A/N: Wow, Thursday really crept up on me. Which is a good thing, since that means that the weekend is almost here!
I'm still looking for a handful more beta readers for an original story I've finished. I've got some wonderful volunteers who are helping me so far, and I'd like just a few more. I'd like to extend a special invitation to ladies who like fantasy and romance and characters who are a hot mess. If you liked Into the Woods, you'd be a great candidate to beta! And of course, this offer is open to anyone: whether you identify as a lady, a gent, or non-binary, if you like reading those kinds of books, and would be interested in giving me feedback (it doesn't even have to be in-depth feedback!), please DM me.
A last note before we dive in: some of you have expressed surprise at the strength of Link's reaction, especially given that he's generally portrayed as pretty stoic. But this is truly an exploration of what the psychological toll is when you're dealing with memory loss and grief. I thought that the questions raised by Mipha were so fascinating that I had to poke at them. Were she and Link in love? What if they were? Or what if they weren't? What if Link can't remember? It would mess with anyone. Not to mention everything Zelda went through, too... but more on that later.
I mean, Majora's Mask was great and all, but BotW presents some really messed up mind f-s as well.
Anyway, that's all from me. Review, favorite, or DM me to let me know if you liked chapter 2. It keeps me going!
"Compassion is knowing our darkness well enough that we can sit in the dark with others. It is never a relationship between the wounded and the healed. It is a relationship between equals."
— Pema Chodron
Purah's lab was warm and comforting. Zelda's gear had kept her sufficiently insulated on the long, chilly hike up, but even still, she was glad for the fire and the warm food, and gladder for the company. Even the glow of friendship couldn't banish the chill in Zelda's heart, though.
Purah and Paya had been gratifyingly pleased to see Zelda. They noticed she was out of sorts immediately, but didn't ask any questions, which Zelda appreciated. After warm soup and a serving of cocoa and an hour of safe conversation, Purah's expression changed, and Zelda knew that the time for pleasantries was over.
She sighed and sat up straighter, mentally preparing for what would come next. Paya caught the shift in mood and her eyes flitted between Purah and Zelda, whose expressions had gone very sober.
"Not that it's not lovely to see you, but what's wrong, princess? Why are you here? Is it Link?" Purah asked, folding her spotted hands in her lap.
"Yes," Zelda said unhappily. She met Purah's eyes. "Link is very unwell. He's distraught, and I can't reach him."
"Wh-why is he upset?" stammered Paya from her seat beside her great-aunt.
Zelda swallowed an explanation about Mipha and the Zoras and everything else. That story was Link's to tell. Not hers. Instead, she settled on the safest explanation. "His memories aren't coming back," she told the gathered Sheikah. Symin was nearby, hovering around the bookshelf and looking on curiously. "He feels adrift. And he blames me for his pain."
"That's understandable, since he was placed in the Sleep of Restoration on your orders." Purah frowned thoughtfully. "Even still. It isn't your fault."
Zelda didn't respond. In truth, she could shoulder the blame for Link's unhappiness. She already shouldered so much fault, what was a little more atop that sum? "I'd wondered if there was anything we can do to help him," she said instead. "That's why I came up here. Since Sheikah technology took his memories away, can it perhaps give them back? More than it already has, anyway."
Purah and Symin exchanged a long look. Zelda didn't like that look. She'd seen it exchanged between Purah and Robbie nearly a century ago in the lab when unhappy results came back from Zelda's tests. She bit back a question and fisted her hands in her lap, waiting.
"Princess," said Purah gently after a long moment, "you left your own memories scattered around Hyrule for him to find. You used your power so that they would bind to him in the hopes that they would help him regain his own memories. You used magic and technology together to help him as much as you could. The rest is out of your hands."
Zelda remembered: After she'd sealed away the Master Sword and temporarily warded the Calamity, she had taken a last, desperate day to return to the places that she'd taken pictures of, and had plucked the memories from her head and sealed them there for Link to find. Then the Sheikah Slate had gone into the Shrine of Resurrection to await Link's awakening - she hadn't been able to bring herself to look at the man floating in the healing bath, as still and lifeless as a corpse. She'd sealed the shrine, said goodbye to Impa, and strode forward to meet her fate.
Memories, Zelda thought, shaking away from her own. Dratted, tricky, cursed things.
"It worked, to an extent," Zelda pointed out when she realized Purah was still waiting for her to speak. "He has memories of the Champions that I didn't leave behind for him."
"That's true," Purah acknowledged. "But the Champions' spirits lingered here for a full century. It's possible that their own memories transferred to important spaces and gave them a foothold for staying in this world. There's nothing more we can do for him. You need to understand that. To think otherwise would be clinging to false hope, and I think we've all had quite enough of that for ten thousand lifetimes."
The words pierced through Zelda's fragile dreams of restoring Link's memories. Her shoulders slumped the slightest bit. Princesses don't slouch, she reminded herself, and sat up straighter, tilting her chin up. Not even when they're disappointed.
"I suppose you're right," she acquiesced unhappily. "And you're quite sure nothing can be done for him?"
Purah's lined, spotted face was crinkled in sympathy.
"I'm sure," said Purah. "It's out of your hands, princess."
Zelda wanted to scrub her hands over her face like she'd seen Link do when he was weary. But she didn't.
Princesses didn't do that sort of thing.
Instead, she summoned the most dignified smile she could manage.
"Very well. Given that Link is currently grieving the loss of - of his memories, what do you think I should do?" she asked. "Should I try to offer counsel so that so he isn't on his own as he works through this? Or perhaps…" her voice caught and she paused, taking a deep breath. "Perhaps it would be best if I left him alone entirely?"
Purah glanced at the yellowing sunlight that trickled in through one smudged window. "He needs you. But it'll be dark soon. While I don't like the thought of Link grieving alone, the sun will be down well before you make it back to town, even if you leave right now. You should stay the night at least. He wouldn't want you wandering around in the darkness on his account."
But she already had, for a century. Zelda shook the thought from her head as she followed Purah's gaze to the window. Though it was only a few hours after noon, the sun was low in the sky. But it was clear and cloudless and not too windy: if she had a lantern, she should be alright once the sun set.
She ignored the lurch in her stomach at the thought of going into blackness alone.
Link needed her, she reminded herself. He'd been brave and fought his way to her through far more frightening conditions. She could be brave, too. For him.
"He was hurting so badly, Purah," Zelda said softly. "I don't want to make it worse."
"At least he sh-showed his feelings to you," said Paya, surprising Zelda with her interjection. "B-back in Kakariko he d-didn't ever express himself to an-anyone."
"If left to linger, grief can be like a poison," Purah added. "It's best not to let it dwell too long in the body. If he's grieving, that means he's healing. You're good for him, princess. You can go back tomorrow."
Zelda thought of the shout that had followed her across the bridge, the shattering of crockery. Her spine straightened.
"I rather think I will go back tonight, actually," she said. "Might I borrow a journal and a lantern? I should be quite alright to walk back if I've a torch to light my way once darkness falls."
"Are you sure princess?" Purah looked uncertain. "It'll get dark soon. Truly, you're welcome here overnight."
Zelda tilted her chin up.
"I am not afraid of the dark," she lied.
Symin made a lantern for Zelda and brought her a journal. She decided to leave her pack at Purah's, thinking she might need the change of clothes at some point. She said her farewells to the Sheikah, and promised to visit again soon. Then she donned her snow gear and ventured back out into the winter, the journal she'd asked for tucked securely inside her quilted doublet.
The view from the lab was breathtaking: the hills and trees were all blanketed in white, with the sky descending from blue to pink above her. And it was cold, so cold it bit at her nose and cheeks. Panting out little gusts of white air, Zelda resigned herself to another long walk, and began to make her way back to Link's lonely little house.
Sunset turned the snow around her golden, then shadows turned it gray. True dark fell as she was passing the farm above the village, and Zelda was glad for the lantern. She was glad she'd lied. Purah and Paya and Symin certainly didn't need to know that Zelda sometimes woke in the pitch blackness, unsure of whether the darkness around her was mere shadow, or the form of the Calamity taunting her, enveloping her.
The Calamity. A hundred years of torture.
And this hike was the first time she' been alone, truly alone, since the day it swallowed her.
The weight of her solitude pressed down on her. Zelda paused, then sighed and rested her back against a tree. She tilted her head back and embraced the feeling of cold bark pressing through her hair and against her scalp. For a hundred years, she'd been part of the Calamity, and yet not. She could feel its emotions, feel its strength wax and wane. She'd been alone except for her prayers, surrounded by a sentient evil that whispered, promised, tried to make her weak.
It was very fortunate that she'd had so many years of practice at prayer before she went into the Calamity. She knew how to pray, knew how to wait. For so long, her only thoughts had been to hold on just a moment longer, just one moment more, to last long enough that even if she died, Link would have a fighting chance...
And then, suddenly in the darkness, she'd felt it, felt the spark that had laid dormant ever since that horrible day at Fort Hateno. She'd reached out with her mind — and there he'd been.
Link. Her light. Alive and awake. And for a moment, his mind had touched hers, pure and bright and as new as the dawn.
Open your eyes, she remembered telling him. Open your eyes.
Zelda slid down the tree to sit in the snow at its base. When she'd instructed Purah and Robbie to carry Link to the Shrine of Resurrection, she hadn't been thinking about the Calamity. Hadn't been thinking about destiny, or Hyrule. She'd been thinking only of Link and keeping him alive. And when he'd woken up, she'd been filled with joy, burning and incandescent. Because he'd survived. He had a second chance at life.
Though she knew that she'd made the right choice for Hyrule, the question still remained… Had she made the right choice for Link? He'd awoken to a strange world, a land that was unfamiliar and broken, and had been told it was his duty to save it. And now that his duty was fulfilled, what came next?
Zelda didn't know. Well, rather, she knew what she wanted. But Link seemed to be falling apart before her very eyes.
A thread of envy swirled within her. When did she get to fall apart?
Princesses didn't fall apart, she reminded herself. And they definitely didn't sit in the snow in the darkness.
Wearily, she clambered back up to her feet, dusted snow off her rump, and continued on her dark, freezing trudge back down the hill.
With the darkness came wind. It didn't whisper in her ears the way the Calamity had, not quite, but it was enough to make her doubt herself. Link had it made it clear he didn't want her around. That he felt he didn't need her. Was she only imposing on him, demanding he give more parts of himself to her when she'd done nothing to earn them?
And yet... He'd always been there when she needed him. Even when she didn't want him. Even when she hated him and hated herself for needing him.
Now it was her turn to be there for him. Even if he hated her for it.
The moon was rising in the sky like a giant, glowing snowflake when Zelda crunched wearily back across the bridge. She was cold and tired, and dreading what awaited her at the house. There was dim firelight shining out through the windows — good. But when Zelda knocked at the door, there was no answer. Less good.
Carefully, she opened the door and poked her head in. "Link?" She looked around. She could see that he'd apparently gone on a rampage of some sort — weapons had been pulled off the walls, pottery had been broken, chairs overturned. Zelda pushed the door open a little further, worry thudding in her chest. "Link?"
He was sitting slumped in front of the dying fire. At the sound of her voice he looked up. He was a mess, his long hair tangled, his eyes red.
"I thought you left," he croaked. Her heart twisted in her chest at how pathetic he was. She had done this. Done it twice over: done it by taking his memories, and done it by leaving him.
"I did," she said, not allowing any of her thoughts to show on her face. "But I came back." She stepped inside and began peeling off her snow gear. Broken crockery crunched under her boots. She looked around at the mess, and then looked at Link's face. He looked defiant and vulnerable and ashamed.
"Let me clean this up," she told him in the gentle tones he'd taught her to use on frightened horses.
She was glad that the little cabin wasn't big. It didn't take her long to fetch a broom and sweep up the mess, which she set aside in a basket. She'd dump the shards in the town trash-pit later. Link stayed huddled before the fire, as though he was unable to believe she'd returned. He watched her with a wary sort of hunger as she moved around the little house, setting furniture to rights and putting weapons back on their racks.
When she was done, she returned to her doublet. She retrieved the journal she'd begged from Purah and walked over to Link. She knelt beside him before the fire and looked at him. He truly was a wreck, his eyes bloodshot, his skin splotchy, his hands shaking with feeling. She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.
"I'm sorry for leaving you. I walked up to Purah's," she told him. "I wanted to know if there was any Sheikah technology that might be able to bring your memories back."
His gaze sharpened on her face.
"Is there?" he asked her.
"No."
His whole body seemed to sigh as his eyes flitted away from hers. He radiated disappointment as he studied the fire. So she held out the journal. "I asked for this instead. It's blank," she added as Link took it from her, his gaze fixing on her once more. "I thought you could write down any memories you have — from before, or from now. To help you figure out who you are."
He didn't open the journal. His eyes stayed fixed on her face, intent, intense. Zelda felt a sudden sympathy for the insects she'd put under microscopes in her youth. She felt as though she were being examined, and she didn't care for the sensation.
"Why did you come back?"
Why had she come back? That was an easy enough question to answer.
"Because I know what it's like to be alone." She forced her eyes to meet his. "I want you to know that you aren't alone. I'm here with you. Here in the darkness."
His eyes stayed on hers for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Thank you," he said at last. "I don't — I don't want to be alone."
"I know," Zelda responded. An unwilling smile quirked along her lips. The words 'Me neither' teased at the edges of her mind, but she put them aside.
Princesses didn't admit their weaknesses.
"Please tell me what you need," she said. "If you want me to tell you about something specific, or just talk, or read, or sit in silence. Or if there's food you want, or — or anything. Please, Link. I'm here for you."
"Thank you." He looked suddenly uncertain, and small, and vulnerable. "Will you — will you just sit here? With me?"
"Of course." Zelda scooted over to sit beside him on the rug, and was surprised when he reached out for her hand.
She stared at their intertwined fingers for a long moment. Nobody had touched her— not for comfort— since Urbosa. She'd forgotten how powerful, how soothing it could be.
She leaned against Link's side and felt his tensely coiled muscles relax.
"I'll stay," she reassured him in a soft whisper as they sat together before the fire. He didn't respond, but his grip tightened a little more on her hand.
He didn't get better all at once. But he did get better in slow steps. After another week where Zelda tried not to step on Link's toes too much, he finally opened up to her.
"Join me," he said, gesturing to the empty spot beside him.
Link seemed to appreciate the comfort that came from physical contact. Since he didn't have any sort of sofa, Zelda had made a nest of blankets in front of the fire. Link spent a lot of time huddled in the blankets, watching the flames, content to have Zelda sitting beside him or holding his hand.
Zelda put down the tunic she'd been embroidering for herself and rose from the table. It was evening, and night stretched against the windows like watching eyes.
The Calamity is gone, Zelda reminded herself as she knelt beside Link. We defeated it. But she said none of these things aloud. Instead, she took Link's hand in hers and settled so that their legs and shoulders were touching.
"I can't remember anything," Link said without preamble. "I've tried, and tried, and the only memories I have are… are the ones you left for me on the Sheikah Slate, and the four from the Champions, and the one from the Deku Tree. Nothing else is coming to me. I — I've traveled all across the country, and nothing else has come back to me. I don't even know where my home was," he said with a frustrated gesture.
Zelda could tell him. She knew. She knew everything there was to know about him from before the Calamity… except for his most personal thoughts.
But she didn't say that. Instead, she waited.
"I've encountered all these people," Link said. "Who knew me, or who know of me. Who talk about the heroic deeds of Champion Link. People who were friends with me back before, or who loved me back before, and who expect me to still be that same person." His fingers tightened around hers as his hands clenched involuntarily. "But I'm not. I'm not him. I'm just… me. And I feel like I'm standing in a dead man's shadow."
Zelda could understand that. Oh, how she understood it. Still, she said nothing, and waited for Link to finish speaking his piece.
"The first time I went to Zora's Domain, everything was still so new. I was so new to this world. And I didn't understand what the Zora were saying when they talked about me, or the Champions, or — or Mipha. I hadn't remembered anything. But now… now, I remember just enough to understand how complicated it really was. How tragic her death was," Link added. "As far as I can tell, the man she loved never loved her back. And she died before her time, tragically in battle. And then—" his voice began to rise, "and then, her spirit didn't get to rest. She was trapped in torture and grief for a hundred years, and I freed her. I spoke to her spirit face-to-face, and I didn't know her. I didn't feel anything for her," Link said unhappily. "I didn't recognize her. I didn't know. How — how can I live with myself, knowing I caused someone so much pain and grief, and knowing that I wasted my one chance to provide her with solace — or, or closure, or —" He trailed off and made a frustrated noise.
Zelda blinked a few times. She was surprised to find tears in her eyes. She willed them away as she waited for Link to continue. But nothing else seemed to be forthcoming.
Zelda exhaled slowly.
"May I state some observations?"
Link made a gesture that invited her to continue.
"You loved Mipha," she said gently. "I've been giving it some thought. I truly don't know if you felt romantic love for her, but you certainly cared for her very deeply. She was your best friend when you were a child. You grew up together in Zora's Domain. You were always so happy to see her. Freer. You were so serious back then. You had the weight of the kingdom on your shoulders, and truly you were the only one who was prepared for the Calamity. The other Champions… sometimes they treated it almost like a game. But not you."
"But… but I didn't recognize her," Link protested. "If she was so important to me, how could I not recognize her?"
"Sometimes," Zelda said, thinking back to a field full of Guardians and a flash of golden light, "we don't recognize the people who are important to us until it's too late."
She hadn't realized she'd tightened her grip on Link's hand until his thumb smoothed over her knuckles. She jumped at the caress, startled, and looked at Link in surprise. He was watching her with concern, as though something momentous and alarming had just occurred to him.
As though he'd just realized he wasn't the only one grieving.
His next words came slowly. "Princess, are you alright?"
"I'm quite fine, thank you," Zelda said past the sudden jaggedness in her throat. She didn't want to talk with Link about her own pain. Couldn't. If she did, she would fall apart, and there would be no putting her back together. "I'm more concerned about you." Link didn't look convinced. The thought of him asking questions and digging deeper was enough to fill Zelda with a kind of panic, so she pushed forward with the previous line of conversation. "Mipha may have died, Link, but you did not. It was a very near thing, but — but if she really did love you, as you say she did, would she not have been happy to see you alive, and grateful that you had a second chance, even if it wasn't with her?"
"I…" This was enough to distract him. He looked puzzled. "I don't know."
"Mipha knew her duty," Zelda said, seized by feeling. "She knew that no matter what else happened, you had to live. That even though she'd failed, if you lived, it was all worth it. Even if you didn't recognize her, even if you looked at her with the eyes of a stranger, it would be worth it, because you were alive, and there was still hope. Not just for Hyrule, but for you. That you'd get a good life. Find happiness. She could — she could go to her fate knowing that you were alive and that you would be alright. She wouldn't want you to punish yourself for not remembering. Because all that matters is that you're alive."
Zelda finished her little speech, her chest heaving with emotion. Link was studying her with an inscrutable expression. He looked… suspicious, almost.
As though Zelda hadn't really been talking about Mipha's feelings.
Which she hadn't, she realized with a sickening lurch.
She fought down a blush and forced herself to meet Link's eyes.
"You have a second chance at life," she told him. "And this time, you have a future. There's no Calamity weighing you down. No destiny guiding you. You're free to do whatever you please. You can't choose Mipha, but you can honor her memory by living a full life. So what do you plan to do with it?"
"I don't know," Link said slowly. He still looked suspicious. Apparently for Zelda, old habits died hard: she decided to fill the uncomfortable space between them with chatter.
"You were the youngest knight ever appointed to the Imperial Guard," Zelda said. "After you drew the sword, you were appointed my own personal knight and were made captain of my body guard. Even without the Master Sword, I'm sure you would have received that appointment. You were considered the most brilliant swordsman seen in an age," Zelda told him. "You still are. Perhaps you'd like to train the men and women of Hyrule to fight? Help eradicate monsters? Or," she said, seized by another idea, "you love to eat. Why not become a cook? Write a cookbook of all the recipes you learned on your adventures. You could be anything you wanted."
"I don't know what I want," Link said again. "But, Princess… What about you?"
"What about me?" Zelda didn't want to talk about herself. She really, really didn't.
"What are you going to do with this new life you have?"
There was only one answer to that. Only one answer she was prepared to give.
"It's not my choice," she told him. "I will do whatever the people require of me. I am the last Bosphoramus, after all. So if the people of Hyrule decide they require a queen, I will do my duty."
"But what do you want?" Link pushed. "Surely you must want something?"
What she wanted was for the conversation to be over. But how could she say that in a way that didn't make Link feel as though she was no longer willing to talk to him?
"I didn't think I would survive this long," Zelda said. "Truthfully, I haven't given it much thought. I'm simply glad to be alive."
Link looked unconvinced, but nodded anyway.
He didn't ask her any more questions, and she didn't offer any more advice. She was too preoccupied: she really hadn't given her wants any thought. For the past six months, she'd been merely existing: conferring with Impa, with the elders of the other tribes and villages, discussing the best ways to make the kingdom inhabitable. Not even unified — just inhabitable. Roads. Buildings. Watershed management. The trading of crops and other resources.
Could she be queen? Was that even what she wanted?
She didn't know.
"I'll follow you," Link said suddenly, startling Zelda out of her thoughts. She jumped at the suddenness of his declaration and turned to look at him, confused.
"What?"
"I'll follow you." He looked stubborn and determined. His eyes were lit by a fire that Zelda hadn't seen in a century. It warmed her straight through. "If they ask you to rule. I'll follow you. I'll help you in any way that I can."
It meant a lot, hearing those words from him.
"Thank you, Link," she said. "And if they don't?"
Link shrugged uncomfortably.
"I don't know," he said. "But I have the feeling we should stick together. You said a few days ago that — that you know what it's like to be alone. We shouldn't be alone. We're the only ones who understand…" he trailed off, as though his words had failed him. He wasn't smiling. His blue eyes were intense, and the determination on his face took Zelda's breath away. "I'll follow you," he said again.
What could she say to that? She had a sudden memory of her daydreams from before: Link on his knee before her, but this time, with love in his eyes. Which was ridiculous, of course. But even still... she didn't want Link to stay with her because she was his only option. She didn't want to be just another duty. Another burden. She wanted him to be happy.
All these thoughts flashed through Zelda's mind in an instant. Link watched her face expectantly, eager anticipation melting into... nervousness, perhaps? Confusion? Her answer seemed important to him, so Zelda summoned a wan smile.
"I would be honored," she said weakly. Link frowned at her as though befuddled by her reaction. Zelda turned away from him— her mind was too busy whirling through a jumble of confused thoughts. Thankfully, Link seemed content to leave her to her thoughts for the moment. They merely sat side by side, barely touching, in the firelight.
Zelda wanted to get up. To go for a walk. But a look at the darkness spread against the windows like ichor changed her mind. She didn't want to go out in the darkness. Wouldn't. Couldn't. Too many memories waited for her her in the shadows.
No, that wasn't it. She forced herself to admit the truth: She wasn't afraid of the darkness. She was afraid of who she was when she was in the dark. She was afraid of the darkness that was still in her.
She needed a distraction.
"I think I'll make us some dinner," Zelda said, rising from the little nest of blankets. "What would you like to eat? I'm in the mood to cook something complicated. A curry, perhaps?"
Link didn't respond. He watched her bustle around with a frown, tracking every movement with eyes that saw too much. But whatever it was he saw in her, he mercifully kept it to himself. Zelda didn't know for herself what was in her mind or her heart… only that she cared deeply for Link, and that she ached for his pain, and that she wanted him to be happy. As for herself, she'd never given it thought. She didn't think happiness was in her destiny. All she knew was that she would do her duty, whatever that might be...
...and that she was afraid, terrified, of the darkness that waited within her.
Uploaded on October 26, 2017