2: Mirror, Mirror
The Princess had settled into a much calmer state of mind since sending the Twili and her companion on their way, relieved that the course of fate had begun to take hold. So too did the storm subside, she noted, to settle into a miserable though patient pattering of rain.
The name Link was one that struck her ear with a fond and quiet precision, intimately known, though it was very rarely spoken or written. Zelda held little doubt that the wolf with steely blue eyes was indeed a sentient beast of virtue and courage, and feeling her worries somewhat eased by his presence, she grew confident that Midna had indeed stumbled upon one of Heroic blood.
Narrowly avoiding one of the guards posted to her keep, they had left her tower safely to travel unhindered for the moment, but Zelda was not foolish enough to believe their movements were unknown. Avoiding the fiendish creatures that now stalked castle halls only meant avoiding an immediate punishment.
Left to her own devices, she had taken to tactics in her small room, pacing slow beside her window as she watched the world turn under twilight. Though she felt certain now that Zant was simply an emissary of a much greater threat, neither the usurper or his master had made habit of frequenting the castle since the coup was staged, leaving only beastly sentries to watch over her.
Dipping her quill in ink, the Princess began to take note of the rounds they made, surreptitiously documenting whatever she could—which creatures were more alert, whatever they were armed with, any sign of openings left by change overs. It would take a while yet, sneaking down the stairwell to risk a peek every so often and listening close for the shifting of metal greaves, but she was determined to track the guards as closely as she could.
If there was any chance of slipping past them, she would find it.
In the meantime, Zelda read and wondered of the Heroes in her tales, comparing them to the one brought before her. She had been taken aback by the form in which he came—some hopeful part of her had expected to see the verdant green of a tunic when first she laid eyes on the Chosen of this era. The coarse fur, blended of ash shades and sooty black, had come as a shock to say the least, and it was clear that the affects of the twilight tainting her lands alone would hinder much of the progress to be made in dissolving this occupation.
Darkness held the winning hand, and it would take a mighty bluff to gain the advantage from here.
While the Princess found herself both concerned for Link's welfare and hopeful of his success, she also weighed the fact that she knew very little of Midna's true motives. Her dealings with the mysterious imp had been a mixture of tells as to her intentions thus far, and while Zelda believed she could trust the Twili insofar as keeping her word, there was no illusion between them that Midna acted out of the goodness of her heart.
Whatever her reasons, Zelda reasoned with herself that Midna's aid—despite ulterior motives—was still an invaluable thing; the Hero could not navigate the Twilight alone. So long as the imp did not intend to betray or worsen things further, they could do nothing but accept alliance where it arose and be grateful for such a thing.
A hidden agenda, while still serving to combat the plague upon Hyrule, was something Zelda could not bring herself to be concerned with too greatly at present. As long as Link obtained the Master Sword, at this point it made little difference as to what path they took there.
This quickly became something of a mantra for the Princess as the days rolled by, bringing fleeting comfort as she was forced to put her faith in old legends and strangers.
Another morning broke, haunted by grey clouds and jaundiced skies, silence muffled by the sound of heavy rain. Zelda stirred slowly to the pattering upon her window, shivering beneath the covers and reluctant to face the bleak reality she was becoming accustomed to.
Routine had already taken hold here; the dreary habits of a prisoner forming. A stifled yawn, a few disbelieving blinks as her vision was cleared of sleep to focus upon the damask brick of tower walls. A foreign and uncomfortable bed beneath her that she felt confused by—in those awful, half formed first moments of the day—before reminding herself that it was indeed where she now slept, bereft of the silk and satin she was most familiar with.
Another common facet of her time her was one that, perhaps, personally disturbed her the most. Once again, she woke with no dreams to recall, even her slumber now reduced to an uneventful and hollow thing to be repeated. At first, Zelda had taken some relief for the fact that she slept without the prophetic visions expected of her blessing—she did not witness the coming darkness, nor wake screaming and frightful like she did as a child, and so she rested well to conserve her health and sanity.
But so too had it occurred to her that such nightmares had vanished from her head with good reason, for time had allowed prophecy to bleed forth into reality; warnings coming to an end as events finally began to unfold. Worse still, no visions of victory against this blight had come to take their place, and this had settled into the depths of Zelda's heart with an anxious weight.
It took some willpower to lift herself away from the lumpy pillow, stiff and cold as she sat up, mournfully scanning the sparse chamber with a dejected sigh. To her great sorrow, she found herself privately wishing she could have all of her nightmares back tenfold, if only they could be kept imprisoned within her head and never sink their fangs into the waking world as they did now.
It isn't as if a nursemaid is here to comfort me like those days, either way, she thought with some defeat, taking a tangled lock into her fingers for inspection to add to the lament.
What she wouldn't have given simply to have some kindly old woman take her hand, guiding her over to the vanity of her old rooms to sit the girl down and brush brunette tresses back into perfection. Someone to soothe her, kind company mingled upon a strict and mothering hand, fencing off the chaotic turns of her mind with disciplined schedules and orderly advice.
"Just be grateful to remain in your own home…" she whispered to herself, attempting to imitate the care she had known—it had become a lonely habit of hers, talking to herself as wisdom worked to balance her worry. "…intact as it remains, for the moment."
Tentatively pushing the covers aside, she shifted to place her feet upon the cold stone, steeling herself for another day with a slow and steadying breath. As she padded to cross the distance between bed and the chair her cloak lay draped over, crystalline eyes drifted toward the window again in habit, gauging the weather beyond with a sliver of paranoia.
The slip she wore to bed held no defence against the chill, despite her becoming used to the bite revealed by a dying fire, and she was quick to cover her form further.
"At least the storm hasn't returned." She murmured, clutching the cloak for warmth as she suppressed the last of her shivering. "Though... if it is anything like the absence of my dreams, that might not be a favourable omen."
Her ears twitched as a few stray droplets sizzled against the greying embers of her fireplace, and with a wary furrowing of delicate brows, she wondered when her true enemy would confirm himself.
If the weather was indeed a reflection of evil's progress, a sudden calm could only be a cause of concern.
Holding an incredulous look, Zelda forced herself to turn away, knowing such thoughts would only drive her deeper into the abyss. In the pursuit of normality, some semblance of stability taken by the ghosted routine her handmaidens had taught her, Zelda moved instead toward the old oaken desk nestled away in the corner of her prison. Without fail, it had become the sanctuary of her mornings, home to parchment and quill and a dusty mirror forged of silver; the glass polished up to allow her proper grooming.
If nothing else, she would not be stripped of her pride.
The Princess settled in with the familiar scrape of wooden legs against stone, taking up an old brush that had lost half its bristles as she set to slow work on her hair. She watched herself in the mirror, patient and poised as she worked through knotted tresses, contented by the peace she found in the action.
Odd as it may have been, Zelda found she preferred to look upon herself unadorned by regal attire or the jewels of royalty. Coiled upon the desk lay the neglected crown, flashed no more than a glance as it sat powerless upon the word. A small part of her mourned the loss of her right to it, unworthy as she felt her brow was of what it symbolised, and yet she could not deny the liberated flutter that trickled through her when her reflection sat bearing no trace of her status.
There was something uniquely powerful, she thought, in her humble appearance alone. It was not the beauty she had been praised for—inherited from her dear mother—but rather something private within her that felt fuller without such things, as if her blood ran cheapened by the trinkets representing it.
Her reflection smiled back at her when the task was done, to her eye a genuine image of herself as she truly was, and running her fingertips through smoothed tresses Zelda could only take comforting satisfaction from the result. These little things left to her control had become, innocuous as they might have seemed to anyone watching, the small luxuries that would keep her strong within this place.
It was only then, as the faithful brush was lowered to rest upon the wood, that a dark and rather sinister chuckle echoed out to be heard.
Zelda froze, that awful chill seeming to seep in from nowhere, her first instinct to look behind her in horror for the intruder to whom it belonged—there had been no creaking door, no flash of movement within the mirror to warn of them. She was alone, and a frantic sweep of her gaze across the chamber confirmed this. The tone of a stanger's amusement rumbled low in her ears all the same, and the Princess realised its origin quickly, paling further as her head slowly turned to look at the mirror once more.
Her reflection did not stare back.
Upon the silvery glass, sharp against the streaks born of dust, golden irises now resided where blue danced only moments before. Those eyes struck her immediately, piercing as they bored into her own, filled with experience and intelligence as malice swirled like flames within them to send a familiar shiver crawling up her spine.
There was no doubt; the deathly chill that so often swept her, like the weather and the storm, belonged to those eyes. All one and the same, and now—unnerved as it fell into place—Zelda realised just how often that golden gaze had watched her.
A creak strained from the chair as her back pressed against it, her body unconsciously desperate to put distance between herself and the mirror as more detail became apparent, filling the glass like spoke to stain and paint the picture of the man to whom such eyes belonged.
The hard lines of armour became apparent, polished to shine black like obsidian as bold filigree formed western designs, adorned with droplets of topaz and gold to boast wealth gained by way of war. Tanned skin—darkened so far as to be compared to burnt umber—matched the leather hide to be glimpsed of his under dressings, thick and hardy from a life worked under the harshest sun, tightly sculpted around corded muscle that could lift her by the throat with ease. Exotic features, worn away into the lines of a natural scowl by desert winds, allowed him to claim a fearsome calm for his expression as it was framed by fiery locks and a regally tended beard.
Tightly curled about a thorned crown of gold, his hair boasted an incarnadine shade of red Zelda had only witnessed of the freshest wound, a series of thin chains running forth to hold a headpiece of foreign sovereignty upon his brow which—unlike her own—seemed to boldly exemplify everything the man believed of his entitlement to power.
His mouth ticked finally into a smirk that she could only describe as cruel, and her stomach seemed to twist in turn, as if she were face to face with an abomination of nature itself.
The apparition shifted slowly, leaning forward behind the glass to lace thick fingers before him, and the rich rumble of his voice drew comparison to the imposing thunder of the storm, threatening to pull a flinch from her yet.
"Hello, Princess."
Anger flashed through her bones like lightning, cleaving the fear that had silenced her as a sneer ghosted Zelda's lips. This was the face of her country's despair, the master who had sent the malformed armies of the twilight forth to corrupt and kill, and the owner of a cursed name even her father had dared not speak.
'Hello' was an insult more potent than she could bear.
"So it is you." She gave it calmly, the words slithering between her teeth a disdainful hiss. "I had begun to wonder if we would ever meet... at least I was partially correct. Ganondorf Dragmire, I believe?"
The chuckle rang out again, the low sound of it reverberating within her very bones as the smirk widened enough to flash the white of his teeth, and a slow conceding nod was all he offered to her.
"I would imagine you are not here to be diplomatic." She returned curtly, regaining her composure as her hands came to be folded upon her lap.
"I'm afraid diplomacy is not one of my strong suits, no."
A terse grimace was her only reply.
Arching a fiery brow, the Gerudo shifted to adopt a more matter of fact expression, the haughty smirk of amusement fading as he seemed to muse aloud. "I have been known as a thief to many, but truth be told, I am not one to slip in unnoticed and steal whatever it is I desire like a coward in the night. I am a King, Princess. I take boldly the spoils of a battle won, and I thought it was high time you were allowed to know the face of the victor..."
Then the corner of his mouth ticked to hint the smirk once more, subtle though it was now as he sent a glance toward her brush.
"...That is, unless Hyrule's Princess has become more concerned with her appearance than the affairs of her country?"
Clenching her jaw lightly to keep her tongue in check, Zelda studied him with an unmoved stare, memorising the lines of his face under the notion that expression often guided truth. She had stumbled across the art of reading a lie in one's eyes in the books she had read in her youth, or gleaning proper intention from the corner of a mouth, but as she watched she could not find trace of such things clearly enough to follow.
She decided then he must be the most practised she had ever held misfortune to meet at hiding his true self from another's eye; an opportunistic bastard and a liar. Not hours after the King's mysteriously sudden death, the coup had been staged and the castle easily overrun with beasts born of shadow and misery. In the haste and horror of it all, strung up upon the altar of ultimatum and duty, the Princess had barely gotten the chance to mourn her father at all.
"If you had expected to find a dishevelled and broken captive quivering alone by this time, I am quite sorry to have disappointed you. It is not easy to be appraised of my people's well being, when my only view is from a tower window, after all. I have filled my time as I could." She returned smoothly, delicate features schooled into nonchalant and distant neutrality.
The Gerudo inclined his head with a twitch of his brow, hiding his mouth behind his hands as thumbs came to support his support his chin thoughtfully.
"You think me predictable?"
It was Zelda's turn then to wear the ghosted smirk, creasing the kiss of her mouth daringly though she knew her coyness may cost her. She would take his comments in stride, refusing to be baited for a rise. If nothing else, the Princess would not entertain him as he wished.
"There are many stories of you, handed down by the last era... not of all of them accurate, mind, but enough that a pattern has been formed."
"I suppose there are, yes." he reflected a moment on what she had said, tongue clicking to muse as his hands shifted to reveal a tempered and smug sort of smile. "I do not leave a forgettable impression, so I've come to understand... with such a picture painted of me, it stands to reason that you would chose a swift surrender. Inexperienced as you are with war, it is commendable that you foresaw the futility of resistance."
Crystalline eyes flashed for the defiance she knew it was to speak so frankly to him, wondering if his own temper would prove more volatile than she expected.
"You seem to speak of yourself much as the tales would portray you, but as I said, not all of them are accurate. For a King, as you say, who does not wish to pride themselves on cowardly or stealthy occupations, your actions beg to differ. Be it swearing false fealty so as to snatch away royal treasures, sending Zant as your emissary, or hiding behind glass as you do now... you seem to me the very opposite of a forthright, I'm sorry to say."
"Is that so?" a humourless scowl formed quickly, a small myriad of things such as curiosity, anger and offence crossing the lines of his face. It was easy to guess that he was weighing her words carefully, turning them over for the value of the insult to come and deciding upon a fitting punishment when it did.
Zelda watched him closely as she spoke, silently testing the waters of his nature.
"You make a marvellous politician... but I have watched the rise of many men within my father's court. I am familiar with a silver tongue in pursuit of power, and it is in that—rather than the tales—I can indeed draw predictability from you. I had feared you would be beyond my depth when the coup occurred, I'll admit, but reflection and the way you conduct yourself have settled my nerves since."
It was dangerous, she knew, to bluff him so. If there was one thing to be garnered of the tales of old, it was the fragile line between controlled manipulation and vengeful fury he possessed. She needed to scope out his boundaries and find it, prying to feel the gaps she could exploit and whether she could slip past them. If he would brag or gloat to prove her wrong, make comment to reveal he had been aware of her other visitors, that was all information precious to her progress—anything of his intentions, any hint of where to go next to undo him.
Even if she could only manage to buy the Hero time by drawing their enemy's ire upon herself to distract, it would make her position all the more bearable.
As an aside, wrapping it all up into the point of a barb, the Princess would take to smoothing out the fabric of her slip, so negligent that she would no longer even hold his gaze; dismissive.
"It is refreshing, however, to find the Demon Thief of old does not fright me as an adult quite like he did when I was a child. Once, I confess, I thought of you much like a monster hiding beneath the covers, a vague and worrying mystery that loomed in the shadows. Thankfully, that image has been long shed of you... it seems you are just another Lord with far too much influence, and the added advantage of mystical inclination."
And so it was that the first lie came easily from her lips, lingering warm in the air before her to slip like poison into his ears.
Zelda knew well of Din's blessing upon his hand. She was aware of his familiarity with war and royalty alike. She had read of the wars before the unification, Gerudo warriors rivaling even the Sheikah in their penchant for death, and she knew that he had lead them not as a general, but a soldier out on the frontlines beside them. It sent shivers down her spine to think that he, chained and run through by the holy Sages themselves, could not only somehow free himself but seconds later, attack and kill one of their numbers with bare hands.
There was no man or monster the world over that could plunge her heart so quickly into a silent, airless terror at the very thought of them, and of what darkness they left in their wake.
But, Gods above, she could never allow him to know that.
The Gerudo allowed a deathly silence to fall between them after that, having watched the movement of her hands as they easily implied her dismissal, golden eyes narrowing decisively upon her face as she finished. To her surprise, he retained his collected calm, simply darkening into a level of resentment she had not seen as yet.
"If that is all you know to compare me to, Princess, then your life has been tragically kind to you." he offered then, inclining his head to peer at the brush upon her desk as the fires of his gaze swirled to betray thoughts she hadn't a hope of knowing. He seemed to reflect upon them carefully, quickly, his fingers shifting to tent before he caught himself to lace them again.
"But that is my mistake." he continued, quietly confident. "Indeed, from this tower, you likely cannot see how far my... influence and mystical inclinations run. I will work to correct that."
Zelda struggled not to shrink back into her seat as the Gerudo would lean forward behind the glass, drawing close with a secretive curve worn upon his lips, whispering to her with a dangerous camber in his eyes.
"...When Hyrule lies burning at your feet; when even the fortified walls of the town below are crumbling amongst the ashes, keeping up the appearance of control will be but the most distant of frivolities. I can only wonder how long away the day is when you are a dishevelled, weeping wreck who has long thrown her hairbrush out of that window in despair."
Crystalline eyes widened as he spoke, a desperate panic taking hold as the man offered a slow nod toward the window behind her. Despite her façade, the fear that he had already made good on such a threat struck her forcefully, a sense of dread washing over her skin numbly—part of her truly expected to turn and find the orange glow of an inferno burning just beyond her window, claiming the once familiar horizon.
Tense as she saw the flash of his eyes, Zelda couldn't help but turn in her chair, hair whipping behind her as she frantically searched the view from her tower.
To her great relief, she found nothing but the bleak skies she knew, burdened by jaundiced clouds to remain unchanged, and she released a breath she didn't realize she had held. It must've been obvious, for the dark chuckle sounded behind her once again and she cursed herself for it, refusing to turn and see the smug smirk there as she frowned unseen.
"Pride isn't power, after all... Is it, Princess?"
She did not reply. Silence fell to thicken the air and the chill seemed to withdraw from her, like a hand had been removed from her shoulder, the weight of it removed to allow the warmth of her robe to become more present.
Tentatively, Zelda allowed her head to turn, glancing back toward the mirror out of the corner of her eye. Oaken locks of blonde and brunette shades could be found there to replace his, pale flesh her own and a crystalline gaze as was normal. A pallid expression haunted her features as she looked upon them, surprised as she was to suddenly find it there. Darkness had gathered to form circles beneath her eyes and the shadows ran more pronounced about her cheeks to leave her whitewashed and gaunt.
It was as if his very presence had sucked the life from her bones.
A long and shaken sigh rolled from her as her posture broke, slumping forward in her chair to lean elbows upon the desk. Wearily, her head came heavy to rest in her hands, eyes closed and covered as she rubbed them lightly. She felt her palms trembling against her cheeks, wrists feeling weaker than she knew them to be, and soon she let her arms fall to the wood to hold elbows steady.
Listlessly she shook her head, unable to stay the shiver she had taken on since he left as she realised what a toll he took upon her nerves. Every inch of her felt like lead, and with tired eyes cracking open to glance down at her hairbrush, Zelda willed herself to move on with her day if only to spite him.
It was disturbing how much energy even that took, shaken as she was.
Parlour tricks and the intimidation tactics of old men too long in their tenure, she told herself, forcing herself to think of other things—the comforts of her routine, the discipline of following it. Wooden legs scraped across stone as she drew herself slowly upward, palms settled against the desk for stability as she stared at herself in the mirror.
She was dressed and groomed... what else was it she did, as she had done for the past sixteen days of confinement? It was a confronting thing to realise the man held such a force of presence as to muddle even that simple bit of recall, forcing her to actively remember her place in the day.
Ah, yes. Reading. She would read the same stories, out of the same book—one she needn't even open to recite in its entirety now—while she sat patiently by the window, and pray.
That was all she could do... or at least, all she knew how, as yet.
Bare feet swept her slowly away from the desk to cross the cold stone, still trembling hand reaching down to pluck the tome from her bedside as she passed by. Settling into her place within the window's chill, book nestled upon her lap as always, her fingers traced the worn leather without the heart to lift it open at present. Her family's crest stared boldly back at her from its front, and with furrowed brows she turned away from it, tracing the horizon through the blur of the downpour outside and allowing the calm rhythm against the panes to settle her.
I wonder... she began to think, shifting her gaze toward the southern forests as much as she could from her tower, if he has chosen now to start monitoring me more closely for a reason?
It had indeed been quite a while since her last pair of visitors, and if Ganondorf was indeed watchful of the Hero's moments as she suspected, his sudden interest in her spirits seemed well timed to suggest Link's success.
That possibility brought a shimmer of hope back to calm her nerves, tattered as the Gerudo seemed to have left them. A small and hopeful smile graced her as Zelda allowed her hand to fondly sweep the embossed leather of her tome.
So, he and Midna have likely freed his body of the Twilight's curse... if he has lifted the veil over Ordon, then Ganondorf's attention should well and truly have been drawn to them by now. It won't be long now before he starts actively working to stop their progress, himself.
That tired worry had come creeping back as she closed her eyes with a sigh, clasping her hands tightly together atop the book—an old habit taught to her from childhood by a longstanding nursemaid, intended to channel both worry and anger into swift release, hidden behind the dignity and grace expected of her station. She squeezed tightly, willing the Hero onward from afar and trying to internally bolster her faith in the boy she had barely met, though even with the legends, this was not something that came as easily as she'd have liked.
The darkness behind her eyelids shifted then into a brightened red, and blinking slowly to open them, Zelda found the harsh shimmer of the sun peeking out from behind inky clouds. It had risen to high noon and already started to fall, it seemed, seconds later devoured behind the smokey haze once more to eerily glow there; weakly filtering through.
It must be later than I thought, she idly considered to herself, blinking away the visual shock of the sun's brief flash though grateful to regain some sense of the time.
Since her stay in the tower, Zelda had found it rather hard to keep track of how long she had spent here, and the weather blocked out much of the natural sun beyond it—perpetual twilight, it seemed, was exactly that. The Princess knew it had wreaked havoc upon her sleeping patterns as well, and it was little wonder she hadn't much energy to spare. But with a Western facing tower, whenever she could make out the distant, distorted glow of the sun, she knew the world beyond enjoyed an afternoon.
But with the Gerudo so fresh in her mind, a curious realisation struck her.
Her tower faced westward—the direction of the desert mesas, and her captor's homeland.
Shifting forward to peer through the iron lattice, Zelda searched the hazy horizon, tracing the distant line of it to find the blurred sand of the dunes. It was difficult to make the out, but she could see them all the same, drawn to them with the aid of a landmark that brought the shiver back to her.
The Western tribe no longer took up residence in the desert, but in their place, the Arbiter's Grounds stood firm; reaching out of the earth like a clawed hand. Lonely and isolated, juxtaposed to its surrounds and clearly—awfully—visible from the castle, the decrepit prison had long been abandoned though it stood as a testament to the harsh fate of Hyrule's worst.
It was also the intended destination of Ganondorf, built—in part—to hold him and his followers until their sentence; a failed execution, as fate would have it.
Some method to his madness could be gleaned of that, she realised, as she regarded the distant monolith carefully. He intended for Zelda to watch as her Kingdom fell, unable to prevent the suffering of her people, and though it may not have been the reason he kept her, the Princess was certain it was why he had kept her here. It was cruelty, no doubt, but it seemed to run the course of personal vendetta; symbolic and tailor made for her misery.
Perhaps he had chosen a western view for her specifically, or even subconsciously, allowing her a hint at what made him tick. His own people were gone. Though it seemed odd for her to think of him at first, this ruthless warlord of the past, he stated himself as a King and not a conqueror. If beyond his twisted mind, a human heart still mourned the tribe's fate, her position seemed to imply that he had suffered with such loss and wished for her to know of such pain in turn.
Zelda had read well of the last era, but was not so familiar with the Gerudo—not for lack of interest, but rather, a lack of information that she now wondered of. That fact alone had her suddenly wondering of the historian's bias, quills influenced by fear, and of how much of her ancestor's legacies had been censored over time.
Her hands finally unclasped themselves to gingerly settle about the sides of her book, and the Princess' gaze fell again to the crest it bore. Zelda sighed, regretful of her negligence in chasing up such accounts prior to her capture, now that she was left with only legends and doctored tales.
"The grandest library in all of Hyrule, one flight of stairs and a few halls away..." she mused dejectedly to herself, frowning as she shook her head, "…might as well be miles."
The distant creak of metal doors caught her attention to disturb her, followed soon enough by the heavily shifting foot falls of an inhuman creature as it scurried its way up the stairwell. As it drew nearer, the muffled reptilian snarls seemed to indicate foreign speech, though it was not directed at her—if she didn't know better, Zelda would've sworn she heard the beastly equivalent of a disgruntled and reluctant servant. Even with such warning, she found herself flinching as the sharp knock rang out, jarring against the silence she'd grown used to and seeming to shatter it with unnecessary force. Another snarling—a strange series of clicking growls—did seem to address her this time, though only briefly before the tell tale clatter of metal upon stone could be heard.
Grimacing to remain silent, the Princess listened closely for the creature to retreat, biding her time to avoid them before she stood to set her book aside and hurry over to her doors. Placing both hands to the metal ring serving as her handle, she pulled with all her weight—even shunting it open required more and more effort each day, simply to receive a meal.
Poking her head out to lean through the gap, crystalline eyes would narrow in a habitual distaste. She did not go hungry in this place, for it was hard to gain an appetite at all. Zelda could not decide whether it was the hospitality received, or the food itself, that caused the sinking and queasy sensation in her stomach, but when she heard the knock each day—only once, but all the same—she grew more averse to the thought of eating whatever came with it.
The menu did not change to entice her either, she had found.
Upon the tray as always lay a wooden bowl—which looked to be hand carved by one of the assorted monsters below in boredom—filled with a wheat based gruel that, if she were lucky, sometimes contain more oats than usual. Beside it, a single apple sitting whole as if plucked without care from the castle orchid, had become the thing she looked forward to most. Today it seemed only slightly blemished, with little sign of the birds having gotten to it as it grew. A tin mug filled with water, usually holding flecks of... whatever old barrel they kept it in, she supposed, also accompanied the tray.
With a heavy sigh, the Princess knelt to collect it, already electing to skip the sludge in the bowl as she studied it closer—a fortunate choice, for today, they had also forgotten her spoon. Leaning her weight against the heavy door to close it again, lazy footsteps would carry her back to her bedside, mug taken up to be sipped at while the tray would be unceremoniously tossed aside upon the covers beside her. The metallic taste wove a crinkle into her delicate nose, but Zelda was quick to ignore it.
Instead, she focused on the man responsible for such food being sent.
If he is aware of Link's movements, his surveillance of me may become a daily thing… checking in on me and watching for any differences in my behaviour. No doubt he knows of their presence here, previously.
Leaning her chin upon her palm, Zelda cringed for the thought of facing him every day. It was baffling how simply a look could make her feel so frail and small; his voice grating against he bones as it did to leave her hands trembling and her knees weak in worry.
"Din sear it all, I can barely stomach the food, let alone that..." she breathed mournfully, staring into the mug and watching the specks dance about with morbid fascination, exhausted by the thought already.
She knew it meant a daily opportunity to study him, also, but likewise could he begin to decipher her—Zelda had not missed, in their brief conversation, the keen wit his tongue could command. Perhaps he could be reasoned with to some extent if she humoured him, providing the entertainment he seemed privately expectant of.
Surely he, of all people, could understand the importance of proper nutrition and the sickness that could befall one without it. For the moment, at least, it seemed she was of little value to him dead. She knew there was far more to her position than simply to amuse him.
There must have been something she could offer or bargain with that wouldn't jeopardise the efforts against this occupation, and once she had figured out what exactly that was, leverage could do the rest.
Her attention slowly shifted toward the desk again, eyeing the brush as it sat idle upon the wood, and the last few things he had said to her echoed out within her mind again. The Princess knew, despite her bluff, that his threats were far from empty. She needed to keep his attention upon her, and distract him from the Hero as much as possible, if Link and Midna were to succeed now that Ganondorf had them in his sights.
Human form returned or not, the Master Sword was still far from the Hero's hand, and if Zelda could manage nothing more than brushing her hair to draw pride from, then indeed, she held no power at all.
But she was close, she felt, to working out the sentries' movements in the castle below. Soon enough, she would have the opportunity to leave the tower, if only for a short while. Escape was no option, but now that she had thought on it, a book had served her well thus far. The library could only help her further, if only she could get there—she was't sure what she was looking for as yet, but Nayru willing, she would find it.
If she didn't, it was very likely the Gerudo would likely see Hyrule torn asunder before Link could lay eyes upon such a blade, let alone face and defeat him in battle like the tales of old.
Something had to give, or the Kingdom she knew and loved would go up in smoke...
And the Princess would have a front row seat.