and nearly fell back in perfect exhaustion.

"How long has it been?" she asked.

"An hour and a half."

"Only half an hour left."

"I suppose so."

She looked over her shoulder at him, looked at him through the sides of her eyes, played with the mass of hair falling over her shoulder. His face was right there, smiling. She hadn't noticed how green his eyes were before that moment. And then she realized that his fingers were still there against her skin...hovering just below the back of her neck. Just his fingertips like tiny lightning bolts. As soon as she realized, she turned away. She didn't tell him to move. But she turned away. Felt the electric shocks in solitude.

"Oh, what's this?" he asked.

"...What?"

"It looks like there's something written on your skin. I can see the top, but the rest is covered by your shirt."

Tara's heart dropped.

"It's a tattoo," she managed.

"A tattoo?"

"Yeah, it's a permanent inking you get on your skin."

"Permanent?"

"Like art on your body."

"Can I see the rest of it?"

She hesitated, bit her lower lip, wished she hadn't put out her pipe.

"S-sure."

She still didn't turn around. Tempest's fingers lightly grasped the back of her shirt, lowered it until it was over her shoulders and he could see most of her back.

"It's writing. In Ancient Hylian," he said.

"That's right."

"You know Ancient Hylian?"

"Of course I do."

Tara sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers began tracing the words that ran along the skin of her back, making sure to imitate every single detail. Chills covered her skin and she shrunk into herself a little bit, waiting for the terrible moment when he read the tattoo. Read it and understood it. But for the time being, he simply traced it. Traced it and made her skin tremble.

"It's nice," he whispered.

"Thank you."

"'Time is like a...'" he began, but his voice trailed off as he read.

Tara clenched her fists and wanted more than anything a piece of chocolate. Or a pipe. Or anything. Anything to save her from this situation.

"That's my name," he finally said. "My name is tattooed on your back."

"'Time is like a tempest.'"

"Why is my name on your back?"

She took the risk of looking over her shoulder at him. He was staring at her back with a furrowed brow, his fingers tracing the letters that spelled out his name, with the eyes of someone searching for something that just clearly wasn't there. Tara didn't even realize it, but when she spoke, her voice had dropped to a whisper.

"I've known you for a very long time," she said. "A very, very long time."

He began shaking his head, eyes still glued to her back.

"No, no, I've never met you. I've never seen you before. I remember everyone, everyone that I meet."

"Look into my eyes. Look into my eyes and tell me you've never seen these eyes."

She sensed his reluctance as he looked up, obeyed, gazed into her eyes.

"I don't—"

"Come closer. Look closer."

Tempest brought his face so close that his chin rested on her shoulder, the tips of their noses almost touched, his hands grasped her bare forearms. He stared into her eyes with such force that she nearly felt it physically. It was pushing her back, forcing her to finally accept the reality of who he was. Of who she was.

"You know these eyes," Tara told him.

After a few icy moments, Tempest finally blinked.

"Yes. Yes, you're right, I do know these eyes," he replied. "Last time I saw them, they were a different color."

"Brown."

"Brown, yes. They were brown. But they were the same."

"And they belonged to someone else."

Tempest suddenly shrunk back, withdrew, slid away from her hastily. Then he pulled his legs toward his chest and hugged himself, placing his chin on his knees and staring at her skeptically. Like a hermit crab withdrawing into its shell out of sheer fear.

"I remember," he murmured. "I remember. All those years ago. I remember now."

Tara was silent. Everything suddenly became too hard, too real, too fast. "The one five years ago. She had the same eyes as you, but they were brown. And her hair was different, too. It was—"

"Blonde."

"Yes! Pale, pale blonde. Almost white. But her lips were the same as yours. Dark, dark, dark."

Then, without warning, he lay his fingers lightly on her bare shoulders. It relaxed her muscles, made her slouch further, close her eyes. Then she felt his breath against the skin of her back, felt him inhale, exhale. His breathing like fire against her flesh.

"You don't smell like her, either," he murmured.

At that point, she was becoming overwhelmed by his closeness. She stood up and lit her pipe once more. But she didn't tie up her hair. She let it sway back and forth as she began pacing. She could feel its weight, and it felt good. Nice and heavy, but heavy in a way that wasn't burdensome. The kind of heavy that made her smile. She smoked and smoked and smoked until she felt as if her lungs were about to collapse, because for a moment, it distracted her from the fact that Tempest was there, and the fact that Tempest was remembering. All because she had made the stupid decision of letting him see her tattoo.

"Do you..." she began, but she couldn't find the heart to finish. She could hardly find her voice at that point.

"Do I what?"

"Do you remember her name?"

She glanced over at him, and she saw him smile.

"I remember her name. I remember every name. Her name was Nia."

"That's right," Tara breathed. "Nia."

"She was like you in a lot of ways," he observed, hugging himself more tightly. "But she was different, too. She didn't have a tattoo."

"That's because I got the tattoo after she died."

"After she...after she died?"

"Yes," Tara nodded. Inhaled. Absorbed the toxins. Exhaled. "After she died."

"How did you know her, Tara?" he whispered. "And why are you so much like her?"

She laughed a cold, dry laugh, and she could see it make him squirm. But she decided not to break eye contact this time. She decided to smoke her pipe and stare straight at him, try to bury her words into his skull and his heart and his soul (if he even had one). The time for squirming, for hiding, was over.

"I know her," she said, "because she was my older sister."