Hello! We all made it through the week. Hooray!

I know I've been at this for 2 months now because as I write this, my son is sick. Again! For the second (or is it third?) time. Hooray! He has a double ear infection. The entire past 24 hours have been one long stretch of "uwwwaaaaAAAAAAAH" :adorable snotty sob: "eeeeeEEEEHhhhhwaaaaah".

Currently, he's crashed out on my husband's shoulder, howling with misery. Three cheers for parenting, and for shuffling your parenting duties off to your poor, beleaguered spouse who just wants to play Madden. Too bad, sucker!

Anwyay. Enough chatter. Time for a story! Here we go!

After Demise had been defeated— not for good, but for this lifetime at least— Link and Zelda agreed to stay on the surface together and start a new life beneath the clouds.

At first, it was difficult. There was so much to adapt to. The lack of flight was the hardest thing to get used to. The food down here was different, because the ingredients were different. But strangest of all was that there were seasons now, and the first time that they had to weather a winter, they had a serious conversation about throwing in the towel and going back above the clouds.

But they didn't.

They lived together in a little cabin in the shadow of the Goddess Statue, one that Link had built with his own two hands. Although she was good at some domestic chores, like sewing, when it came to cooking she was hopeless, and so he took on that task. After dinner, she'd clean up, and then they'd sit together— either before the little hearth, if it was cold or inclement, or out on the porch if the weather was nice— and watch life go on around them.

One evening, about three years after they'd started their new life, Link was making dinner— steamed rice with kelp from Lake Floria, honey-glazed fish, and assorted greens and berries foraged from the woods— when Zelda spoke up.

"Do you miss living in Skyloft?" She asked. She'd hopped up to sit on the countertop beside where Link was was working on dinner. At her question, he paused, lifting the wooden spoon from the pan as he considered her question. She kicked her legs as she waited. It had been strange, getting to know this new side of Link: Before their adventure, he'd been impulsive, cheerful, unfiltered, and prone to daydreams. Now, those daydreams had deepend into serious contemplation. He was he was more thoughtful, more cautious, quieter.

But he was still hers.

"Sometimes," he finally said. "A little. But being down on the surface feels right."

Zelda nodded. She felt much the same— a sense of rightness, of belonging, of home, that she'd never noticed was missing before.

"It does," Zelda agreed. "But… There's things I miss, too. Like flying."

"Pumpkin soup," Link chimed in.

"Watching the sun rise through the clouds."

"Sweetmead in the market tavern."

"Going for flights— hold on, are all the things that you miss food-related?"

He gave her a sheepish, boyish grin that nevertheless made her heart turn over in her chest.

"Mostly," he confessed. He turned his attention back to the fish. "What brings this up?"

"I've been feeling a little homesick," Zelda admitted. "Not for Skyloft exactly, but for the way that things were back before… you know." She gestured around.

They hadn't talked about it— not in any great detail, anyway. Once, Zelda had asked Link if he would have tried to rescue anyone else that been captured if it hadn't been her. If it had been Kukiel, or Orielle, or even Groose. Link had thought about it for a long time, and then finally replied:

"I would have. I would have gone and tried to save anyone. But I would not have pushed as hard, nor grown as much— and possibly not even survived it all— if it hadn't been you I was fighting for."

Now, Zelda watched Link lift the pan from the cookfire and set it on a trivet. He began to ladle servings out onto their simple clay plates, and Zelda hopped off the counter, grabbed utensils and napkins, and trailed after him.

"Is there something specific you're missing?" Link finally asked her as he set her plate down at her usual place at the table. She took her seat, and he did too, and they dug in. Zelda chewed for a moment, thinking, then shrugged.

"I don't know. Maybe it's just the season." She glanced out the window. The days were getting shorter and shorter, and the heat had definitely broken. When they went out after dinner, Zelda would almost certainly be chilly, and Link would press a blanket around her shoulders, and she'd lean against him and think about the coming winter. "I don't know," she said again.

Link regarded her seriously over his rice for a long moment.

"Do you want to go back?" He asked her. "We can, if that's what you want."

"What?" Zelda blinked a few times, then shook her head. "No. No, we belong here."

Link pursed his lips. After a moment, he set his fork aside.

"Do we?" He asked. "You feel tied to the land because of the spirit of the Goddess. But you aren't her. You're Zelda. Now that everything is over, you don't have to try to… try to be like her."

Even though it was a perfectly reasonable, perfectly innocuous thing to say, Zelda felt her temper sparking.

"Oh?" She set her own utensils aside, wiped her mouth on her napkin, and glared across the table. "And what about you? You saved the world. You don't have to patrol around down here like you're obligated to the place."

She wished she hadn't said the words the moment they were out of her mouth. But it was too late to take them back, so she swallowed her guilt and anger and took a deep breath.

"Look. What I meant was—"

"No, you're absolutely right." His calm acceptance threw her far more off balance than any words of accusation or hurt might have. "We've both been through something indescribable. We aren't the same people we were before."

Zelda stared at him for a long, long moment. Then she buried her face in her hands and started sobbing.

In a flash, he was at her side, his hand warm on her back.

"Zel? What's wrong? Talk to me."

"You've already s-said it," she blubbered. "I mi-mi-miss being me." She sniffled. "I miss b-being just two dumb k-kids in the sky, flying ar-ra-round with nothing to l-lose…"

"I know," Link said, wrapping her in his arms. "I miss it too."

She sobbed into his shoulder for a moment, then sniffled.

"I thought all you missed was the food," she mumbled.

"I miss the food and I miss being carefree," Link told her. "Which is why I can't go back up there. Nobody would understand what we did. What we fought for."

He didn't need to say any more than that. There was really nothing to say, truthfully: People would wonder what had happened to put shadows into the two formerly bright souls. They'd say how romantic it was that he'd gone off to rescue her, but they wouldn't— couldn't— understand the demons that both had encountered along the way.

Zelda cried for a few moments longer, then sniffled.

"I love you, Link. I'm sorry. I'm just moody lately." She used the inside of her wrist to dash away tears. "It's the season, and it's that time in my cycle."

"I love you too. Don't apologize." He brushed a soothing hand down her hair, squeezed her one last time, then stood. "Let's eat. I'm sure we'll feel better with full bellies."

He was right, as always. The food was delicious, also as always. By the time they'd finished eating, and Zelda had scrubbed and stored the dishes, pots, and pans, she was feeling much better.

Link gathered up a blanket, as expected, and together they curled up on the cushions she'd sewn for their little patio. Bubbled in warmth and feeling contented, Zelda leaned her head on Link's shoulder, a little of her earlier grief subsided.

"I really am sorry about all that blubbering over dinner." Chagrin made her sound wry. "I read once in one of Papa's books that surface dwellers used to have moods that cycled with the seasons. I thought it was silly before, but I understand it a bit better now."

Link's arm was around her, and she felt him running his fingers up and down the skin below her shoulder. Even through cloth, the sensation burned her like fire. Even with all they'd been through with each other, and even with all of the new intimacies they'd discovered since making a home together, his touch still awoke the most primal, deep, un-Goddess-iest part of her.

"Can I tell you about a nightmare I have?" Link finally said. "It's a recurrent one."

"Of course," Zelda responded, sliding her hand onto his leg for comfort.

"I'm staring down a dark staircase. I can't see what's at the bottom. Hot, foul air blows up, and the smell of it makes me want to vomit. But I know you're down there. You went down there. So I take the first step. And the second. And the third. I walk down the staircase. I walk, and I walk, and I walk, and it never ends. And even though I don't want to give up, I think maybe there's something I'm missing. So I turn around and look behind me. And what's behind me isn't the entrance. It's one of those immense chambers at the end of dungeons. And you're there." He shudders now. "You're chained up, like you were in the Fire Temple. Only this time, there was no Impa to save you, and… and it's too late. And I know that if I'd been able to make it down the stairs faster, I could have saved you. I failed you."

Though he'd kept his tone light and his words soft, his arm had tensed around her as he spoke. Zelda turned her head to look up at him.

"I did fail you, back then," he added. "Twice. The first time in the Fire Temple, when Impa had to save you. The second, when I didn't get you out of Ghirahim's clutches quickly enough. I was sure… I thought…"

He didn't go on. But then, he didn't need to. Zelda felt it, then, the ancient knowledge— the ancient wisdom— pulling inside of her.

"Link," she said softly, and her voice wasn't fully her own. He perked up and looked down at her. She could see a shimmer of golden light on his face, and knew it was coming from her. "You failed me before. You'll fail me again. Just as I failed you before, and will fail you again. But even with all of this, against every obstacle and through every lifetime, we will triumph. Of this, I'm certain."

The power and the knowledge left her, and she felt suddenly drained and slumped against him.

"Sorry," she mumbled for what felt like the millionth time that evening. "Being a reincarnated Goddess has its hazards, you know."

"As does being a reincarnated hero." There was a little humor in his voice, a little wonder. Then he laughed softly. "Ah, Zelda. I'm glad it's you."

"I'm glad it's you, too," she agreed.

She thought about him— all they'd been through together, all they'd built in the time since, all the lifetimes they'd have together— and felt her heart overflowing with love and affection. She'd chosen well back when she'd been a Goddess. Link was truly one-of-a-kind. She could think of worse ways to spend eternity than with her spirit bound to his.

And she could think of worse ways to spend tonight than with him.

Slowly but deliberately, Zelda ran her hand up Link's leg.

"Do you want to go to bed?" She asked him, her voice a little breathy.

"Yes," Link agreed. He stood, then held his hand down to her. She grabbed it, and he pulled her up, then lifted her into his arms. She tucked her head against his shoulder as she'd done thousands of times through her life and smiled.

"My hero," she said fondly.

"Forever," Link agreed, and he carried her over the threshold and into their home for the night.

I hadn't intended for this one to be quite so ~melodramatic~ but I think it turned out. It's funny how, when you're in a relationship, sometimes you're eating dinner everything is quiet and normal and then the next second you're spilling your guts about your deepest fears, and your partner nods along and then passes you the butter.

Anyway, that's it for tonight. Next time, I'll be fulfilling some requests from assorted Guests who wanted a glimpse into some Zelink later life drama around kids. So kids you shall have! Until then, stay safe, stay inside, and WASH YOUR HANDS! Air smoochies to all, and to all a good night.