A note from the Hime no Argh—

It comes at least once every fic, usually several times; my fellow writers probably know what I'm talking about—that chapter. The one you just can't finish, no matter what you do. This has been that chapter for me. At long last I managed to finish it up, and ye god am I glad to be done with it. Sorry for the long wait; it was the unfortunate result of that awful disease, writer's block. I think it's broken now.

Much as I'd like to promise that the next chapter won't be so long in coming, I shouldn't tempt fate; however, I'm reasonably certain that the wait between chapters will be shorter. At least I'll give it my every effort. It will probably be some time before I go back to weekly updates; for now, expect that new chapters will be out within a two-week interval. You can check my bio for any changes; I'll keep it updated on my writing status.

Thanks for your patience, your readership, and your reviews. Apologies to my beta, SSJ, for not sending the chapter ahead of time—I wanted to go ahead and get it posted. I didn't even read this one over, so please forgive any technical errors.

Chapter 13
Queen

Messengers went out at dawn, to spread the word across the Hylian Kingdom that for the second time within a week, a royal personage had died. The official message would say that King Harkinian III had wasted away of grief over the death of his wife. Only Zelda and a dozen or so palace workers knew the truth, though many would come to suspect that Harkinian had, indeed, poisoned and killed himself.

Harkinian was entombed in the Hall of Kings, as was tradition, though Zelda wished he could be buried with his wife. She attended the funeral with the most impassive face she could muster. She could not afford to show any sign of weakness, not at this time, not when the Castletown gossip mills were already whispering that Zelda's reign must be cursed. A prophecy, a war, two dead monarchs—she didn't blame them.

It hurt that she couldn't afford to mourn. Crying would have helped.

The morning after her father's funeral was dreary and gray, as though the goddesses had joined in the kingdom's mourning for Harkinian and Leona. Zelda woke shortly before sunrise, scrubbed her face, braided her hair, put on a gray shift—she would wear dark or pale colors until mourning was officially over—and left her room, before any of her attendants could come to see she was awake.

She descended the turret and headed to the chapel in the east wing of the palace. The halls were nearly deserted but for a few tired-looking palace workers, all dressed in mourning colors, many ashen, their eyes red-rimmed.

A pair of maids were just finishing sweeping out the chapel, blocking the doorway as they talked quietly about the war. "Excuse me," Zelda interrupted them politely when they appeared not to notice she wanted to pass. The maids started and got of the way quickly, curtsying. One of them murmured, "Your Majesty."

Zelda halted in her tracks and looked at her, startled. The young woman blinked at her. "Did you need something?"

"No—no. It's all right." Zelda shook her head. "It's just—strange, to be called that."

The maid smiled bravely. "That's all right, Your Majesty. I felt the same when I married and took my husband's name. You just have to get used to it, that's all."

Zelda tried a smile. "I suppose you're right. Thank you." The maids curtsied again and closed the doors to the chapel behind her.

The chapel was quite small, built for the benefit of those too old or sick to go to Castletown to pray at the Temple of Time. In a way, Zelda preferred it to the temple—it was cozy and intimate, and brilliantly lit at dawn, its color-tinted windows facing the east. At the altar was a replica of the sculpture that stood in the Great Foyer, the Trinity of the Goddesses. Zelda approached the altar to stare up into the carved faces of three goddesses—one stern, one gentle, one violent. She curtsied deferentially, then took a seat on one of the pews.

Can I really do this? she thought, gazing blindly out the windows behind the altar that faced the east, where the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. Zelda smiled humorlessly. It's not even a question of whether I can do this or not. I have to do this.

Part of her almost regretted never marrying any of her suitors. At least her mother and father had had one another for support and guidance. She had no one but herself. A kingdom at war, her parents dead, her best friends far away…she almost believed the rumors herself that her reign was cursed.

"I can't do this," she whispered aloud in the silent chapel.

"No one else can do it better," a voice intruded on her thoughts. "No one else can do it at all."

Zelda closed her eyes, then opened them again. "Sheik, show yourself," she said tiredly.

He landed on the floor between her and the altar, casting an almost careless glance back at the stone goddesses. "Is this not what you wanted?" He turned his eyes to her, sounding genuinely curious. "At one time you prayed for this, for sovereignty unshared."

"That was months ago," Zelda said wearily. "I never wanted it at this price."

"The price of a kingdom," Sheik said dismissively.

"Don't speak of my parents' death in such terms," she said sharply, a flare of anger penetrating the numbness she'd felt since she'd found Harkinian dead in his bedroom. "They were people, not just a king and queen. They had dreams and hopes of their own. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Why should it? They were not the ones I served. If anything, they stood in the way of my rightful mistress." He gazed at her unflinchingly. "In your service, they were enemies, as much as any Gerudo."

Zelda stood, heart thudding in her ears. "I never asked for your service," she said tightly. "Nor do I want it now. Get out, Sheik."

His eyes widened slightly. "Are you dismissing me, Your Majesty?"

"Don't call me that."

"It is what you are."

"I don't care!" Her voice rang sharply in the empty chapel. With some effort, Zelda lowered it. "Go. Just…go."

His eyes never left hers. "I'll go. But you will see me again, Your Majesty. You need me."

When he had left, Zelda dropped back onto the pew, resting her face in her palms. She felt more exhausted than she had in a long time, and for the moment, not at all certain she could face the future.

"Your Majesty?"

She looked behind her. Impa peered in from the chapel doors. "So this is where you are," the Sheikah said in her usual businesslike tone, bustling down the aisle. She placed a cool, dry hand against Zelda's forehead. "Your attendants were frightened when they didn't find you in your room this morning," she said quietly. "I diverted them to other tasks, but you'd best go assure the palace that you're still here."

Zelda smiled humorlessly. "Did they think I killed myself? I wouldn't have the courage."

"Don't say things like that," Impa said sharply. "It's the last thing we need, for the kingdom to think our sole surviving member of the Royal Family is having such dangerous thoughts. Stand up, go out there, and be strong! Your people need you. And I shouldn't have to tell you any of this, either. I would have thought you'd take your mother's dying words to heart."

That hit home. Zelda got to her feet, brushing off her skirts. "I am sorry," she said quietly. "I'll go."

Impa sighed. "I don't blame you. I certainly don't envy your position." She rested her hand briefly on Zelda's shoulder. "Anything you need, anything I can do for you, I will," the Sheikah said seriously. "I'm yours, Your Majesty, for as long as you need me."

Zelda squeezed Impa's hand with hers, throat to tight to speak. "Thank you," she said at last when she'd gotten herself under control.

Impa nodded. "First things first," she said as they left the chapel together. "Your advisors want to meet with you. They have some suggestions to ease the transition of rulership, and they have reports from the border."

Zelda nodded. "You called them my advisors, Impa. Do they think of themselves that way?"

Impa met her eyes. "I don't know. You are their queen, though the idea may be…new to them."

"So I thought," Zelda said distantly. She had a feeling this would be her most important meeting with the Council in her entire reign.

They halted outside the double doors of the conference room, carved with likenesses of Nayru, the goddess of wisdom. "I'll tell you what I told your mother when she first appeared before the Council as the king's wife," Impa said, straightening creases out of the bodice of Zelda's gown. "Dogs can smell fear."

Zelda had to stifle unexpected laughter. "Impa, that's a terrible comparison!"

Impa's crimson eyes gleamed wickedly. "If it puts Her Majesty at ease," she said innocently.

Zelda smiled a genuine smile for what felt like the first time in weeks. "Thank you." Taking a breath, she faced the doors with squared shoulders. "Announce me?"

"Of course." Impa threw open the double doors and stepped in. "Her Majesty, Queen Zelda."

The men of the Council all rose as Zelda entered the room, her face schooled into an impassive mask. She knew all of these men, had known them since she was a little girl. Now the child they had once petted and spoiled was their queen. Were they afraid, with the kingdom in the hands of a seventeen year old girl? She was.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she said quietly. "I regret the need to have to meet under these circumstances."

"As do we all, Your Majesty." Lamorac, High Minister, was the oldest member of the Council and known for his loyalty to Harkinian; she was deeply gratified to hear her new title from the man who had once bounced her on his knee as a little girl. Grief had deepened the lines of his face, and there was a catch in his throat as he went on, "Their Royal Majesties' deaths are a tragedy from which the Hylian Kingdom will not soon recover."

Zelda nodded soberly. "With your faith, gentlemen…" She paused, thinking of her father's face as she had seen it many times, stern and grave in front of his Council; smiling at the content of his wife and daughter and kingdom. Her mother on her deathbed, telling Zelda her time had come. You were ready for this from the cradle, she had said.

Zelda looked into the faces of the men of her Council. "With your faith, I will assume my father's place," she said firmly. "My place. Sovereignty, and everything it entails, is rightfully mine. I will do my duty."

Lamorac was the first to bow, a gnarled hand fisted over his heart. The other men followed suit, and did not resume their seats until Zelda took hers, distinctly relieved.

"Your permission to begin this session of the Council, Your Majesty?" Lamorac inquired. When Zelda nodded, he stood again and cleared his throat. "In lieu of the deaths of our royal personages, the business of the kingdom must go on. We have reports and dispatches from General Alaster, as well as a new roster of the dead and missing. In addition, Perrem has a few words to say about the coronation of our new Queen."

Perrem, the Master of Ceremonies, stood, shuffling a stack of papers in his hands. Zelda had known him, too, since she was young; he had a constant air of harassment and seemed thrive on disaster at stately affairs. He stared at his papers as he spoke, glasses perched on the end of his nose. "Regarding the coronation of the queen, it would be unwise to rush into such a ceremony without due time of mourning for Their Majesties Harkinian and Leona, may the goddesses bless their passing. We therefore ask if, after an appropriate period during which Her Majesty Zelda will serve unofficially as Queen of Hylia, Her Majesty has any thoughts as to a proper date for—"

"Midsummer," Zelda said without thinking. All eyes turned to her; she flushed and drew herself up in her chair. "My mother's period of mourning was to officially end on Midsummer Day," she said politely. "As my father's death followed so closely, it would not be inappropriate for his mourning to end on the holiday as well. It's my coming-of-age as well, not to mention the start of the new year."

"A symbolic new beginning," Alain, the Less Minister, suggested. "This is a joyous ceremony, fitting to mark the transition of a tragic, violent year to, goddesses willing, a year of peace and celebration."

"Yes, it's fitting enough," Perrem said distractedly, now scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment and muttering seemingly to himself. "Little time to plan…set my people immediately…yes, we should have the soldiers home, those who can be spared…" He glanced up at Zelda, giving her a scrutinizing look. "Her Majesty will need attire for the occasion."

"I trust your judgment in the affair," Zelda said patiently. "I'll leave the details to you. Let me know if you have need of me." She glanced at Lamorac. "What else?"

"Just the dispatches from General Alaster, Your Majesty."

Jolon, captain of the Palace Guard and Alaster's go-between, spoke up; he too had a stack of papers in his hand. "Alaster sent word of another mass attack on one of our forts," he said quietly. "Watersedge in the south was attacked by a full four tribes of Gerudo. The soldiers and knights stationed at the fort managed to drive them away, but we took heavy losses. I have a roster of the dead and missing…and…" He cleared his throat.

Zelda stared at him, noting his clear discomfort. "And what?"

Jolon stared carefully at the polished wood of the table. "Forgive me, but I took the liberty of…of speaking to Your Majesty's attendance when I recognized names on the roster. It's known that Your Majesty is—acquainted—with one of the Silver Knights and a soldier in Second Company, also a Gerudo…"

Zelda's throat went dry. "What?"

"It's known that they were both stationed at Watersedge at the time of the attack. There was a squad that went missing—captured, Captain Pavel believes, by the Gerudo. The soldier of Second Company is among them."

He passed Zelda a sheet of names belonged to the missing, who stared at it without really seeing.

"As for the knight…he's listed on the roster of the dead."

For a moment Zelda was sure that she hadn't heard right, that it was a mistake or all some horrible joke—Ganondorf captured and Link dead, it wasn't possible, they were good fighters both and besides, they would've looked after each other at Watersedge. But then another piece of parchment was pressed into her hands, bearing the names of the dead, and Zelda's eyes found Link's immediately, listed under the Silver Knights' losses. And here, on the first sheet—ten men or so missing, all from Second Company, Ganondorf's name among them…

"This can't be right," Zelda said clearly. "This…" She looked at the sheets again. Both of them? In the same week as her parents? She wanted to laugh. It was a joke.

Lamorac was looking at her with considerable alarm. "Your Majesty…"

"High Minister, my parents are dead," she told him, meeting his eyes directly. "These—" She tapped the paper, "—are my closest friends. The goddesses are not this cruel."

Lamorac gripped her hand, his gnarled fingers holding hers with bone-crushing tightness. "Fetch a healer," he snapped to a footman waiting at the door. "Her Majesty is in shock."

"I'm not in shock," Zelda protested. "Nothing's wrong with me. It's these papers that are wrong." Her vision was blurred when she looked down at them again, so much that she couldn't make out the names. Tears, she thought in surprise, rubbing at her eyes with her free hand. Why should she be crying over a list of names that was so clearly wrong? She thought she had cried all the tears in her, the night after her father's death.

Unless…was it possible…?

A tightness seemed to obstruct her chest until she could barely breathe. She knew there were words being spoken to her, people around her, but they weren't penetrating through the haze in her mind. Link dead, Ganondorf missing, quite possibly dead himself—the Gerudo were not forgiving. Her mother, slipping peacefully into death in front of her eyes. Her father, dead with poison in his veins that he himself had ingested.

Her head swam, and blackness closed in from the edges of her vision.

The next she knew, a feeling of coolness was sweeping through her veins, pushing away the sickness and penetrating the black haze. She was lying on her back on the floor of the Councilroom, staring at the ceiling. A young healer she vaguely recognized knelt at her side, steely-gazed, gripping her hand; the coolness had come from her, then. Impa knelt at her other side, brushing hair away from her forehead.

"Your Majesty?"

There was something she needed to do. "I've got to go to the chapel," Zelda murmured, pushing herself up; the healer and Impa grasped her arms to steady her and help her to her feet.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Impa said sharply. She glanced at the healer.

"Bed rest," the young woman said firmly. "Maybe something to clear her head."

"We will, of course, resume at another time," Lamorac offered. He and the other Councilmen stood a respectful distance away.

"No," Zelda said just as firmly, though her legs were shaky. "That is—we can resume, yes, but—I need to go to the chapel. I need to look at their faces."

"Do you want company?" Impa asked worriedly, still gripping her arm tightly as though she feared she would fall over.

"No." Zelda gently disentangled herself. "No company."

She managed the short trip to the chapel on her own, leaving her worried attendant and Councilmen behind. The fog had cleared but the tightness in her chest was still there, a band of iron that seemed to obstruct thought and action as much as her breathing. She didn't know what to think or do with it.

She let the heavy doors of the chapel swing silently shut behind her and approached the stone goddesses, her shoes tapping on the marble floor. The goddesses' faces were as blank and unwavering as ever when she stopped before the altar and stared up at them, feeling rather as though she were carved of stone herself.

She didn't know how long she stood there, motionless, silent, watching their faces. At last she spoke.

"I tried to be strong. After my parents, that is. I knew that it would happen someday, though I never expected nor wanted it so soon. Still I tried my best, for their sake and the sake of the kingdom. But this...this is too much."

She waited. The faces did not change; no voice answered her, offering words of consolation and comfort.

Zelda drew in a shaky breath. "How do you expect me to go on now? My parents are dead, one of my best friends is dead, and it's probably only a matter of time for the other. I'm not strong enough to handle this and the entire kingdom. I thought when I took the throne, I'd at least have my friends' support, if not my parents', and now—now I have nothing, no one to help me, no one to stand by me, no one to even remind me that I'm human—" Her voice broke with a half-laugh, half-sob.

There was no sign or acknowledgment; the goddesses remained silent and aloof, uncaring of the pain of a single mortal. Without warning a terrible anger swept over her; she dug her nails into her palms until she drew blood. What right did they have to remain silent in the face of her accusations, beings who watched the lives of humans come and go as though they were the lives of ants? They wove the threads of life and death, they guided the currents of peace and strife and the paths of mortals—they decided who lived or died!

"This is your fault!" she exploded, not caring what retribution the goddesses extracted for her words. "You're not merciful, you're heartless, cruel—you've taken everything from me!"

The iron in her chest constricted to the point of pain, the fog threatened to overtake her again, but through the rage and hurt she heard a quiet voice behind her speak.

"Not everything."

For a moment she froze, wondering wildly whether the goddesses had seen fit to actually answer her. But no—this voice was young and male, and she knew it.

Slowly, slowly, holding her breath, Zelda turned.

Link stood in the threshold of the chapel doors, skin darkened from the desert sun, a makeshift bandage wrapped around his upper arm, his tunic dirty and streaked with blood, but his smile, weary and worn as the rest of him, was still his smile.

"Hello, Zelda."

She was in his arms before she knew what was happening, her face buried against his shoulder, his arms so tight around her that she could barely breathe. And beyond even her utter joy that he was alive, there was wonder and bewilderment and dizzy gladness that here, in his arms, she felt as though she'd had come home.

To be continued.