There was never a time when he was not aware of her. He did, after all, hope to follow in his father's footsteps. Not just in knighthood, but in the highest honour that was becoming a Royal Guard. Hers, to be precise, as his father had been her mother's and was now her father's.

But he could not remember the Princess before she turned sombre, no matter how much his father assured him that it had been so. There were moments, of course. Over the years, he'd seen her smile, heard her voice in animate discussions he tried not to pry on. She was, he had to admit, a distant sort of Princess, not given to the spontaneous conversations and easy smiles her mother was known for. But her burden was heavy, her task daunting and he had never known her to be unkind. So maybe he would sneak a look when he could, or perk his years, or stand a little straighter when she watched the courtyard.

She wasn't why he got it. The sword. He supposes he wanted it - it wasn't a whim, an impulse or the fancy of a little boy who grew up on stories and swords, although he would be lying if he said that his boyish ideas of knighthood hadn't played a part. Maybe that's why he doesn't speak about it so much, even when she asks. In the end he took it because he was afraid, but everyone else was more. Because it was his duty.

Mum hadn't come home. He didn't know where she'd gone, but he knew she had taken the baby and hadn't come back. He'd waited home for her – impatient, angry, pacing – but he'd waited because father had asked him to. But when father came back, and told him that they'd found her horse, dead, by the marsh, he was done waiting. He'd strapped his sword – not The Sword, not yet, but a sword – to his back and he'd been out the door without a word.

A dead horse, missing bodies, uneven tracks. He knew them for what they were – signs of a monster attack. He'd already seen too many of those, even then, and what the after looked like. In walking, at least he had something to focus on, other than the nausea that came in waves and left him gelid and sweating.

They had searched for them, as dusk fell and night rose. They searched into the night, as their small party – friends and neighbours – dwindled to even fewer as the night wore on. And as they left, because they were scared or tired or worrying about their family at home, he'd hated them all for cowards and told father so, even as he wiped his eyes dry. He wouldn't cry, he told himself. He didn't cry, he would tell himself later. She hadn't cried either, when her mother had been taken and the whole kingdom had watched her grief.

Father had told him it was wrong to hate them. That they had families, that it wasn't fair to them. But father was a better man than him and a man at that. He'd known fear before. Maybe not as pressing, not as all consuming as he felt it in that moment, but it was no stranger to him. Unlike the boy who would be a Hero, who had yet to make its acquaintance or know its name. And short on knowing what it was, he mistook for hate and directed it at their friends.

They would find them when the sky turned pink, bloody and drenched, ensconced in the crags, the lizalfos drooling and jumping in anticipation of their deaths. All his life, he'd trained to fight with precision. It left him at the first sight of green. He hadn't learned rage before that day either, so when he was done, he mistook the look on his father's face for a job well done.

Even then, after the first wave of relief had evaporated at the sound of his mother's tears and broken pleas for the baby's life, the Sword was not on his mind. That came only after, during the long days and the longer nights where father cared for mum, cold and feverish at once, coughing too had to breathe, but not hard enough to awaken and he tended to the baby, hollow and silent and refusing the broth she clearly needed.

So he'd hold her and bounce her, in that way he'd seen mum do and that always set her giggling, and when that didn't work, he thought to sing to her, but he only knew the songs he'd learned from the guards at the Castle and that just didn't seem right. Instead, he'd settled on stories, the ones mum had told him ages ago, when she would call him "my little hero" and ruffle his hair as she tended his never fading bruises - and he'd let her, if no one was looking.

He told her of 10,000 years ago. Of a powerful princess and a brave hero who had defeated a great evil. Of how they met, again and again, across the ages and aeons, different and yet the same, whenever Hyrule needed them. And he told her that the Princess was true and one day, he would be her knight.

But during the days, in the castle and in the town, the story of the attack had spread.

"This close to Castletown," they'd say. "Never before," they'd whisper, "the monsters are getting bolder."

"An omen."

"A sign, of the Calamity."

"The Princess, has she..."

"Poor thing, prays all day, but not a wisp of light. And no Hero has appeared."

Without the need for orders, the soldiers had practised harder, stood shaper, joked less. The King had frowned and been more irascible than usual. And the Princess had gone, to grow thinner and weary and yet sadder as she did when she prayed. And in the middle of it all, in his mind and his soul – who now knew fear and anger – a seed had taken root.

He was not unaware of his reputation. Too strong for his frame, too young for his position, too skilled for his training. Too sure of his path. He could not remember a time when he didn't think of her as his fate.

And he would turn the word over and over in his mind, because it almost sounded silly to him, to put it like that. He'd put it down to tradition. His father had guarded her mother, just like his grandfather before him had served the Royal Family. It had always seem right to him, certain even, that her protection would fall to him.

It was then that for the first time, the oddity of his existence had left him pondering. Surrounded by loving parents and the praise of his peers, he'd been happy to just be and satisfied with what he meant to become – a knight. Hero was the stuff of stories. But if the Calamity was coming and the Princess was true, where did that left him?

It lingered in his mind, on those days and night when his mum slowly regained her strength and her smile, and baby Aryll relearned her voice and her appetite. When he trained in a courtyard that grew louder and murmurs of the Calamity died in down and the Princess reappeared (thinner and weary and sadder). But the frown on the King did not ease and while the monsters did not attempt to strike so close again, neither did they leave.

Hyrule was becoming dangerous, the fabled Hero was yet to show his face, and Link seethed. Outwardly, everything was fine. He practised in courtyard as diligently as before – which is to say not as often as he should, because the monsters outside were harder and they didn't hold back on him. "You have great discipline when you choose it," his Captain had said to him. It had taken his father to make him understand that was no compliment at all.

At home, he helped dad with chores- mum had never fully regained all her strength – so he did the cooking and tended the horses, which wasn't truly much of a chore, and looked after that pink bokoblin of a sister, which was something of one, like the time when she had waddled out, pointed at the new mare and triumphantly proclaimed her "Brush". He'd tried to explain that a grooming tool was no proper name, but his father had laughed and declared her named, and Link had nearly disowned his father, his sister and all horses, which only seemed to amuse him further.

But when the moon was high and the house was dark, his nights were taken by sleeplessness. Hyrule might have moved on, but he hadn't. Neither had the monsters. And while all knew it, none but the King and the sad princess seemed to wish to see it. And when he slept, he saw mum again and Aryll, bloody and drenched, and he would see father and his Captain and Mipha. But their eyes would stare beyond him, the lizalfos would dance and the light within the Princess would flicker and vanish.

And he couldn't bear the thought of it coming to pass. Of a lifetime of watching it, over and over again, the broken remains of those who fell to monsters and the pain of those they left behind. Hylia forgive him, but her Hero was late and he didn't have it in him to be like the Princess – fervently praying herself raw for a spark to her light. She was relentless in her faith. He was far too scared to wait.

So he looked into the stories for clues and he looked to the Princess for strength – because he all his life he had studied to be a knight and didn't know what made a hero but a sword.

And so a sword he set to find. Little by little, story by story, rumour by rumour. By day, whatever time was not taken with his practise and his chores, he devoted to exploring the cliffs and the mountains and the rivers. By night, when the house slept, he'd scribble by moonlight, taking note of whispers and tales, crossing places off his map, planning his next route.

And Aryll would stick her tongue out when he left, sometimes for days, and mum would frown when he arrived – banged, bruised and scratched – and father would tell her she shouldn't worry and he was becoming a man, while his face betrayed his words. But what could he tell them? "I am looking for a Sword, to become a Hero"? At a loss to explain, Link had begun to learn his silence.

Within, in that place in his mind he was not so vain as to admit existed, he hoped. That Hylia had given him his strength for a reason, that his skill had a purpose, that this search had an end. Some days, when the sun was warm, the breeze was soft and he was feeling particularly satisfied, he dared to imagine how it might be to hold it. How proud mum and dad would look, how even little Aryll may be awed into stillness. How the Captain might pat his back, impressed at his discipline for once, and Mipha...well. He blushed, as he always did these days when he thought of her and that last Summer in Lanayru.

He'd think about the King and those lines on brow, perpetually etched in worry, and wonder if they my finally ease. But mostly, he'd think of the solemn Princess, and it would fill him with hope. For himself, yes, but for her most of all, who had spend her life in search of a sign she was yet to receive. He would tell her of the sword and then maybe, the sad Princess might smile once more.

And in hoping for that, he would hope for much more. That by her side, he might be strong enough, brave enough. That despite his youth, he might yet make himself, well, enough. Enough to stare down this Calamity that approached. Enough to beat it. To end the monsters. To save Hyrule.

To keep them safe.

An ending, at last, the Goddess had been so kind as to grant him, after making him lose his way too many times to count, in that forest so deep, the sun only reached it in droplets.

And for all his hope, he wouldn't admit to, and for all his fear, that had long driven him, for all his certainty she was his duty to protect, he was never as awed as when he realized the Sword had been waiting for him.

If he expected Hylia's voice, he was to be as disappointed as the Princess. But the Sword, the Sword did greet him, in the only way it knew how – flashes, images of others like himself, maybe others of himself, who the sword had taken, across centuries and millennia. And by his side, another like her, bright as the setting sun. And for the briefest of moments, he saw her – the one he knew – calling, solemn and sad, like she always was, but he couldn't make out her words.

And then the Great Tree, who had berated him for his lateness, looked at him and sighed and just like that, it was asleep again. And he had sat there like an oaf, waiting for the tree to wake up or for the Sword to tell him what he was supposed to do now that he was a Hero, but everything was quiet, except for the little koroks, and they didn't know what he was supposed to do either. So he came home.

It was not the celebratory reception that could be expected at the arrival of the Hero. Although not seen for 10,000 years, the sword had a way of being recognized. So when he silently laid it on the dinner table, it required no further explanation. His father had stood up and sat down repeatedly, paced the room in a circle, until finally settling for the bed, where he'd bury his head in his hands and said nothing at all. But mum, mum had gasped, wide eyed and pale, and simply whispered "why?"

"Because I had to," was all that he could tell her, because as soon as he spoke she was holding him and her face was wet and he knew the truth would only break her heart. So he just held her back for a very long time and let her ruffle his hair when they were done.

"Go to bed, Link. We'll talk about this in the morning," his father finally told him. He did, because he might be the Hero but dad's was still dad, and Aryll got a kiss on the forehead on his way there, as he did every night. She crinkled her nose, but didn't wake up. Maybe it was for the best.

Sleep didn't come, but he must have faked it well enough because for the first time in his life, he could hear his parents argue. Hushed, ugly words - that although he's old enough to know are coming from fear, sound very much like anger - and accusations about "your stories" and "your examples" that linger until the sounds of tears and apologies take over.

In the morning, his parents are grave and there are questions about where and why and how and he talks of a deep forest and protecting Hyrule and that it was waiting for him, because that's as much as he feels that he can say. And then there's talks of duty and obligation and informing the King and his father is writing a note while mum fusses over his clothes, as if all the other times the King has seen him he wasn't scuffed.

He wants to tell them that the Sword that is currently leaning against the foot of his bed changes nothing. If anything, it's making his destiny come sooner - that he was always going to be a knight, always going to defend Hyrule, always be there to protect the Princess. Which is why he doesn't understand why mum, who won't even look at it, and father, who won't look anywhere else, are being so weird about it.

So he side eyes the sword as he finishes breakfast and thinks to himself that, truth to be told – which he won't, because they are being weird and he has this feeling that the sword has been side eyeing him since he took it – maybe things are a little changed.

He looks at his dad and for a moment almost spills everything – that he did it because he doesn't want to lose them, doesn't want to see the aftermath of monsters any more, but that Hylia never spoke to him and that the Tree was disappointed and he couldn't hear the Princess. Only the sword seemed to take him.

Instead, he stuffs his mouth with warm porridge to put out the cold in his stomach, when his father tells him "I would never want it to be you, kid. But don't think for a moment I'm not proud," and then he's hugging him as tight as he hugged mum.

Later, much later, he would be able to put to words – slowly, hesitantly – this change that he had started to feel even then. That when he set out the door that day, his head held high, a soldier's walk, it was also the first time he ever felt truly alone. But he needed to look strong, stay silent, because mum and dad were acting as if they'd lose him and if anyone knew the things the sword had shown him... Hyrule, blood red, covered in a shadow so much bigger than he ever imagined... hope would be gone.

The road to the Castle was not long, but it was made in silence, broken only by his father's occasional glances.

"You'll do good," he tells him. "You know the words."

He does and it's not those words that concern him. It's the thing on the pit of his stomach, that tells him that she'll take one look at him and know him for the fraud he is. A boy who stole a Hero's destiny, because he was too afraid to wait, too scared of grief.

At the Castle, however, in the empty throne hall where he had been taken, only the King had awaited him. He understood the trappings of a necessary precaution, or maybe he didn't quite believe he had it either, this sword of legend. Regardless, he had told his tale to the King, or as much as he thought should be said, and he had unsheathed his sword and gone to one knee and said all the words that needed saying, of loyalty to King and Kingdom.

And the boy who would be a knight understood the need for them and said them willingly and truthfully. But the boy who was a Hero stirred within and knew that these words and this sword were not the King's to have.

Her eventual entrance was in a cacophony of sound not unlike the cannons of Akkala. Outside, someone shouted a string of names and titles dwarfed only by her father's. Within, the sword exploded in a mess of lights and chimes and, for the first time, words. Her name, said in that bell like tone that he would grow to know so well, that drowned out even the king and his booming voice.

She was light. Not blinding, nowhere near bright, but a soft sort of shimmering that seemed to be there and then not. Her arrival snaps him into existence in a way he'll never, ever, be able to explain and she'll never be able to comprehend. Maybe because she's only a mortal sort of Goddess and he's only a fraction of too many souls that have done this since time was new.

"Link," she sounds his name and she speaks for the Goddess, he knows, "I am glad to finally meet the sword's chosen hero."

He kneels, because he doesn't know the protocol for this, but he knows that this sword is hers, not the King's, and that his strength and skill and the way time stops in battle are things he had only received from Hylia for safekeeping, until he could give them back to her. He knows this in his bones and in memories he doesn't have, of lives he never lived, and he knows it in the sword in his hands, vibrating in anticipation of her presence.

He is the Hero of Hyrule. He just needed her arrival to become it.

He can't look away, as a tidal wave of thoughts rise to his throat and die on his tongue – that he understands now that he couldn't hear her in the forest because her power is not yet awakened. That he knows who she is, that the sword recognizes her and that she shouldn't give up hope either.

But then she's speaking again, "You kneel to the King, not the Princess."

He's all but forgotten about the King, but he stands anyway, fearful that he has been impolite.

"We are already finished with those formalities, Zelda," her father answers, "I think he only wishes to show you the sword of legend. Go on."

She glances at him and the look in her eyes freeze him. Can she not feel it? The way the sword hums and glows in her presence? Can she not tell that yesterday, he was just a boy with a sword, but now she's here and he's awakened?

He wavers. Because she can't. It's written all across her face. It's in her eyes, so full of too many things that look like pain, but empty of recognition. Not of the soldier who would be a knight, he's not so full of himself that he would expect a Princess to take notice, but of the Him that he has just become. She's staring at him, but she can't see him. And her words ring in the silence of his mind.

"The Sword's chosen hero."

"The Sword's."

Not the Goddess'.

He pushes the sword towards her, because maybe that is what she needs too and her eyes lock on to it. "Take it. Please," he prays silently, to the living reminder of how little prayers can mean.

She moves, as if in a trance, and he holds his breath as she reaches, mesmerized by the path of her hand, until fingers finally brush steel and the sword sings…

"Stop", her father roars, his nearly jumps, and he wants to curse them both when her hand retreats. "Only the one chosen by the sword may touch it, otherwise, it shall sap all who attempt it of their life force."

"Mother said..." she looks dazed, almost as if she is collecting herself. "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."

He scolds his face into a form that will conceal his thoughts at this exchange, as he tries to untangled them himself. His fears return in full force, but there's anger too, and betrayal – at his King who would think he would ever recklessly endanger his daughter.

But most of all, it's the way she believes her father – the way her hand jumped -

"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?"

- and hovers, at a careful distance when she returns it.

She does not trust him.

He watches her pretend she tries, go through the motions of giving him a chance, and he realizes that maybe, she saw him exactly for what he was – a scared, stupid boy, too full of stories. A thief of destiny, who in his rashness, his fear, his pride, robbed her of the hero she deserved.

"It's polite of her", he thinks without gratitude. He'd rather have her honesty than continue this charade.

Her presence, the sound of her breath, suffocate him. He wants to run, leave this room, go back into that forest and leave the sword where he found it, by the tree that tried to warn him. But as soon as thinks it, he knows it's too late. She's made him just by being and now he can't unmake himself. He's already the Hero she never wanted.

She steps back, and for a moment he can almost breathe again, until he meets her eyes. Green, as that dark forest, hard and cold as the statues she prays to. Unforgiving.

"Nothing's changed. I feel nothing."

She turns, and her light goes with her, and he's left there in the shadow of a destiny he cannot meet, of a spark he's failed to ignite.

The Goddess has finally judged him. And she has found him wanting.