The world is a crystal.
The ballroom sparkles, illuminating Hyrule Castle against the indigo palette of a late autumn's eve, and in its splendor it's as though the girl is watching the Gods themselves careen across the Great Hall as her curious eyes take in the sea of lavish gowns and jewels before her. Beneath the swell of the chamber orchestra's glistening strings, the aristocracy bursts to life; in the scandalous whispers that dance across the length of outstretched arms, in the noblemens' boisterous assertions and the soft hushes that follow from their wives. Political discussion and controversy melt away beneath the steady flow of wine and cheese and chocolate.
It is on this night in which a certain thought dares to cross the Princess' mind for the first time.
The festivities are carried out in honor of her thirteenth birthday, and, if Impa is to be believed, Zelda's grown far too old to be darting about the billowing gowns: instead, she finds herself perched upon a throne, dressed in a periwinkle one of her own that has become rather tight around her chest since her last fitting with the seamstress. She sits uncomfortably, ankles crossed beneath her chair while a persistent itch prises at the crook of her elbow. She wishes she could be free, could find Link and start a game of tag about the courtyards or wrestle near the fountains—they're due for a rematch, after all, and a rather sinister plot that involves dragging him into the running water has been simmering in her brain for quite some time now.
"How long must I sit here?" The grumble would go unheard if not for her Sheikah nursemaid's acute hearing.
"Patience, Princess. Once your guests have all arrived."
Zelda feels the tips of her ears grow warm, and though she knows she ought to apologize for such an unbecoming gripe, she only props an elbow upon the gilded arm of her throne and sets her chin upon her palm, her eyes trained upon the carousel of bodies gliding about the center of the hall.
Everything glints beneath the chandeliers; she's suddenly in the eye of a hurricane, jewel tones swirling about as they create a galaxy of their own, gowns and sashes and brassy necklaces like distant stars sparkling in the night sky. She watches as a woman she does not recognize brings fingers to her mouth and laughs through them while beyond her silhouette, a couple leans in to share a gentle kiss over their wine flutes. They are all so alive , Zelda thinks as she studies each interaction, and though the celebration does not ring with them in mind, they seem to be joyous in her stead, effervescent as though the King of Hyrule had declared the event in their honor rather than hers. Warmth waxes around them as they find their tastes satiated by vices of choice—longings resolved, their yearnings fulfilled. Matters for those much older than her; the girl does not recognize such things.
"Princess Zelda, I believe you have a guest."
Zelda's head snaps back to attention, mouth twisted in disappointment as she prepares herself for another half-hearted birthday greeting from yet another distant colleague of her father's. But Impa's voice guides her back to a face that floods with her relief and has a grin stretching across her face.
Link is perhaps the most polished she has ever seen him, blonde hair brushed and styled slightly (most certainly accomplished beneath one of her maid's hands as a kindness) and his attire much more proper, fashionable and tailored perfectly to his form. She hardly recognizes him in his stoic black slacks and the dashing plum of his tunic, but what she does recognize is his tentative smile, an expression that's par for the course when he finds himself thrust out into the public eye—an expression that she finds especially endearing beneath the sweeping strands of crystal overhead.
"Link!" she calls out, genuine excitement rising up in her throat, golden locks falling across her shoulder when she leans forward to study him more closely. Her eyes are drawn towards the bend at his elbows, his hands seemingly tucked at his back.
"Happy birthday, Princess." His voice is a little smaller than she anticipates.
"I believe he has something for you." Impa states, hardly glancing over.
Excitement sparks up in Zelda's eyes. "Really?"
Link nods.
"You may approach," Impa says, settling on a polite tone. She doesn't acknowledge the interaction much, her watch securely attuned to the going ons elsewhere in the hall. Link obliges and climbs the two steps leading up to the throne, and when he's just before her, he reveals his hand: in his open palm sits a small, crafted flower, silver gilt and glinting under the spangle of lights.
"Oh!" Zelda exclaims as reaches out to take it from his grasp. "May I open it now?" Link nods, shifting his weight to one leg, a little nervous as the Princess of Hyrule opens the container to find a small, turquoise pendant against a dark cushion, its face shimmering almost as much as her own. "Oh, Link! That's so beautiful." She lifts the necklace to inspect and watches as its thin chain slips through her fingers. "Thank you so much!" If they weren't before the court, she'd leap to hug him—but she's reasonable enough to know that neither Link nor Impa might appreciate such a gesture very much.
"You're welcome." He clears his throat. "I figured you might like it…since it's your birthstone, and all."
Zelda lays her glance upon him. "Will you help me put it on?" And then, quickly turning to Impa: "Is that okay?"
The Sheikah tilts her head. "I suppose."
Link steps forward, footsteps begrudgingly heavy as though he were a man headed for the gallows, and from beneath knitted brows Zelda decides that she will have to tease him about it later. She passes the thin chain off to him and gathers golden tresses to one side, feels his knuckles brush against her shoulders as he moves to clasp it around her neck. Nimble fingers move so lightning quick.
"How does it look?" she asks, tilting her head down to try and catch the sight of the stone against her chest.
He clears his throat again and gathers up a bit more enthusiasm. "Very nice! Very…fancy." Zelda runs a finger across the gem and smiles.
"Princess—" Impa lifts her voice above the strains of the festivities, "—perhaps Link might be interested in a dance."
"Oh, would you? That would be wonderful—I'm so very bored."
Zelda is off her cushion before Impa has even a moment to find a scolding word, hastily grabbing at Link's hand and pulling him into the eddy of bodies. Their interception goes mostly undetected, hardly significant enough to break through the drunken stupor that pervades the air. Zelda has to raise her voice to be heard across a new round of chatter that explodes around them.
"You have to put your hand on my waist," she declares, raising her arms as though taking a phantom partner.
Wide blue eyes brighten beneath a flash of panic. "Is…that okay?" His voice strains to ask back.
"If it wasn't, would I have dragged you out here?" Zelda asks smartly, one eyebrow raised in a tease.
Link gives three large nods, a sort of bobbing motion that he tends to make when he relents to the Princess' wishes, and with one swift step forward, he fills the empty space beneath her fingers and sets a hand on the small of her back while the tips of his boots come to kiss the front of her dress shoes.
It is at this precise moment that Zelda finds her crystalline world tilted on its axis, in which a peculiar voice chirps up in her ear and asks her to reconsider all she has ever known about the boy that brings her close to his chest—begs for a hint of her attention in a tone that sings with the soft cherry of fading sunlight. When has she ever needed to tilt her head up to meet his eye? Has she never noticed that particular way a certain lock of hair swoops across his forehead? And his jaw, she thinks, is just a little bit longer than she remembers it to be.
Their legs are by the far the shortest in the hall, wholly incapable of the long, elegant strides that flank them, and when nerves and general inexperience give way to various missteps and muck ups, they find their shared giggles so hard to choke down that it hurts; they are unrefined, always one pace behind.
But even so, when they finally part, Zelda cannot understand why she feels as though she's been to the moon and back.
Only a few short years later, Link, the young boy who first appeared before her in the castle garden like a prophet from the holiest of lands, kneels before the court and receives an accolade. Link, the boy on whose word alone ensured that Hyrule would stand to see another prosperous day, is knighted. Zelda watches as her father lays the flat edge of his sword on Link's shoulder, pride swelling up inside of her as the blade glints beneath a sweet spring sun, and though she cannot name the precise emotion that encroaches across her chest, she finds herself curiously envious of the beaming face laid upon him. She hears him swear his oaths—he shall be loyal to his Lord, only truth shall pass his lips, he shall always defend a lady—and when her father has exhausted the list of expectations, it is Sir Link that rises from the ground.
This is, she knows, a culmination of his childhood. Though he's only brushing up against the start of his sixteenth year, fealty ages him, and Zelda knows that their paths have twisted upon one another even further—he's a little more like her now; he's always been welcome in the castle, and he's more than earned his keep, but he will no longer attend its glittering festivities merely as the Princess' childish companion. As of today, he is considered a member of the court.
The king's final declaration settles into repose and makes way for a shared, silent prayer, and it isn't until the unified murmurs of affirmation fill the hall and Link's eye flits across to meet hers that Zelda realizes she had never thought to bow her head in prayer at all, all too preoccupied by the sight of him.
Admiration on full display, the King opens his arm and brings Link into a less formal embrace, congratulating him as though he were commending a son. It's what he deserves, Zelda thinks, though she's a little surprised at what little effort the monarch puts into shrouding his appreciation for the young man.
When the meeting has adjourned and all have departed, Zelda is quick to find him.
"Congratulations, Sir Link," she jests, his new title drawn out in the hopes of making his neck burn in embarrassment. She's delighted to find that it works, noting the way he shakes his head and avoids her eye, a flushed smile curled into the side of his mouth.
"Thank you, Your Highness."
"Might you be interested in a stroll before lunch is served?" she inquires in an old, posh voice that never fails to send Link into a fit of giggles each time she draws it up.
He is, and off they go.
The open air of the rose gardens beckons her in a silent voice, and they sail the hum of a gentle breeze out of the corridor's threshold to find themselves against the rows of perfectly curated hedgerows. The colors burst forth against their bright cushions, thorns delicately tucked away beneath their verdant shroud. They traverse down a stretch of grass that leads to a pavilion, an airy structure with a two-tiered roof accented with soft arches, garlands of foliage stitched along the trellises and winding in and out through the crosshatches as they stretch desperately for the sky.
Zelda turns sharply on her heel when she reaches the center of the pavilion.
"Are you ready, then?"
Link slows his step and frowns. "Ready for what?"
She feigns a look of muted shock. "Your second set of vows, my good Sir!"
He cocks his head to the side as his brow furrows humorously.
Zelda clears her throat. "Let us begin," she commences in a voice that's surely meant to emulate her father's usual grandeur. "First—do you vow that you shall always make time in your daily schedule for a round of arm wrestling with the Princess of Hyrule?"
He laughs, and it's like a force far greater than her has dragged its finest bow along her heartstrings. "I swear it."
"Second— and this may be the most important one," she continues, eyes flashing darkly, "do you swear that you will continue to sneak said Princess those crescent pastries that she loves so much?"
He places a hand across his heart and tips his head forward. "I swear it!"
"Good! Alright then— last, but certainly not least—do you swear to keep Princess Zelda as your best friend even when your knightly duties keep you away from her?"
The mirth is promptly swiped from his face, and when Zelda finds herself looking upon one of the most serious expressions she's ever seen on him, flames are soon licking up at the tips of her ears. Oh Goddesses, how she wishes she'd stayed silent. But Link, assured and solemn, drops to a knee and bows his head just as he'd done before her father a short while ago.
"I swear to always think of her fondly, even if life is cruel enough to keep us apart."
Shining eyes turn up to her, and though she cannot name the reason why, Zelda realizes that she is no longer the person that she thought she was.
The next few years pass in the pastel haze of a dream. As Zelda grows, her strawberry blonde hair falling longer and her hips a bit more flared out and her cheeks thinned, so do her feelings for the young man who remains by her side. He grows, too, the distance between the tops of their heads widening until he reaches a height where she finds the crook of his neck a most natural place to rest her own head—she does no such thing, but the very thought of it pervades her dreams and wakes her with a heartbeat that sends its knuckling rhythm down to her belly.
She thinks of him often, wondering what it is that has changed about him to make each thought of him glow more brightly than ever. Perhaps it is only the gentle fade of the years mellowing her out, settling the childish energy that has driven her forward all this time. She does not think too much of it, only accepts these little wonders that dust her day with quiet pleasantries.
Zelda has long heard the maids tell stories of men—of deceitful men who break hearts and spin false tales of women whose affections they have earned for no other purpose than that's how men are. But Zelda cannot reconcile those assertions with Link in her mind; he is not like any other man, she knows—there is an inherent goodness in him, a kind nature that must have been instilled in him at birth. And with each passing day, it begins to feel as though the Goddesses have calculated each interaction to make him even more winsome.
It comes in the form of a flower picked especially for her just as dawn breaks.
It comes as treats left at her door when her menstrual cycle rears its ugly, painful head.
It comes as a new book placed in her hands when he finds something that might catch her interest while he is in Castle Town.
And then, one day, it comes in the form of nothing more than a simple glance; an easy, pale look that feels as though it takes her by the shoulders, wraps its fingers against her face and captures her mouth. Zelda finally names that blessed, unnamed thing that has kept her nights sleepless and her days filled with bright spirits and has golden light fluttering inside of her at all times: she is in love.
This phantom wears its new title like a crown and looms beside her as she wanders the halls of the castle. She feels it everywhere, in everything, and knowing its true form ensures that she's never alone. In the twilit hours of day, in the sweet afternoon breeze—when she cannot sleep and watches the gold of morning creep across the horizon, she settles into its company as though it were an old friend.
She loves him quietly, in the way sacred things are meant to be loved.
And though she loves him in shadow, her love is anything but quiet—it's a snowstorm howling against her at every waking moment, an ocean reaching up into the endless sky before it crashes against her and drags her into the undertow. The rage of the wind as it parses through the willows and a volcano on the precipice of eruption as the ground trembles beneath it. And in spite of all things, the bloom inside of her is kept secluded, tucked away in the deepest part of her being where she and only she can find it.
She considers setting the secret free only once—in her sixteenth year, on a warm summer's day when the sycamores dance overhead while a blue wind ravishes their low spreading limbs. She settles beneath one in the courtyard just outside her quarters, eyes scanning the fine print of the latest novel that Impa has passed onto her—one of the remaining Sheikah masterworks that Zelda has yet to delve into. She's far too lost in the way the text sparks to life in her imagination to hear the gentle scratch of boots as they scuff against gnarled bark.
"Good read?"
Link's voice nearly stops her heart, though in a different way than she's come to expect. Zelda places a hand to her chest as frantic eyes rise to meet the mischievous gleam overhead—it's a small, subdued look, and yet every bit as brilliant as the fanning sunlight that drips through the canopy of leaves.
"Honestly , Link," she laughs, tinting pink.
He leaps down from the tree, a sight that has her shuddering in the event that his ankles don't hold up so readily. "Did I startle you?" He bends to sit beside her.
"No, of course not," she pans, voice playfully dull before a small smile breaks. And though her heartbeat tries in such vain to regulate itself, she's helpless to his own smile that grows, a look so earnest that he might have a secret of his own lingering behind it. One look, and she nearly forgets her name, only remembers to keep going when a simple breath catches in her throat. "Yes , it's quite interesting. Impa has loaned it to me."
"Ah. So… it's boring."
Zelda buries her face behind weathered pages and giggles, pearl blue eyes peering over the bend of the spine. "Oh, don't be like that! When will you learn that she's not a grumpy old crone?"
"When she stops acting like one," he teases, pressing his tongue between his teeth and grinning as though he's told one of the finest jokes to ever pass through the castle walls. The Princess rolls her eyes above a thinly suppressed smile. "Kidding!" He relents. "But really, I'm not smart enough for those Sheikah stories anyway."
"I'm sure you are," Zelda says, setting a loose hairpin against parchment to mark her spot before closing the book. "But you're well within your rights to not like the style. They're a bit of an acquired taste."
"Yeah, but…well, you like that style. Makes me wish that I did too."
She hopes he doesn't see the way her lips part for just a moment. How can such a sentiment make her heart leap in such a way? She tucks the thought away as though it were a piece of gold found on the riverbank, something to be hidden in the deepest of pockets and pulled out only when the rest of the world has ceded to sleep. His voice breaks through.
"Anyway, yeah, I don't know if I'd say she's grumpy, but she sure doesn't like me."
Zelda tips her head back and groans. "Will you ever just accept the fact that she does?"
"She trusts me. She doesn't like me. And she doesn't have to."
"She does both."
"I'll believe it when I see it. As you said, nothing's wrong with not liking a style. She doesn't need to appreciate mine." He shrugs. "There are worse things."
"I know her true heart—she does appreciate you. You just shall never see it because she can't afford to inflate your ego."
He laughs, and in his tone she swears she finds an aureole suddenly crowning him, proving him to be something divine.
"Besides…" Zelda continues on, her voice ringing a little less stable with each passing word, "…the idea of you not being to someone's taste is…well, it's preposterous. You're a good man." Her face burns as she delivers it, eyes boring holes into the hard leather cover of her book while her finger draws mindless circles against it. She burns quietly beneath his silent thoughts, something purring low in her body as needy ears wait for the promised sound of him.
"If you insist," he finally says, gently, his voice like kind fingers upon her own.
"I do."
He's quiet again, save for a short, thoughtful sound that Zelda is far too tense to acknowledge. There's something in the air between them, something quietly electric stirring up in the stretch of silence.
"I'm sorry I scared you," Link finally says, leaning his head back against the tree.
"You're forgiven." Zelda releases a long held breath, wondering how much longer she might have gone before she'd suffocated on his silence. "I'm glad it was you and not some rogue assassin." She laughs weakly, but when she glances over at him, she doesn't turn to find humor in his eye, the muscles in his face relaxed and far more contemplative.
"You know I'd never let any harm come to you. Right?" he asks.
She bites her lip and nods. "I know."
Link raises his brows, and Zelda wonders how it's possible for an expression to be so smart, but wholly without a hint of jest. "I'd give my life before that ever happened."
And then her secret is there, like a flame on her tongue aching for oxygen, begging for a freedom that she knows can only bring destruction—will only set her forest aflame and watch everything she has worked for disintegrate before her very eyes. And beneath his eye, beneath the soft assertion that she's known in her soul for quite some time now, she lets the thought wither and die in her mouth.
"Thank you, Link." Her voice drops to whisper, as though anything louder might tear the fabric of her whole being in two.
It isn't enough—it will never be enough, but it's all she can manage while balanced on such a precarious breath. Link smiles at her and closes his eyes, settling in for a quick rest as Zelda turns back to her novel with a new shade of pink splashed across her nose.
Her secret lives to see another day.
One subsequent morning, Zelda wakes with the hint of an inhalation catching in her throat as sleep releases her from its grip and thrusts her into the pooling gold of morning light. She sinks into the moment, lays there while she studies the shape of her windowpane and catches the way light scatters across whirling specks of dust in the light.
Even in sleep, she finds herself wrapped up in familiar coherence, wandering through a sea of decay and darkness—traveling a world seemingly devoid of hope, in which her homestead has become nothing but a sarcophagus for her loved ones. Visions of blue and green twine together across a vast Hyrule, and in between, the soft strains of a vessel flute flutter about. Light and dark collide, exploding together from somewhere beyond a pane of pink crystal. And, at the end, when the dark pitch of terror finally withers beneath the blade's holy cry, there is something that remains in its wake—a melancholy, the soft sadness of parting that leaves the corners of sleep riddled eyes wet with tears.
It is not the first time she's had such a dream. It first struck her one night many years ago, the night before a boy in forest green appeared in her garden with a tale taller than the highest peak in Hyrule. And it was on that bright afternoon, after she'd heard the way his voice rose and the way his hands frantically waved about that she knew just what she had seen.
Zelda often wonders of the other: that version of her that exists elsewhere, beyond the veil of time and space. She wonders how her counterpart stomachs a world without Link. It must have gravely wounded her, sending him back as she had done. In the comfort of her bed, Zelda thinks she would act differently—would indulge her most selfish desires to keep him at her side. But then she gives it one more thought, and she knows that she would sacrifice every ounce of her happiness if it meant she might reunite him with a kind he'd never known.
Though Link has spoken of his adventures, explained in great detail as to what Zelda herself has the potential to achieve, he doesn't speak much of her. He cannot speak of her; something intervenes each time. Whether it is sadness or rage or regret, Zelda cannot say, and she leaves the matter and says nothing further. And though it is a burning thought, searing questions that have her curiosity peaked, she supposes that it is something not meant for her to know and quietly accepts it.
She finds him that morning lingering on the landing just beneath her chambers.
"Good morning!" His voice is bright.
"A good morning to you as well, Sir Link." In his eyes, she sees the sublimity of his tales, wonders what he must have looked like traversing the land and slipping across time. How much of him has been stripped away?
"Care for breakfast?" Link leans in. "I'm told there is a fresh plate full of your favorite pastries waiting down there for you."
"Divine, " Zelda's grin is all teeth and widened eyes as though she were a child again. "Could you save me one? My father has asked to see me right on the hour. It shall not take long."
"I can do better than that, I think." Link smiles. "Meet you down there?"
Zelda nods, and before she can tear herself from his side, Link lays a firm hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently. It's a soft gesture, one that he'll always refrain from doing if others are around, but he touches her and she loves the slight hint of strength and loves how she feels beneath his hand. His expression softens just as his voice does, and his tone is every bit as delicate as the gentle yawn of morning sun slipping through the window.
"See you soon."
The Princess does not give much thought as to whether or not the one who holds her heart returns her affections. She's content with the unknown, perfectly happy to spend the rest of her days lingering in his orbit; the world is just so much brighter in his vicinity. She's come to love the dip in her stomach when he smiles at her, the way she finds herself enslaved to each word, each slight touch. But Zelda is also not so foolish—she knows that destiny is likely to pull them apart someday, so she resolves to spend every moment with him that she can afford.
Fate seems to understand this, and under its wicked hand, the King of Hyrule is soon laying a dread word at her feet only a few moments later:
Suitors.
"I have no interest in marriage at this time," Zelda declares before him in the privacy of his study, gloved arms folded across her chest. "I have nothing more to say on the matter at this time."
Behind his writing desk, the King's quill carries on as though she hasn't spoken at all, his hand working steadily as though he's expected nothing else. He embellishes the bottom of the parchment with his signature before lifting his eyes to her, peering at his daughter across the rims of his spectacles. Zelda, made wiser through the metamorphosis of age, recognizes part of herself in his cool, calculated glance. As placid as it is, it sparks an unfamiliar fury in her.
"It ought to be considered," he continues. "You'll soon be of age."
"I understand the significance. But I cannot consider it now. Please, Father. We are operating under peacetime conditions—is there any need to rush?"
The King doesn't respond, simply licks the tip of his finger and shuffles through his pile of parchment to seek out another piece in need of his signature.
"Duke Rickon has been nipping at my heels since your first bleed, you know."
The rosy color in her cheeks pales. She has hated the Duke since their first meeting, despised his ghoulish grin and his thinly hidden thirst for authority. His presence was rather thin—he boasted no egregious sense of authority, but his personality irritated far more than any unwanted rash or illness, and therein lied his power.
"Father…" There is a warning mounted at the edge of her voice.
The King sets his quill down and sets his elbows upon the desk. "The castle will host a ball for your eighteenth year. You will be escorted by Lord Ansel, the Duke's son."
He must have spent several evenings preparing himself for the wrath his daughter would go on to lash out against him. Zelda's anger is ravenous as she spats against the King, a new flame kindling in her eyes that she had never known existed within her. The same, primal fear that resounds at the end of a hunt, a death knell wailed out into the night before razor sharp teeth plunge into a thudding pulse and sends everything into darkness.
"…and with no consideration for your daughter's wishes!"
The King stays silent, hands balled against his lips as he takes in her words. Zelda will feel the embarrassment wash over her only once she's left his quarters; for the moment, she doesn't believe she's ever tasted anger so strongly on her tongue.
"Have you said your part?"
She huffs. "For the time being, yes."
The King smiles. "Daughter, you have far more spirit than you let on."
Zelda's frown deepens.
"It is my hope that you will spend a single evening with this man… so that I may formally reject the Duke's proposal. I want that dastardly man out of contention as your father-in-law as soon as possible. That shall be my gift to you." The King presses his lips together and smiles; he seems humored, really, almost delighted by how he's managed to dupe her.
Zelda blinks. "And if he were to give no valid reason for rejection?"
The King shrugs. "I assume that if he is not to your taste, you will reject him—a lack of a formal rejection might imply you hope to consider him later on." Zelda grows sheepish, her mouth fumbling around a half cooked apology as embarrassment crackles behind her sternum.
"I apologize for my behavior, Father…I just…I panicked. To think of the Duke as a…as a relative. That is a horrid prospect." She clears her throat.
The King's smile never falters. "You can play the game as long as you like. But for now, I ask that you accept this without protest. The sooner you clean your hands of this man, the sooner you are free to seek out other prospects."
Zelda falls quiet while new thoughts flash across her mind: thoughts of clinging to another man, one whose arms she had not grown up alongside. Embracing a man whose heart does not call out to her in a voice she can recognize. Spending her life with a man who is anyone else but Link. It is a miserable, miserable thought.
"And if I shall never warm up to the idea?" Her voice grows quiet.
Zelda chooses not to consider all that passes behind the striking hue of her father's eye. "I believe that you will."
So it is decided.
Zelda sweeps from the room with her breath riding high, brushing past the stoic guards who have undoubtedly heard her outburst from beyond the room's heavy doors. She flusters about the castle with her skirts balled tightly in her fists, darting quickly this way and that, and it isn't until her glance falls upon Link in the dining hall that she realizes she has been searching for him.
His pleasant smile brings warmth to her for a moment, but it dips into a frown when she draws close enough for him to see the scowl etched into her face. In the confines of her chest, it makes her heart ache.
"I have some news," Zelda states in a voice that rings duller than the dreary brown of Death Mountain. She melts into the seat across from him with drooped shoulders and a crooked frown, regality shaken from her shoulders entirely.
"And what's that?" Link asks. On his plate sits a pear, a slice of bread, and a slab of blueberry jam, and beside his meal, a second, smaller plate carries two crescent shaped pastries. Zelda doesn't know why, but the mere sight of a plate meant for her sends guilt splintering through her bones.
"There is to be a ball. For my birthday."
"That's not so bad."
She swallows, and it feels like quilting pins against the column of her throat. "I'm to attend with Lord Ansel."
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Oh."
"He is a prospective suitor. Father says the Duke has been insufferable; he's hoping to convince us of his son as a potential husband."
"I see. Have you spoken to him before?"
"To the son? Only once, a few years ago. I remember very little of him."
Link scratches at the pear's pale skin, a little mindless. "Perhaps you will find him to be a winning match."
She hates the way he says it. "I doubt it, but I suppose there are worse things than entertaining a Lord for a few hours."
They're both quiet for a moment, thoughts lost in the swell of the dining hall as the kitchen staff swoops in to replenish the inventory and clear the used plates. And it is only when Link has finished his inspection of the bruised fruit that he asks: "Shall I be in attendance?"
"I'm sure you will be expected to be there." But suddenly, there is an implication in his tone, glaring at her, buzzing against her brain and demanding it be heard. "Would you…would you rather not attend?"
"If you want me to be there, I shall be there."
His tone is peculiar, reminiscent of the way he'd once spoken of the other.
"I won't be able to stay by your side all evening." She admits, breath growing a little tighter. "It might be terribly boring. Perhaps…. perhaps it might be nice for you to bring someone for company. Yes, that might be nice."
Zelda is a terrible liar. In truth, the idea of Link sharing his evening with a beautifully dressed woman, spending the festivities with someone else in his arms is a hard thought to process. A new, unnamed thing cracks from its holding cell and stretches its arms out through her chest, sinks its fangs into her belly and stains the once lovely flutter with something far more poisonous. She knows very well that Link will have no issue securing a partner for the evening. It is no secret that every maiden in Castle Town finds him appealing—considers him to be the top candidate for a husband, a father. She knows of the watchful eyes that envy their time spent together, and she's perfectly aware of the endless stream of names that would be quick to jump from the reserve spot in her absence.
"There is someone I could ask," he says, quietly.
Inexplicably, her heart begins to hurt.
"Who do you have in mind?" It's asked slowly, deliberately paced to mask the hurt fracturing her voice.
"Not in mind per se… but I think Malon might enjoy an evening in the castle. You must remember her?"
Yes, she knows of the rancher's daughter. They had spent afternoons together as children, when the girl's father had released her from her milkmaid duties and Link had brought her along to pay Zelda a visit. It had been years since they'd last spoken.
"I recall. A sweet girl. Do you see her often?" Zelda asks, keeping her voice as timid as possible so as not to betray herself.
He nods, eyes still focused on the limp piece of bread before him. "Once in a while, in town. I sometimes see her in the bookshop."
Zelda thinks of Link browsing the shelves with Malon at his side—imagines her pointing out a title she finds herself fond of and watching as he pulls it out to bring back to the castle. Something grows so tight in Zelda's chest that she feels she might be close to snapping in two.
"I see. Well…if you are companions, she might be a very good fit."
He speaks no further, a choice that threatens to break Zelda clean in half. They sit in silence, and when a maid finally comes to collect their dishes, the fare is left mostly untouched, appetites long vanished.
There are many eyes on her tonight, more so than usual. She can't tell if it's the burnished gold of her gown demanding attention, or perhaps the perfectly coiffed curls gliding down from their half held keep that coax their glances. She hopes, more than anything, that suspicious eyes are not dwelling too heavily on the stranger that stands at her side.
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Yes," Zelda says, eyes darting to the handsomely dressed gentleman beside her. There's a moment in which she thinks she might speak again, and Lord Ansel's eyebrows raise in a way that tells her he must assume the same, but nothing further falls from her.
"Would you care for another dance?"
"That's fine."
Ansel does not make a fantastic dance partner. He's a bit too tall, his legs constantly seeking out larger strides that Zelda finds herself practically sprinting to contend with. He's handsome, not so handsome as to knock the stars from her eyes in the way Link's visage does as it passes through her mind, but handsome enough that she knows he's dragged the eye of many a maiden this evening. The last thing she wants is for these hungry eyes to condescend to her, to think poorly of her—the last thing she wants is for them to think she's been cruel to her most cherished companion of her own volition.
A second sigh melts into silence, but a reluctant Zelda is quickly taking her partner's hand and leading him to the floor, sucking in a breath as she assumes her positions and prepares for the first prominent lunge. There's something so inorganic about their partnership; he's too tall, his chest too broad—her fingers don't mold so easily around his shoulder and his palm. But she steps into the triple pattern— step, close, step, step, close, step—and it's only a few moments before she's swearing that she knows what it might feel like to be dragged around Castle Town with her hands tied to the back of a wheeled cart, and though Zelda has to catch her breath a few times, Ansel is mostly unbothered. He smiles down and triggers a half exhausted one from the Princess in return.
The music ends with a dainty flourish, a shimmer of tones far too charming against the sweat adhering golden strands to her neck.
"Thank you, Lord Ansel."
Zelda wastes no time in moving towards the seat set aside for her, darting about beautiful gowns, far more frenzied than she had done when she and Link were children. Something in her heartbeat sharpens at the thought of him; he isn't here. Zelda finds herself glancing about, craning her neck to see if perhaps she's missed him entirely. She doesn't find him—what she does find is aristocracy bounding forward, their tongues soaked with mead and their bellies full of fruits and pastries. Voices too loud and their smiles too wide. All of it so incomparable to the muted sapphire of his glance, the soft jasmine of his hair; she would trade them all for an evening of peace with him.
She's hardly even reached her seat when Ansel's voice is pulling her back out into the fray.
"Pardon me, Your Grace….but is that Sir Link?"
She should know better than to look so quickly, but she can't help the way her face is always instinctively drawn towards his own. And when her glance lands upon him, she wishes she could turn back the clock and choose to act differently: Link enters the room clad in deep sapphire, his hands draped in fine white leather. Zelda doesn't have a moment to really admire the brilliance of the handiwork that's gone into dressing him, because the sight of his hand extending out to catch his companion's is enough to stop her heart, the cream of the girl's delicate hand settling gently against his alabaster gloves like a rapier thrust into her side.
Malon is exactly as Zelda expects—the girlish features that the Princess remembers have been smoothed out, the softer angles of her face more defined and her hair an even richer auburn than she remembers. Dressed in a gown the color of sage, her shoulders exposed and a small flower threaded into a braid that's been set across her shoulder. Bright eyes widen and her glance flits about the room and her mouth forming a silent wow as she takes all of the grandeur in. Zelda should keep her eyes on Malon—should try to fight a bit harder to keep from looking at the man accompanying her—but she's soon swallowed whole by the smile that Link grants the girl as he admires her astonishment.
One glance. A single glance at the pair, and Zelda becomes nothing more than a shivering tree in the thicket of winter, limbs gnarled and twisting and on the verge of cracking entirely beneath the weight of a dreadful snow.
"Indeed it is," she murmurs, her glance floating aimlessly.
"I'd heard you were close acquaintances," Ansel says, voice intoning higher so it comes as more of a question.
"We are." If Ansel hopes to bait her—to interrogate her further on any potential competition—he is mistaken. She says nothing else and chooses to let him steep in the uncertainty of her silence.
He must notice the way she hardens. "I apologize if I am stepping out of line, Your Grace," he says.
"It's alright. I am not so precious that I falter beneath a single question."
Ansel smiles, boyish and charming without any intention of being so. "I did not think you to be. You do not owe me anything, but I hope you would tell me if I might be overstepping any boundaries at any point this evening. I know my father has been…well, persistent in his inquiries."
At this, a short laugh bursts from Zelda's throat. "I appreciate your understanding, Lord Ansel. I admit, it's been a rather long week. I apologize if I have not been the most entertaining of partners."
"Understandable. And do not fret—you are perfectly splendid."
Zelda doesn't notice the way his voice rings with such genuine kindness—she's preoccupied with the way that Malon has caught the eye of courtiers. Distinguished couples sweep into view at the sight of a new partner at Link's side while he looks on with approval and Malon's mouth spreads and twists as she introduces herself, and from the sight of it, the farm girl is even more charming than the Princess remembers her: Malon laughs. The courtiers laugh. Link laughs. Zelda feels ill.
"I'd very much like to meet Sir Link." Ansel's voice chimes in her ear. "I've heard wonderful things. I fear I may be out of line asking, but…might you be willing to introduce me before the night is over? Would you be amenable to that?"
Venom sits on her tongue, ready and willing to strike. But she reins every ounce of it in, the same way only a short while ago she'd corralled her heart's echoing cry and kept every soft thought close to her chest.
"Shall I introduce you now?" Zelda turns to look up at him. "Make haste with the formalities?" Let's get this over with, her eyes plead.
Zelda can practically feel Ansel's enthusiasm radiating from him as she leads him in the knight's direction. She approaches with a head raised high, her eyes firmly affixed to the smile etched across his face…and then her poise sinks: confidence wanes and her gaze lowers, her heart wilting as she finds his joy a little too bright to look upon. She's already turning to glance instead at a glowing Ansel, missing the way Link's eyes grow wide as he registers her presence.
"Zel— Princess." He bows deeply, an arm wrenched before him. Malon follows his lead, legs bending beneath her and her hands coming to rest gently against her front.
"Good evening, Sir Link," Zelda starts, hardly breathing past the mere thought of him. She turns to his guest. "And Malon, it's lovely to see you again—it's been far too long."
"Princess, it's an honor to be in your presence again." Her voice quavers with an accent heard more commonly in the province just south of Castle Town, though Zelda remembers it to have been much stronger in years past. "It's an honor to be here." Her blithe smile grows larger, and Zelda is so preoccupied by how beautiful she looks beside Link that she fails to notice the way the knight's eyes focus on the man at the Princess' side.
"Delighted to see that you were able to make it." Zelda smiles. "Sir Link, this is Lord Ansel. He's been rather excited about meeting our most esteemed knight this evening."
The men exchange pleasantries, and Ansel is quickly running with the hint of grace that Link offers him. He's immediately inquiring about skills and training regimens, as eager as a wide eyed child listening to tales of distant lands and the monsters who live there and the heroes that slay them. Link politely addresses each inquiry and accepts each compliment with the familiar kindness that has long squeezed around the Princess' heart, his glance occasionally flitting to a Zelda who misses every single look.
The distance between them feels larger than any ocean. In this place, a place where they have taken root and pushed past their earthen beds to stand tall and beautiful together, he feels like a stranger. His beauty is so unfamiliar, something slightly strained in the expression he wears as he placates Ansel's curiosity, his smile never quite reaching his eyes.
"I thank you for your time, Sir Link. You are a true commodity." Ansel bows when he's worked through whatever starstruck emotion has chosen to drag Zelda through such turmoil. "I wish you a splendid evening with your beautiful lady." He bows to Malon as well.
"The same to you," Link says, bowing himself and letting his eyes fall onto Zelda when he draws to full height. The Princess' heartbeat burst into a frenzied staccato when she finally catches the look he gives her, feels it spear her heart with a javelin of ice; his smile, gone—his brow creased. The worst thing about this look, she learns, is that it seems he's only reserved it for her: when the couples part ways, Zelda and her escort moving deeper into the room while Link guides Malon over to the assortments of food and wine along the wall, it's as though the look has become nothing more than a passing thought.
Zelda drags a long, miserable glance around the room, focusing hard on each head she comes across—she finds the chief treasurer there, his balding head drawing nearer to a woman that Zelda knows is not his wife… the realm's chief naval officer navigating his way around the train of gowns that he nearly topples over... Impa, the familiar carmine of her knowing look driving hard from across the room, slight creases forming beneath her eyes as she tries to decipher the gloom upon the Princess' face. Zelda simply shakes her head.
Elsewhere in the hall, the conductor makes his way before the ensemble and cues them to tune. A nearly forgotten Ansel clears his throat. "Would you like another dance?" he asks above the oboe's hum.
"I…I think I would like to sit this number out," Zelda mumbles. "I need a moment's rest."
"Of course, Your Grace,"
Zelda stumbles her way into her ornamented seat, fingers gripping around the plush heads of the armrests as though she might fall from the chair otherwise. The next dance begins, and it's something lively, unassuming and quaint and so perfectly tailored to Malon's bright energy that Zelda thinks the Goddesses may have engaged in some sort of divine intervention to glorify her in such a way. She knows better than to look—she knows it—and even so, she turns to find the familiar couple crossing the hall, joining the mischief unfolding in the center of the room. Oh, how she wishes that she had focused elsewhere for longer, because she turns back just in time to find his hand against Malon's braid, his fingers twining in the plait as he helps set it across her neck. He says something behind hardly moving lips, and Malon is grinning, a dimple notched into her cheek and her head tipped back in laughter and Link's brows raise and he's soon smiling too, probably enamored with the way the girl's face lights up beneath the castle's glamor.
Don't look.
The music rushes forward, and as the melody unfurls like smoke through the hall, the couples begin their long sweep across the dance floor. The selection is far less robust—delightful, whimsical: something much more enjoyable than the sturdy waltz that Ansel had dragged her across the floor for. Zelda cannot squash the feeling that fate has chosen to cast her aside, that the Goddesses have decided that joy is something she isn't meant to know at the dawn of her eighteenth year. She watches as Link and Malon swing about the room, his hand on her waist, her laughter floating across the cries and the raucous energy that sails past. Malon misses a step and falters just for a moment, a brief moment in which her elbows are collapsing onto Link's chest and her knuckles are almost grazing up against his jaw line. Their foreheads nearly press, Link nodding against her for one reason or another.
Zelda considers herself to be resilient. But this is something she cannot fight against. She wants to claw this turbulent feeling deep inside of her out, carve herself open right here and now and send it far, far away.
"Princess Zelda, forgive me—are you unwell?"
"Pardon?"
Ansel leans in and lowers his voice. "Shall I fetch you a glass of water? Do you need to lie down?"
What she needs is to flee—to run out into the brisk air of evening and collapse upon the earth, to seek refuge in the rose garden and blame her tears on their tiny, furtive thorns.
"I think I may—forgive me, Lord Ansel."
He nods in understanding, not a hint of resentment in his eye, and Zelda slips from her seat and moves as quickly as her feet will carry her. The music dampens as she crosses the threshold out of the ballroom, one step closer to breaking free of the nightmare that dwells there. No tears, not yet—not while she's still outside the confines of her quarters. If she can traverse a few more staircases unseen, she can spend the rest of her evening in the solitude that her heart so desperately needs. If she can just—
"Zelda... Zelda!"
It's Link's voice chasing her down the corridor, bounding about the stone walls and pealing in her ears like a bell.
"Go back, Link," she urges, her voice harsh as she refuses to look at him. But he's quicker than her, stronger than her—and his gloved hand suddenly gripping around her arm is enough to force her back a step. It doesn't take much effort on his part to turn her towards him completely.
"Zelda…" His firm tone quickly washes out when he notices that her eyes misty. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I simply cannot stay in that room any longer," she gasps as the sting of fresh tears pricks at the corners of her eyes. "I can't breathe in there." She makes a sound, another little gasp of pain that she can't suppress.
"What's happened?" Link's forehead creases. "Has he hurt you?"
"No!" she gasps. "No…Lord Ansel is a very kind man. It is I who could be kinder."
"Then what's troubling you?"
"Nothing, Link, please leave it—" she moves to turn, but he's quicker still, his fingers gripping her harder, his hand working it's way up her arm and his thumb sliding across bare skin, and Zelda thinks she might explode beneath his concerned touch and the soft whisper of her name as he pleads with her. She wrenches her arm away and whirls about to look at him fully, and with curled fingers etching crescents into her palms, she yields.
"Your companion this evening." Consonants ghosting across mismanaged air, voice breaking over her own ears.
"Malon?"
"Yes. I…" Zelda places a hand against her stomach as though it might keep her from toppling over. His eyes are concerned, stormy and aching and she can't stand to be looked at in such a way that she can't help but burst. "Oh, Link, I cannot bear to witness the way you look at her. I…I despise it." Oh Goddesses, her voice is cracking, her larynx high and pinched.
A breath passes between them. He falls silent, eyes roving across Zelda as he strings her words up, deciphers her tone and stitches all of the moving pieces together.
"…and how do I look at her?"
"Your eyes are so kind and you….you touch her hair and…and your smile is so warm, and…" She swallows, feeling very much like a fool as her mouth fumbles for thoughts.
Link pales. "Have you never seen warmth in my eyes when I look at you?"
"You are kind with me…yes, but I…I…" She doesn't know how to proceed.
"But what, Zelda?" His voice is as delicate as silk as he steps forward, fingers thrumming with a furtive need to reach out and settle upon her shoulders.
"—Link? Are you alright? Oh—"
Something flashes at the corner of the hallway, a bright blaze of red against the grayscale of the castle's halls.
"Malon—I'm sorry, could you give us one moment?" Link asks politely. The girl is sidled up against the wall, aware that she's interrupted something and embarrassment already stitched firmly across her features.
"Oh! I'm sorry, I—"
"No, my apologies—the fault is entirely mine," Zelda sniffles, daring to meet Malon's eye. There is something so settled in them, earthy and driven. A kindness as well, one that seems to compliment that which Link carries in his own being. Zelda despises the way jealousy twists her insides, the way it wrenches her heart and aches her bones. "Sir Link has been too kind to me—I've taken him from you. Please, return to the festivities. I hope you'll both enjoy the rest of your evening."
Link doesn't move.
"That is an order, Sir Link." Her voice breaks as she turns, clinging tightly to the threat of a sob.
Neither his step nor his voice follows as she tears down the hallway. The glittering world falls away behind her, every sweet promise stamped out, trampled over by the darkened hallways and the slight, sinister shadows stirring beside the dim waves of candlelight; the groundskeeper certainly hasn't expected anyone to frequent these halls when such radiance is to be found downstairs. But Zelda runs, her thighs burning as she leaps up through the stairwells, her feet begging to break free of their slight heels.
The dark refuge of her room has never felt so appealing, and it's the first time she has ever preferred solitude to his presence. The moon has grown so bright as it cranes to inspect her, its doting rays flooding her room. Zelda falls to her knees in a puddle of its silver light, open palms flat against the carpet while fresh tears slide down her cheeks and drip across the fabric beneath her. Foolish, foolish girl .
A few languishing minutes pass before a knock sounds at her door.
"Just leave , Link!" she cries out.
"Princess, it's I."
The tears slow; Impa's voice is like a balm against her ears.
"May I enter?"
Zelda rises and plants her feet solidly on the ground. Tall carriage, deep breaths . It's only Impa.
When their eyes finally meet, a single look at Zelda's tear stained cheeks is enough to send the blood of the Sheikah's gaze mellowing in a way the Princess has never seen. Impa's brow creases, and below it, a smile dipped in sympathy wrenches her lips, and she watches as the small hint of composure that the Princess has managed to grasp slips through her fingers like sand.
"Impa…" she begins, trembling lips clamping over. "Oh, Impa, I feel awful ." Zelda steps forward and buries her face in the crook of her advisor's neck, thick sobs catching against the wine colored fabric of Impa's evening attire. The Sheikah runs a hand along the Princess' back while a long exhale passes her lips, a gentle, soothing sound, maternal instinct flaring where stoicism tends to live.
Impa's embrace provides little warmth; instead, a bitter cold slithers its way through Zelda's veins and sends her chin quivering, has her shivering under something no quilt or steaming cup of tea can nurse. But Impa stays all the same, comforting until the moon sinks beneath the western ridge beyond Hyrule Field. And when the shudders finally lay themselves to rest, something else flares up in their wake, and Zelda can only close her eyes and abide it—beneath streaming tears, the long held truth kicks and screams at her mouth, and she thinks that if she were to hold it any longer she might explode.
"Oh, Impa, I…I…"
Impa smiles knowingly into golden curls, her thumb stroking across a tear stained cheek.
"I know, Princess. I know."