A finale piece for the incomparable Intangibly Yours, who has been having a lousy couple of days. I hope this makes you smile!

Prompt No. 32
Word count: ~1730
Universe: Breath of the Wild; sequel to "No. 21 — Infection"
Pairings: Zelink
Rating: T
Themes: Voyeurism, nonconsensual kissing, unhealthy relationships

Outbreak

Zelda cried herself to sleep in his arms that night, the way she clung to his shirt the only thing keeping him from tearing off to another part of the castle to do something unspeakable. Just before she drifted off, sniffling, she forbade him from doing any irreparable damage, but his only take away was that breaking a few bones wasn't completely out of the question.

This had gone on long enough. It was time he made his claim on her known. He had been more than patient, and it would deter anymore of these ridiculous suitors, not to mention dispel any lingering ideas her father had that she was still available to use as a bargaining chip in his self-serving political negotiations. She wouldn't like it, of course, but he was done waiting for her to accept their fate on her own.

She needed a push. Preferably a very public one.

He could think of one brazen scenario that was sure to get attention.

When she woke he was gone—or at least as "gone" as he ever seemed to be. The truth was he hadn't left her side since he bound himself to her behind the old temple. He had been drifting for so long, untethered and tameless, that he had nothing of himself anymore except his own name. He still didn't fully understand how or why she had seen him that night, only that it was impossible for him to be apart from her now.

It was intoxicating the way she grounded him, the way she made him feel again for the first time in centuries.

She startled when she realized she was alone, scanning the room for signs he was still nearby. Little did she know how close he really was, how many times her eyes passed through him. She hugged her shoulders, feeling his nearness, even if she was not aware of it. Soon, very soon, their bond would be strong enough for him to manifest more permanently. But for now he needed to save his energy.

It wouldn't do for him to vanish part way through their display.

Not that she made staying away easy. She spent most of the day in her room, no doubt still shaken from the encounter the night before, sitting listlessly at her writing desk or by the window, spattered in sunlight. She was infinitely lovely, every forlorn breath or weary roll of her head tempting his touch, and all the more as she called for a hot bath in the afternoon, not quite able to banish the chill of spending the night in his arms. He stood shamelessly at the threshold as she peeled away her dress, watching her bare herself as she had done for no one else. But she was already his by right, and would be his in more ways shortly. She sank into the water, unguarded, and he loomed at her shoulder, watching the steam bead at her hairline and run down her neck. No need to rush things.

By sunset she began to feel his absence—miss him? But she would never admit to that—checking shadows for a flicker of lantern light and peering regularly over her shoulder for him. He was loath to make her wait. He nearly didn't, drawn to the promise of her like a moth, moon-dusted, papery, flammable, fluttering drunkenly towards flame. But there were other matters to attend to first.

Castles had pulses, same as people, and forests, and rivers. He could feel the movement in the walls, knew where the scullery maids were and the guards and the mighty King of Hyrule himself, not that he usually troubled himself with those trivial details. But tonight was a special occasion. The king and high prince were meeting together—no doubt planning an embarrassing, public announcement at dinnertime.

All the better. It would make humiliating them that much more gratifying.

The guard outside Zelda's chamber was a decent soldier, but weak-minded and easily influenced. He knocked at her door without resistance, delivering a fake summons to the king's study.

Link could hear her heart hammering as she answered it. Her fingers worried and pulled at each other, nails hooking and clicking as she meandered down the castle corridors. As though there were anything to fear. As though he would ever allow anyone else near her ever again. She came to the study door and took a breath, steeling herself. Chancing one last, fruitless glance over her shoulder. Then she crossed the threshold.

The study was empty.

He slammed the door shut behind them, all the candles sparking green as he imposed himself on the room like a shadow. She spun, frightened and furious. Just the way he liked her.

"Link," she hissed as he melted into sight, as he prowled closer. "Have you lost your mind? What if someone sees you?"

"I'm counting on it," he growled, taking her wrist—lifting it to his mouth, running his teeth over it. "This nonsense with the high prince has to end. You belong to me, and I intend to make that painfully obvious to him; to your father; to you," he added, twisting, just so, to cause a gentle twinge of pain up her arm.

She took a helpless step back and he followed, closing in until the desk behind her gave satisfying rattle. She panted, breathless, startled, desperate—and she was too enticing to resist. His mouth was on hers in the moment next, drinking her pitiful protests like wine. He threaded his fist in her hair, bending her into submission, working her until she turned pliant, until her fists pressed into his tunic were a mere formality, until she was flushed and gasping for him. When she was dizzy he craned her farther, lavishing a trail down her neck until he found her pulse, rabbit-quick, and sealed his lips there. He set his lantern on the desk, his free hand roving her back, her waist, her hips, claiming every inch.

He could sense them in the hall. Not long now.

"Please—" she whispered, but she didn't get as far as saying stop. It was electrifying. He sucked a little harder, savoring the way she writhed against him. Savoring how near she was to giving in.

The door opened. The king and high prince stepped through, eyes going wide as they registered the scene before them. They couldn't see him, not the way she could; he must've seemed little more than a shell, a ghostly vision of tattered cloth and wind. But he should think what he was doing to her was obvious.

Demetri drew his sword, outraged, ready to charge toward them in a fury. But he wasn't the one he was interest in. Not really. He wreathed him in green flame, sending him hurtling back the way he came with a yelp and into the wall across the hallway, and then sealed the door shut behind him. The king was half way through a bellow when Link silenced him—a simple weave momentarily stilling his body, quieting his mind. He went to his knees, his expression void. This king who would kneel to no one.

"He can hear you," he murmured into her throat, sealing his lips at her jaw, beside her ear. "Tell him the truth. Tell him that you're mine."

Zelda shook in his arms, fat tears welling in her eyes and spilling over. "I'm so sorry," she tried to say, but he shushed her soothingly, like he was soothing a child riddled with nightmares. The high prince and the guards banged at the door, but there were few forces on earth that could make it give.

"Tell him you belong to another, and I'll let him go," he urged her again, lacing his words with suggestion and thrilling at how easily she obeyed.

"I belong to another," she said, the tears coming faster, her voice hitching with shame as she watched her father all but turned to stone, and he nipped at her neck in delight, the words infusing him with strength like the threads of an incantation.

"Tell him you belong to me, and you'll be no one else's."

Her body sagged, her eyes went vacant. Relinquishing the last of her pride, and choosing submission. Choosing to be numb rather than to resist. "I belong to him, and I'll be no one else's."

He could feel corporeality seeping into him like a drug, heady, driving him towards power. He let her go to prowl closer to the king, and she caught herself on the desk, panting. The banging went on, wood and magic clashing with metal and stone. He towered over him, and the king met his eyes lifelessly, bound to his influence.

"Now, Your Highness," he smirked wolfishly, "you and I have our own negotiations to attend to."

But then he felt a tug, like a single, fraying thread pulling apart a garment.

The lantern.

He turned in time to see Zelda hold it over her head, had just a moment to shout her name in fury and in terror, and then she threw it to the floor with a cry, the glass shattering open and his soul spilling out over the carpet.

He screamed. His form splintered, turned to mist, and then turned to flame. It was like being burned alive, and then flayed, and then burned again. Reduced to ashes and then dredged up out of them by the spine. He floated in the stillness, in the tiny wreath of fire, throbbing like a livewire. He was vaguely aware of Zelda pouring out the contents of her father's decanter, and then of his soul being ushered into it. The crystal stopper kept him contained. He rolled on himself and bobbed and burned. A poe's soul trapped in a bottle.

But he could still feel her, and he could feel the ember of a new lantern birthing deep in him.

He would rise again.

His influence over the king shattered, leaving him panting on the floor.

"Thank you, my daughter," he breathed. "You saved us both from that monster. Now, listen to me—"

"No, Father," she murmured, her eyes alight with a glow that was neither the green of a poe's flame nor the holy light of the goddess's power, stepping forward to tower over him with a captured poe clutched to her chest. "Now you will listen to me."