When Zelda wakes, her body feels as uneasy as though she'd gone the full night without sleep ever gracing her at all. The pale hue of morning bleeds through the entrance of her tent, soft light so inviting that under normal circumstances, she'd be content to seek out the patch of sun and curl up beneath it for more rest. But she wakes with a mind on fire, gears clicking in a hasty march as she tries to parse through the range of unprecedented emotions that have laid their claim on her. Truthfully, the first thought that scurries across her mind when she comes to is none other than Link is here. It feels almost vulgar — that her first and last thought of the day should be of him. Her escort. Her servant . Hard as she tries to stamp out the dredges of his gentle smile or the delicate groans of his sleep, he's still there, like the faintest traces of shifting sand beneath a lapping wave.

Zelda sighs and presses to a spot at the arch of her brow where something small throbs against the bone, and when she thinks she's massaged the slight ache away, she kicks the covers down her legs like a child in a tantrum before throwing her body to the side with an anxious huff, her fingers twiddling with the edge of her pillowcase. It simply isn't fair, she thinks—unfair that the Goddess continues to place one impossible hurdle after another before her. It's starting to feel like Hylia may want her to fail in the end. Zelda rolls onto her stomach, sinks her face into her pillow and sighs again, strands of gold smearing between her cheeks and the decently cool canvas.

Perhaps this new fascination with her knight is not as inappropriate as she's declaring—perhaps she's more fascinated with the rhyme and reason of this curious predicament, the why of it all. The behavior he is exhibiting is just so unlike the young man she's come to know; he's always so capable, so self-assured…it's hard to imagine that his body should betray his unshakeable masquerade in such a way. It is the implausibility of it all that has her enthralled.

So, in lieu of more important matters, she spends the morning pondering the situation.

She starts with a simple fact: a number of variables have changed. She is much more amiable towards him, certainly, but she has been since before they'd ever reached Faron; where were his midnight sounds on the voyage out? If his indiscretions signal even half of a legitimate attraction to her, she can't imagine they've waited for such a specific moment to surface—yes, then it is as she had deduced the night prior—they mean nothing. (Zelda hardly notices the way the deduction lodges something in her throat.)

But even so, there must be a why.

Zelda's face blanches as her mind reaches for something more extreme—what if the spirit of courage chooses to speak through him, in this antiquated space? Is she planting thoughts and visions into his mind to recall later? No, it most certainly cannot be that, because what sort of vision could possibly require the Hero of legend moaning her name out into the night, anyway? That sounds terribly inefficient, she thinks, her cheeks flushing. It's far too preposterous, so she crosses the thought off of her list and moves on.

Their partnership…the holy site…and what else? What of him? His appointment, his personal life? As far as she is aware, he has no lover back home to long for—and she hopes he doesn't, because what woman would enjoy learning such a cold truth about her beloved? (Yes, she hopes he does not, purely for that reason and that reason alone.)

Perhaps the jungle's climate might have something to do with it? Zelda does not think any of his habits have changed; he's well hydrated, has kept himself properly groomed, has been properly fed.

She bolts up, lightning quick.

Zelda hears the sharp inhale of someone rousing from sleep from outside the tent, and her heartbeat quickens, its thudding beat as heavy as though boots were crossing the stone beneath them. She hears her knight sniffle, and then, the soft crease of the bedroll as he rises to sit. Silence, soon followed by an impossibly small sound that whistles with disappointment.

Zelda's mouth moves far too quickly. "Sir Link?"

She hears him clear his throat before he calls back with a quick " yes, Princess ?", his voice creaking with sleep that his vocal chords have yet to dust off. Zelda hesitates, preoccupied with how intimate the sound suddenly feels.

"I"— her mouth feels so dry— "well, firstly, good morning."

Her attendant is quiet for a moment.

"Good morning to you as well," he finally croaks. She can't explain why she likes the sound so much.

"I hope you slept well." Oh, she's a fool. Zelda doesn't wait for a response. "I'm awake now, but I'd like to spend a bit more time in contemplation this morning." She bites her lip. "So if you would like to take some time and freshen up, please do so. I insist."

Link is quiet for a long moment. She hears him shuffling about, the sound of fingers running through unkempt hair, the sound of the Master's Sword's scabbard sliding across stone as he moves it. "Are you comfortable with that?"

"Perfectly. It's quite humid still, I...don't want you to suffer any longer than you must."

"If you wish."

She smiles, and a small part of her hopes he can hear it in her voice. "Take all the time you need."

Link thanks her, his response followed by another soft, shuffling sound as he rises to his feet, footsteps crossing to meet the horses as he retrieves a fresh set of clothing. His steps trail off as he moves towards the Spring's entryway, and Zelda finds herself alone; the solitude feels far heavier than she expects it to. She won't admit it, not entirely, but somewhere deep down, a small part of her misses his presence. She sits up and runs clammy fingers through her hair, untangling the easy knots that have come to form in sleep. She brings her legs together and tips her knees up, placing her chin upon them as she wraps her arms around her shins and exhales.

Her train of thought resumes its frantic quest—there is one notable difference: their meals. Link's consumption of durians has skyrocketed over the last couple of days, correlating with an increase in sleep murmurs and…well, whatever else it might be bringing. Heat rises in her cheeks at the thoughts.

She'd heard tales of Faron durians as something potent, something that the warriors of days past were said to have used in elixirs to bolster endurance and stamina. Perhaps they're even more potent than the old wives' tales claimed them to be.

Zelda taps her index finger to her lips—is that really her answer then? An entire debacle, two torturous nights triggered by nothing more than a damned piece of fruit ?

It can't be. It simply can't be.


Damn it.

Among the reeds' inquisitive fingers, Link pulls at his face in anguish. Not again . The matter has actually grown worse — he remembers this one. Misery, it seems, has quickly become the default, and even submerged in the calm waters, he can feel regret heating up his cheeks.

How is he meant to face her? How is meant to look in her eye, to pretend that he hasn't imagined dragging his tongue against her hot, needy core—as if the crafted images of her bare breasts aren't etched against the dark of his closed eyelids. As if he hadn't dreamt of her fully bare before him, propped up on her elbows, her legs parted while mischievous fingers spread herself wide open for him, taunting him all the while as she dipped in and out, in and out.

Link finds that he's already growing hard again. Fuck fuck fuck.

The Princess is beautiful, that much is true. And she is diligent, resilient—much kinder these days, too. Honest and respectful, especially once time had rendered her wiser. But of course, she had always been meant to find that wisdom—it had long been written into her destiny. But it does not matter how true any of those thoughts might be, he has no right to be thinking them. It's not his place to admire her, to yearn for her, to conjure her pleading sigh as he dreams of sliding into her. His place is three steps behind, a step before if her life depends on it—his back to her as she prays in the Spring and to her bedroom door while she studies.

Link rises just enough to settle his chin against the water's surface, lips clamped inwards in shame. He's nothing more than a grumpy face bobbing atop the placid current, wondering just who it was he'd managed to piss off in a previous life that he now finds himself stuck in this godforsaken cycle of embarrassment. Since Zelda is awake, he decides to spend a little extra time in the pool to try and clear his mind—focuses on the curved palms bending beneath the morning sun, of the stone maw that looms overhead. It would be improper to return to her in such a state.

Link realizes, when he returns back to the campsite, that Hylia must have designated him the patron saint of misery; every hint of his effort flits away when he arrives to find Zelda lingering in the tent's entryway, her legs tucked beneath her and her sleep tousled hair pushed to one side. She looks radiant, like a forest nymph woken from a nap in a neighboring glade.

"You can say no…" she starts, dewy eyes blinking up at him. Link can hear the swallow that forces its way down his throat, "… but do you mind if we have some durian once more before we go? After all, who knows when I'll get to have it next."

She smiles sweetly.

He doesn't think twice about suggesting anything else.


The Goddess really ought to be ashamed of her.

Zelda finds herself in the Spring of Courage, running her fingers through the dark gold of soaked hair. The cool washcloth along her stick arms brings very little relief—she's too distracted by her shameless request for yet another serving of durians.

But she has to know. She has to.

Link is just beyond the cave, collecting one more piece of fruit from one of the few trees he hasn't completely ransacked just yet. He's most likely done by now, lingering just beyond the stone barricade and waiting for her to finish. Zelda wonders if he would respond if she were to call out to him. A part of her wishes that she could hear his voice—that they could speak even in such vulnerable positions. An even smaller part of her wishes he might want to steal a look, that he'd glance through slotted stone to find the shape of her rear or the curves of her breasts and shatter that perfect equilibrium of his. That she might shrug off his look—"bodies are perfectly natural things, after all" —and that he might be impressed by how casually she shakes the moment off. That, perhaps, something in the air would push him towards her, would wrap his arms around her bare midriff and—

Oh, she is a repulsive one!

What in the world would possess her to think such things? To tease her poor knight for sport? To trial his honor—to test the one thing that he has to his name for her own satisfaction? No wonder the Goddess has yet to smile upon her most juvenile descendant.

She shouldn't have asked for the durian. She should have requested a handful of nuts and a banana and squashed the slight hunger pangs down until their rest stop later this evening. But no, it seems she hasn't had her fill of tormenting him for one lifetime.

The Goddess statue's knowing eyes peer at her across the pool, a taunt that has her instinctively covering herself up, and something uncomfortable pricks up beneath Zelda's skin while a simmering heat drags white hot shame across her body and doubles the weight on her shoulders. She cannot bear to linger in the pool any longer.

Zelda dresses as quickly as she can manage, only brushing through her clean hair with her fingers—the jungle will muss it before they free themselves of its humidity, anyways. In the cramped heat, dressing herself for an expedition feels as difficult as dressing in regalia, as dressing in armor; it's labored, irritable, as though each item of clothing places another pound upon her shoulders. And when she is finally done lacing up her left boot, she seeks Link out and grants him permission to return.

She takes care to avoid his eye when she does.

Zelda still hasn't quite yet gained total immunity from the strong scent of durian, but as Link sets to work, the dullness that permeates her being proves a worthy distraction. It is a mixture of things, of guilt and disappointment, but somehow, the panic that ought to come with the realization that her powers have still not awakened does not partake in the dirge. Only a few days ago, the notion that she'd be delivering such news to the King would have sent waves of tears streaming down her cheeks. They will still come, she knows, though perhaps only as a small trickle now. They will come as something she can quickly hide away.

"We can eat something else if you prefer," Zelda suddenly calls out. "I realize it's unfair of me to force you to eat the same food three days in a row."

Link glances back, though his look never quite reaches hers. "I don't mind at all, Princess. I enjoy the taste."

In her lingering apathy, something sparks.

"Perhaps you'd rather have a banana?"

"I'm very content with durian, Princess."

She knows she could simply command him, but that too feels wrong. So, she relents, takes a deep breath and accepts that she has no one to blame for forcing herself into this most uncomfortable spot except her own damn self. Link takes a few minutes to carve through the fruit's thickened skin, flexed muscles shrouded in bright blue fabric, and when he's prepared her share, his hands it over quietly, eyes lowered so they take in the sight of his fingers grazing against hers. She feels exposed beneath them, just as vulnerable as she had been beneath the Goddess' stone eye.

Zelda is quick to take her first bite, swallowing past every inhibition. "Thank you for sharing these with me. I really do like the taste!" Zelda can feel her mouth beginning to run away; if he gives an inch, she will try to take much more. It's refractory, fully out of her control.

"I'm glad to hear it."

Zelda watches the soft movement of his jaw as he bites down on the fruit's pillow soft contents. She could let the moment pass and settle into the silence, just as she has done for many months now, but something calls out to her, that same thing that first crept across her mind two nights prior, the one that peered up at her with knowing eyes. Go on, it coos. "Have you had it often?"

Something flashes across Link's face, and for a moment, she worries that she's frightened him.

"Yes. When I was younger." He pauses, eyes fixated on the small piece of durian that's still in his hand. Zelda thinks that must be the end of it when he presses on. "My father would bring it home often."

Now, she thinks, she is getting somewhere. The spark inside of her shimmers a little more brightly, and as she settles into the novel comfort of his voice, the thought of his soft moonlit sounds are promptly tucked away.

"And how long did it take you to overlook the smell?" she asks playfully, emboldened by this new delight.

"Not long. I told you the very same thing he told me." He braves one, quick glance at her — one she misses entirely. "And I didn't think twice."

Zelda laughs, short and sweet. "His word was good enough, then?"

Something about Link's breath is shaky, tremulous like a petal below a gentle rain, but he summons the faintest hint of humor. "If it tastes good, I wanna know." Zelda glances over to find the tiniest smile at his lips, directed towards the piece of fruit in his hand. Something cosmic takes its index finger and drags it across her heart.

"You're close with your father."

"Yes."

"I envy you."

It is a loaded statement. Link doesn't say anything back—after all, what more can he say? Zelda shakes her head. "I apologize, I should not bring up such matters."

"It's fine, Princess. I don't mind."

Zelda is quiet for a moment more, her mind hazy with regret and stupid Zelda. But, she is surprised to find, it is her knight that pulls her from her hazardous thoughts.

"I was closer with my mother."

Zelda feels her heart catch in her throat.

"I don't think you've mentioned her to me."

"She's long passed."

A piece of durian is halfway to Zelda's mouth when she pulls it away and glances over at him. Azure washes across the floor before him, clear, and somehow still so shrouded.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"Thank you." He shakes his head. "It's alright. A fever took her a few years ago."

There is something catastrophic brewing inside of the Princess, and despite how hard she pretends she does not notice it, it is there. Waiting.

"Still. I'm sorry to hear that. Losing a mother…well, that can bring a great deal of suffering. I miss mine every day."

"I like to think they're still with us. Guiding us." His voice grows small, so minute from someone who wields so much power. He is like a thunderstorm unleashing nothing more than a few easy drops, a rockslide of nothing but pebbles.

"I think you're right. Their teachings push us this way and that. We build upon the foundation they lay."

Link smiles into his piece of fruit. "That's really nice."

"Thank you."

She could leave it at that. Finish her small meal in silence and quickly pack up their belongings and be on their way. But a different sort of hunger spikes up— more .

"I…" She clears her throat. "...I like that you're speaking so much today," Zelda finally says aloud, but as soon as she hears the final syllable ringing in her ears, she feels her face grow hot.

Link swallows, and still, he does not meet her eye.

"Oh come, don't be silent now! Please?" She must sound as though she is begging. (She actually may very well be.)

"It's nice to hear you talk."

This is a response she does not expect. "Really?"

"Yeah. I don't know…."

"No, go on." Oddly desperate, an onlooker might venture to say.

"I don't know. I enjoy it, I suppose."

"You…you like when I speak to you?"

"Of course." His eyes are closed, his head tipped forward in a slight show of respect.

Whatever catastrophic entity that has yawned to life inside of her is fully awake now, alert and ready to swallow her completely.

"Oh. I thought…I thought you must despise me. After how I've treated you. It would be well within your rights if you did."

He shakes his head. "I understand you've been under a lot of stress." Zelda feels as though her skin must be humming.

"That's…that's very kind of you, Sir Link. But…but you deserve more than that. A genuine apology."

And then she does something that has her subsconscious silently screaming as it watches on, something will haunt her for the weeks that follow: she leans over and drapes her hand across his.

"I'm so sorry, Sir Link."

Their eyes meet for the first time all morning, and Link looks as though the Princess might run a blade through the small dip in his collarbone. "You have nothing to apologize for," he says, "but I appreciate your kindness all the same." Though he feels almost feather light beneath her hand, nothing in his eye betrays it. He looks firm, devoted, confident. But Zelda knows better.

"Might we…start over?" She asks.

Link nods."If you wish. Sure."

"Equals."

He hesitates for a moment. "Partners?"

Zelda shakes her head, confidence crackling through her. "Equals." She watches as Link's lips part for a moment as though he might protest, but the thought is muted by the short squeeze she gives his hand.

Shyly, he nods.


Once, when Zelda had hardly stood as tall as her mother's waist, she had wandered off beyond the garden walls, irritable from the palming summer sun. She'd darted down one of the long hallways, her heart racing as she counted the moments of freedom she'd have left before one of the maids came to collect her. The empty hallway fed into various other rooms, all unoccupied, the hallways abandoned so that her small footsteps echoed far more loudly than she'd ever heard them. But even her footsteps went unheard in busy ears; she found the pair entwined in a storage room, the door unhitched just enough that she could see her mother's maid lost in a soldier's lips, the woman's back pressed up against wooden shelving as she ran her fingers through his dark hair. Zelda ran straight back to the queen's arms and insisted on what she'd seen.

"A soldier! He had armor on!"

"Arella is married to another, Zelda. A baker. You must have imagined it."

"But I saw her!"

There is a primal satisfaction in proving oneself. Zelda first learned this on the day that the Queen had admitted her defeat, when her mother revealed months later that the maid had tearfully requested a leave of absence to prepare for a new child. Zelda had been right, and the Queen had been wrong. At that age, she hadn't paid attention to the cost of such a triumph—she had been fully wrapped in the sensation of being correct.

But now, years later, Zelda despises the way her victory tastes when Link begins to sound again, just past midnight.

They had departed soon around the time the short shadows of noon would have sprung up, their normal path blotted out by bright clouds. In less than twenty minutes, their campsite had been cleared, their presence only a passing thought for the Spring. They were gone as quickly as they had arrived, nothing more than a coaxing breeze passing through.

But tonight, the Spring's secrets have shadowed them all the way to the western edge of Faron Woods.

Zelda has tried, in vain, to sleep, and guilt has nipped at her heels every step of the way. If it had proved to be a distraction this morning, their conversation has only kindled it and spurned it into something far more prevalent, far more remorseful. And when she begins to accept that rest will not come so easily, the soft murmur of Link's first tranquil hum sparks to life, like struck flint upon a campfire.

A chorale of crickets seem to harmonize against him, dissonant and trembling beneath a soft whimper. Even away from the jungle's sultry air, something hot rushes across Zelda's body and pushes her up from her bedroll. She crawls to the tent's opening in haste, her murky glance settling upon his dark form just beyond her tent. He's sleeping a little bit closer to the entrance than he'd done in Faron, a choice born from the lack of shelter provided by the thinning canopy of the forest's periphery. It had given her a bit of peace of mind.

Until now, at least.

Zelda watches as his head lolls to the side, darkened wheat swooping across his forehead while a heavy exhale flutters from him. She can just make out the way his lower lip moves as it searches for something, wraps around a silent consonant; she can't help but wonder if the fricative onset of her own name lingers there.

She closes her eyes. There is a war brewing within her, soldiers clad in the mourning colors of guilt driving their lances into the brighter shades that curiosity dons, a persistent infantry that rages on, unthreatened. His sounds grow louder, more enticing, more appealing— and Zelda realizes that she's listening more intently, realizes that she's suddenly disappointed that their campsite isn't covered up by the slabs of stone that would have amplified the sound of him in her ears; she's disappointed that she cannot have more.

Zelda gasps, both at the realization, and the fact that he's drawing closer to that place she'd set him up to find— no, this must end.

"Link!"

He's on his feet before his eyes have even managed to open fully, the Master Sword unsheathed before Zelda can even draw a breath.

"Princess, are you okay?" he asks harshly, eyes glancing about to find her in the dark.

"Yes, I'm—I'm so sorry...I thought I heard something. Would you be willing to investigate?"

His breath is ragged. "What did you hear?"

"I'm not sure…perhaps a scratching sound? Though it may have just been something nocturnal." She raises her hands apologetically. "I'm sorry, I must be a little on edge."

Zelda watches as Link surveys the surroundings for a feigned threat, glancing behind trees and up in the branches, craning around the tent for a fuller investigation. She's glad the sun is not up to expose the embarrassment scrawled across her lying face.

"All clear."

Zelda exhales. "I'm so sorry to wake you, Sir Link. Truly, I am."

Link slides the sword back into its scabbard and nods, his breathing a little more regulated.

"Please, Princess, wake me as often as you must. I insist. Keeping you safe is far more important than an extra bit of rest."

"Thank you," Zelda whispers. "You are so kind to me…please know that your presence brings me great comfort. And your hard work is greatly appreciated."

Link is quiet, perhaps unsure as to whether or not he's even fully awake.

"It's an honor to serve you." He breathes out into the night air, and it sounds as though the slight murmur of sleep is beginning to slip back into his voice. The space between them grows just as quiet as the surrounding forest, moonbeams peeking through the thin canopies to illuminate the small distance between them. Zelda's lips part, and though there is so much scurrying across her mind, only three words manage to find their footing.

"Good night, then."

She can barely make out the sharp blue of his gaze through the dark. Still, it burns.

"Good night, Princess." He says after a long moment, and Zelda wonders if perhaps there is something else trembling about on his tongue as well.

They part, and somehow, turning her back to him proves difficult. She finds herself wanting to spend the silent hours at his side, perhaps saying nothing at all. To simply watch the sun rise with another person who asks nothing of her.

In the comfort of her tent, another half of an hour passes, and Zelda can't be completely sure that Link has sought out sleep once more. She could very easily poke her head out and find the answer, but none of it matters. He's there, close by, the top of his head visible through the slit in her tent's entrance.

So, her suspicions are correct. As unbelievable and silly as they have been, she is correct.

The evening is not always so wise— night carries uncertainty, the pale threats of fantasy and delusions and unspoken dreams; Zelda falls right into its trap. She wonders— have his dreams brought her to him once again? Before she had saved him the misery, had he seen her? What does this phantom version of her do when she crosses his mind? She wonders: does she undress herself, slide the thin straps of her chemise down, pull at the front her gown to reveal full breasts to him? (She imagines he might envision them fuller than they are.) Perhaps he undresses her with his own hands, leaves every item of his clothing on but strips her of everything, drinks in every part of her while he keeps himself hidden away. Perhaps he imagines her crawling from her tent, seeking him out and straddling him, waking him with a slight nip at his neck while fingers thread through his hair. Perhaps he doesn't wait, takes her right then and there, slides her underwear down and fills her with his cock before the thin fabric has even slipped from her legs entirely—needy and impatient. Something sparkles up her spine at the thought.

It is only then that Zelda realizes a finger is lingering at the apex of her legs.

The night seems to steal the wind from her lungs. Oh, sweet Goddess.

Zelda knows what this pleasure tastes like. She has sought it out before, only twice, in the days before desperation seized her—in the days before she had grown to believe that Hylia was perhaps punishing her for such uncouth behavior. It had been experimental, lovely and intriguing; but the cramp in her hand had left her aching and the whole thing had left her wanting something more, and before she had time to experiment further, the dread of her objectives had weighed in and decided that that sort of behavior was no longer appealing.

Until now, she supposes.

Her finger doesn't stop, only glides a bit further down to seek out a button she's long neglected, and when she runs across it, something tightens in her— yes, this is familiar. Sweeter than before, she thinks. A sharp breath catches in her throat, but just as meticulous as her finger moves, so does her mind: she clamps down around the sound, just in case her knight might still be lying awake.

A sound falls from him. It's a familiar sound, though different from the previous nights. It's something wrapped up in an innocent sleep, and Zelda knows she is alone again. But her hand slows, freezes in place when he rolls over, when she can make out the gentle shape of his nose and the slight frown that sleep wrinkles across his lips.

For a moment, she thinks Hylia may have finally smiled upon her, because even through the dark she picks up every inch of him as though the sun has risen and splashed its rays across his face and brightened him up just for her. Everything about him feels soft, as though he would be so lovely to reach out and touch.

And Zelda continues, inhibitions gone, her finger slow and luxuriant as she studies the handsome angles of his face. Handsome. Oh Goddesses, she will relent in the confessional of night—he is handsome.

An ache pulses beneath her nipples, hardening them so that the soft satin of her nightgown feels almost painful when they perk up against it. Zelda's heels dig into the bedroll beneath her, sheets twisting around her ankles (she almost lets herself pretend that they're his own sheets back home wrapping around her) while a small whimper hides in her throat as she presses a little harder on that spot that beckons her back. She feels herself rising, climbing higher than she'd ever managed those few years ago, her body growing brighter and brighter; she is a supernova, seeking refuge in the bundled foliage of the forest. Link inhales, almost as if he's guiding her higher— so high that she wonders if he may ever let his breathe collapse, and when he finally does, his mouth parts and he exhales out into the night, and it's such a delicious little tease of a sound that Zelda feels the sky crashing around before she even pushes herself over the edge.

The shadow of an "L" prises at her lips. It never comes, muted by the stardust.