Every Shard of My Heart Belongs to You: Fait Accompli
Zelda rose from her velvet chair and stood at the edge of the balcony, her arms resting at her sides. She clenched her fists so tightly that her fingers turned white. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, calming herself.
Was this mad woman her mother? She did not know. For eighteen years her mother had been dead to her. She did not know why. She could not even fathom why. But she sympathized with a woman who could not act of her own free will. Had she not spoken the same words? She had said to Impa, "Royalty are simply slaves dressed in silk with full stomachs."
She felt so strangely connected with her, as if burning her alive would prematurely cremate a part of Zelda as well. Silvanna was wayward and headstrong, her actions rooted in eccentricity and romantic idealism. Within Zelda's substance of being there was a comparable inclination to sentimentality and emotional bias in allotting judgment and decision-making. A woman's heart is a fickle organ, and she knew that to follow it unrestrained by reason would be but folly. In order to promote a contrary pattern of impartial thinking, Zelda deemed it necessary to cut from her breast the half of her heart responsible for her foolish propensities. This amputation would be manifest in the execution of Silvanna Hylia Harkinian.
It was with courage, the courage of her loyal guardian and hero, that her wisdom was secured.
"It must be done," she whispered. Link stood behind her as she rose. "The crown..." her voice emanated, "does not grant pardon unto the prisoner."
The gallery erupted once more into mob-like disorder in favor of the princess's decision. It had been so long since they had witnessed an execution. Their march to the stake was a river of unruly pomp, a tributary of the imagination of revolutionaries.
She glanced over her shoulder at Link, searching for his approval. His expression replied on behalf of his lips. His brows were furrowed slightly as he nodded his consent. He sat so motionless that he scarcely appeared to breathe. He was a man of naturally reserved expression. Only upon severe provocation did he act. Whether in anger, displeasure, or even love, his heart was not easily read, but at that moment Zelda knew there was something unsettling brooding behind his eyes.
A young guard approached and bowed. "You might have a better view of the execution from the south tower, milady."
"I do not wish to see it," she replied curtly.
"Very well, milady. I have for you a message from the chancellor. At your convenience, he desires to hold council with yourself and the royal advisors."
"Inform him that I shall be with him in a moment."
"Aye, milady." He bowed in veneration and shuffled off. Zelda intended to follow, but dress first, as the morning's events had left her yet in her nightgown and robe. She felt quite ridiculous. At least a servant had brought Link a moist cloth with which to wipe the blood from his face.
The day was cool, and though the sky was overcast, the atmosphere was exceptionally bright, as often occurs on hazy spring mornings. It was as though the humidity captured sunlight in droplets suspended in the air and kissed gently upon one's face. Before such a scene Link stood, gazing out into the emptied court, his back to Zelda's departing back. He did not turn even to speak.
"Did she harm you, Zelda?" His tone was mild.
Zelda stopped and looked at him. She could tell he was still sore by the stiffness with which he stood, his figure a sable silhouette against the luminous haze. "No, she didn't touch me except to keep me from screaming. She scarcely even spoke.'"
"And Klave?"
"He did no harm, but only frightened me."
He said nothing more. He watched the first wisps of smoke rising into the air like a hand weakly extended towards the heavens searching in futility for an iota of mercy while the townspeople joined the court in the unseemly celebration of the well-anticipated bonfire. It was a glimpse into hell.
He tarried there long after Zelda had left, and even after the last flames subsided and the few lingering peasants dispersed. As his head was bowed over his folded hands he felt ill—not a physical illness, but an infection of the mind that poisoned the security of his being. Guilt. Guilt is a common sickness, in most cases easily remedied by a confession or apology, but Link's guilt was of a different nature. The origin of his guilt was no minor error of behavior against another, but a laceration of his own honor. It was the virus of secret burning guilt that can breed a cancerous tumor of bitterness and shame.
He had failed her.
Over and over he contemplated the multitude of ways he had failed her. Oh how his rage betrayed him! He had allowed his feelings of hatred to fester and ferment so that when at last he stood before Iain Klave he was so drunk from fury he could not stand. His hand drifted subconsciously to his lips, and remembered the feeling of warm blood dripping from his nose. His head still ached from the brutal concussion caused by the powerful swing of the heavy door. Above his brow a small cut revealed where he had hit the floor. If only he had not been so careless, he could have killed Klave. Or that night in the harbor—had he been better prepared, he might have killed him then. Iain and the king would yet live, and Zelda would not be overwhelmed by such suffering and loss or be burdened with so heavy a responsibility as the crown of Hyrule. He might have had the satisfaction of taking Silvanna's last breath from her, instead of witnessing her mockingly surrender it as if by her own will. He could not forget her eyes as she spoke, as if it pleased her to die. In death she had been victorious, because it was the law, which she so brazenly defied, that lit the fire under her feet. "But Hylia yet lives, and shall hereafter!" Her words echoed tauntingly.
Hylia... Hylia would live forever, because Hylia was immortal. It was a name, an ideal, a symbol of all that Silvanna personified. It was her imprudent passion, her self-indulging and inconsiderate character. It was all that Link abhorred. Her body was no more than dust and ash, and yet, she would never die, because Link had not killed her.
He sank to his knees and cried out in anguish.
A/n: (1) "You know as much as I do that royalty are simply slaves dressed in silk with full stomachs." - (Chapter 5, Her Royal Servitude).