She supposes he has always been there, existing, just outside the edges of her awareness. That he would come was certain. She's known it since she was 7, since her training began and the prophecy was told. For every Calamity, there must be a Princess to seal it and a Hero to beat back the darkness. That much was sure as dayrise in her mind.
And yet, 7 turned to 8 turned to 9 and 10. And the sealing power eluded the Princess still. She wondered then, on those long nights were sleep eluded her, if the hero found himself quite at a loss as she was. If he heard the sword, calling to him in the night, without knowing what it was or where to find it. Because if so, she thought hopefully, because she was young and hadn't yet learned that failure was her fate, that might mean that there was still time. If the Hero was not ready and the Princess was not ready, then the Calamity would not yet arrive. She was not broken. It was just...too soon.
And so, as the Princess studied her history as diligently as she prayed, she gathered, little by little, the bits and pieces of what a Princess and a Hero might be. Admittedly, she found her study books somewhat...lacking. The princess, she could tell, was always poised and wise and brimming with power. Admirable traits in a Princess, if a sad reminder of how unsuited she was to play the part, but also too sparse a description. What had they liked, these princesses, she wondered. What had their dreams been, their passions?
The Hero was ever more inscrutable still. Brave he was, always, chosen by the Sword that Sealed the Darkness and dressed in green. And if this was hardly enough to satisfy her curiosity, her ever active mind had no problem filling in the blanks of what a hero should be. His bravery she embraced, but her Hero would be clever too. And curious. And he would join her in her interests as well as her fate – see the importance, the potential, the unparalleled advantage that the Sheikah technology could bring them.
By the time the Princess had turned 13 she was convinced, certain really, that the Hero would only appear once she had found the power within her. Regardless. she wished, hoped, because she had started to realize that might have been made wrong, that her hero would be kind. And while awakening her powers would eliminate the shadow of looks of disappointment like those her father increasingly failed to conceal, he would likewise not mind or think less of her if she were to share her fears of facing the Calamity, of watching her kingdom fall. No, he alone, in all of Hyrule would be able to understand that burden.
It was not that she thought of him frequently. Whatever time her devotions didn't consume, she dedicated to research. The secrets of the ancient tech were as elusive as they were tantalizing and Hyrule brimmed with natural mysteries – how the correct mix of herbs and animal parts managed to produce such wonderfully diverse effects never failed to amaze her. No, her mind hardly lacked in subjects to engage her, much more immediate and engaging than idle conjecture. But he was to be her partner in destiny. It would be odd to spare him no thought.
Her Hero was unknown to her, but he was out there, somewhere in her kingdom. And when the Princess prayed, after she had begged for what her ancestors had been given freely, and for Hyrule's continued existence and her mother's soul and her father's health and patience and Urbosa's visits, some days, she'd put in a word for her Hero. May life be treating him kindly. May he be happy before destiny comes to call and please, Hylia, please. Let her meet him as an equal. Let her awaken her powers before they find each other.
But Hylia, she would learn, perhaps on the day that her Hero finally took shape, was not a kind Goddess. And the Princess was all out of time. She felt the shift in the castle before she ever knew the cause. The hushed murmurs and quick shuffling of feet that could be heard beyond the door of her room, passing by, approaching and retreating.
Sleep had not come easy that night. There were dreams, nightmares perhaps, that kept her twisting and turning and yet broke like webbing on her waking up. All the Princess had of them was a headache and the comfort brought by her diary. Truthfully, although she had sensed it, she had barely paid any mind to the castle's buzzing. Such things happened occasionally and tended to signify little but the awkwardness of socializing with whichever of her father's guest's had brought it about. Usually a short, somewhat meandering explanation that without her mother's guidance she was still seeking the Goddess' blessing followed by a not so short reply of well wishes and half hearted proclamations that she would in time.
The knock would come shortly, along with the indication that she should get dressed - "that is to say, Princess, if you will, not in your travel clothes. Your father has requested it." - as her father would see her. It was not until she found herself being led to the barely used throne room, that it dawned on her that this was not a regular visit.
The meaning of this particular occasion was hardly obvious at a glance. Her father's expression hidden as she entered the room, she saw nothing but the usual guards behind him and yet another before him, standing beside a child. And yet, once her name and titles had been shouted loud enough to echo in the empty room – something else that was unusual - her father had finally spoken.
"Zelda, my dear child", what had that been on his face, pride or fear? "The sword has chosen. The Hero of Hyrule has been found."
And in that momentous occasion, all the Princess of Hyrule had been able to do was to look blankly at her father as the ground beneath her feet turned to mist. How does one greet destiny? Somehow, all of her careful education had failed to provide her with the proper words for such a meeting.
She tore her eyes from her father and did what she could to focus on the two figures in from of her. But it was not the people that held her gaze. It was that ribboned pommel, which in time would become familiar, but that in that moment seemed to have sucked all the light in the room only to shine it back at her, blinding and confusing her by resting not against the shoulder of the man, but of the child.
Her first thought, which she wisely did not vocalize, was that he was not dressed in green. No, the boy dressed in browns and goodness, how small that boy was. Her age, if that old, her Hero stood there, wide eyed, light haired and bony, barely tall enough to keep the sword on his back from scuffing the tile.
She tried to make out the rest of him – harder than it may seem, as the sword on his back seemed to outshine his existence, casting him in shadow even as she tried to focus. Her thoughts spiralled. If the sword had been taken, then they were running out of time. Hyrule was running out of time. And here she was, 6 years into her training and nothing, not a spark, not a whisper, not so little as a gut feeling to show for it.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, she though. It was too soon. He would appear when she had powers. When she had learned to be poised and wise. But Hylia had not heard her. She never did. And the boy still stood, undefined in the shadow of his fate. She could no longer avoid meeting his eyes. Blue eyes. Familiar, she thought, but wrong in that room, in those clothes.
"Link", her father said helpfully, "the Hero chosen by the sword."
But the name had only the faintest ring of familiarity, much like the boy itself. In the end, she recognized him not by his sword, or his clothes or his eyes, but by his father. It was when she finally remembered the man standing by the boy's side long enough to look a him that it all clicked into place. Words and images filled her head. Son of a loyal knight. She'd seen him in the courtyard, occasionally, a different sword in hand as he practised with the other guards. Something of a prodigy, if she recalled castle gossip correctly. Young, as young as they came. Able to beat men several times his years. On track to be the youngest knight in Hyrule's history.
She had seen him and she had heard of him and, focused on her prayers and her studies, she had paid him no mind. Hylia's chosen hero had been in her castle all along and she, the blood of goddess herself, the princess who would seal the darkness, had not been able to recognize him for who he was.
She had never felt like more of a failure than she did in that moment, but there was scarcely the opportunity to dwell on it. She was supposed to speak now, was she not? Even as her childish hopes fell apart and her faith evaporated on the realization that she might not have a drop of power within, destiny required a greeting.
"Link", she sounded his name for the first time and swallowed the bitter taste it left on her tongue, "I am glad to finally meet the sword's chosen hero." Truly, she had done little but to parrot her father's words, but that seemed to be all the boy needed. As soon as she had spoken he had taken a knee, the sword lifted above his head, as if in offering. But instead of looking down, in the traditional pose, his eyes were fixed on her. Expectant. Hopeful. Full of whatever faith her kingdom had still managed to keep in her.
And seeing that, she had wanted to weep. Had no merciful soul told this hero, she wondered. His fate was unkind. It had given him Hylia's bad blood. The faulty Princess who couldn't. Surely he must know. If castle gossip had made her aware of his fame, then he could not possibly remain ignorant of the Royal family's shame – the princess who could not hear the goddess. And yet the boy still stared, pushing the sword closer in her direction, waiting, for a destiny she couldn't fulfil.
"You kneel to the King, not the Princess", she said to his hopes, because she didn't know how to tell him she was broken.
"We are already finished with those formalities, Zelda", her father answered instead, "I think he only wishes to show you the sword of legend. Go on", his face too held such expectation. Perhaps because he was younger then as well, and had only begun to learn that all his daughter would ever bring him was disappointment.
The boy stood, regardless, the sword still laid out across his palms for her inspection. After such a prompt, she had not choice but to go to him. Her heart was heavy as she walked, her breath short and the room seemed to ring in time with her steps. Bells chimed in her head as she approached the hero and she prayed, more out of habit than conviction, that she might make it through without the humiliation of a fainting spell.
The shape of the sword was not new to her. She had seen it once, all those years ago when, on a whim, mother had taken her to where it rest under the large tree. Their own little secret. But in the Hero's hands, the steel almost seemed to glow. Instinctively, she reached for it.
"Stop", her father's voice boomed from his throne and her hand snapped back, "only the one chosen by the sword may touch it, otherwise, it shall sap all who attempt it of their life force."
"Mother said..." goodness, how weak her voice sounded. She tried again. "Mother said that the sword would not harm the blood of the goddess. That the sword knows us well as it knows the Hero."
"Perhaps. But you have not awakened your power and I will not gamble your life on chance."
She flinched. The concern would be touching if not for the criticism beneath it. And the hero seemed to shift. Not a word passed his lips but in a moment, his eyes, his face…where hope and faith had been evident, now there was nothing but a blank mask, drawn forth by her father's confirmation of her failures.
It was inevitable, she supposed, that he realize everything that she wasn't, but couldn't Hylia have spared her at least the pain of having to witness it? She stepped away from the hero, eager now to be done with this theatre but her father's voice cut through her steps.
"Regardless, it is the first time in 10,000 years that the sword, the Hero and the blood of the goddess have been reunited. Does it… do you feel any difference?"
She knew the answer to that, just as she knew what the answer would be whenever she stepped into a spring. And yet, she was expected to perform and so perform she would. She raised her hand and let it hover above the sword, her eyes downcast, as if in contemplation.
And his eyes...they bore into her. To be stared at was nothing new to her. It was never comfortable, but she had grown used to it over the years. This was nothing alike. She could feel his gaze on her as acutely as burning skin. And she could only imagine what he must be thinking. That fate had sold him short. A child prodigy who had claimed the goddess' approval, realizing that he must fall, Hyrule must fall, because of her shortcomings.
No, despite her payers, her hero would not be kind. How could he? He would not share her burden, because his, more than the Calamity, had just become a Princess unable to do the very thing she had been born to do.
She withdrew her hand from the sword and held it against her chest, gathering the courage to say what she knew she must always say. But her words, her eyes, were fixed on the Hero, rather than her father.
"Nothing's changed. I feel nothing."
Destiny was finally staring her in the eye. And she couldn't stand the sight of him.