Chapter 1
Almost immediately, he picked up a scent. Not of horse or wild boar, nor of fox or goat. What he smelled was something headier, and far too unusual for these woodland paths he traversed weekly. It drifted from the west, off and away from the trail he typically followed.
Link knelt to study the forest floor in silence. Numerous leaves lay forgotten and distant. Sparrows sang to each other from their nests. He was careful—far more than most who hunted for enjoyment—but this was different. He was wise to the knowledge of what awaited him at the end of this particular aroma, and for it, he focused hard, gliding through the wood unheard by even the Goddess herself.
It was mid-autumn though, as one could see by the many changing colours permeating the old forest. Gone were the muted greens and browns of summer. They had passed into memory now, a truer herald than any—one evincing a brighter future—replaced by bright yellows and beautiful amber. Yes, the sorrowful days of yore had drifted out of thought and into the pages of recorded history. It had to be that way, even though only several months separated the present and the vanquishing of evil. But life must go on, he thought ruefully; things were better for it. And the realm did not face the tides of change alone, he realized. It was true, the all-too-familiar weight on his back had lessened as of late. Save for a simple bow, a quiver of arrows, and his hunting knife, the need for such tools escaped him. Above all else in peaceful Necluda where there was little danger. He need not worry; rather, he would not worry, for the peace in his heart spoke truer than any comforting weight of steel.
Link stopped suddenly and leaned over, placing his ear against the cool soil of the forest. He drew a deep breath, pouring his concentration into his keener senses. There, he closed his eyes and listened, cutting himself off from all other disturbances. At first, he heard nothing. But gradually, a kind of drumming—a rumbling—scarcely audible vibration could be felt. Link swallowed and looked around again.
The forest was still. Nothing moved, save for the slight rustling of leaves at the mercy of a lazy breeze. Near him, on a branch of an old, wizened tree, a small wood pigeon perched. Its purple-crowned head raised high in alert to him, seemingly troubled by his presence. These small birds were naturally inquisitive, Link mused, perhaps too much so. He need not avert his attention any longer, though. And yet it was difficult to stay completely focused. In truth, he had many things to mull over here, alone, and far away from the company of others. It was in these untamed wilds he found calm, centred himself and allowed his mind to flow free from obstruction. So many things had already changed since the passing of the Upheaval. Crossing through this forest, he felt, was like crossing through the corridors of memory. At the end of it all, he saw the Princess Zelda, her golden hair glittering beneath the sunlight, and beautiful as she always had been. Her striking, verdant-green eyes set upon him inquisitively, both gleaming and sprightly; and below it all, her smile—serene in the sheerest sense—and her hand outstretched for his to take.
The thought found him totally unprepared. It struck with a force strong enough to sweep him from his feet. He was afraid of what may happen if they continued like this, took things even further. He had not tried to hasten things along. He had done the opposite, even. These past months, really years, he had lived off the fertile lands around. Keeping to himself, persisting alone . . . and away from her. Every so often he would stop by the village, and there he would find her like he always did, arms wide open and offering him a place in her home, with her. The excuses he invented to decline such propositions changed frequently. Oh, Goddess! And there were many: he had to take a trip to Kakariko Village. Purah needed him in Lookout Landing. Other matters required his attention too; locals had hired him for protection, to escort them across dangerous roads less travelled. A particular monster needed slaying, even. Anything, he realized, anything to use as grounds to keep her ever at bay, from cornering him until he could relent no longer.
Even so, one thing remained constant: always would he return to her side where he truly belonged. Never would he permit Zelda to depart the safeguard of Hateno Village alone and without him at her hip. He was both her sword and shield, after all. More so, to see her greeting, restorative smile filled him with life; and now, there were far fewer reasons for him to stray her side. Indeed, he had come to terms with his own feelings by now. But little could he ever act upon them. Such desires beckoned him to transcend limits long established by the titles which beset them. They were bound to each other, in more ways than one. But above all else, she was his princess, and he, her sworn protector—her most loyal knight—if he put it simply. He would not act upon his urges, his . . . base lusts and instinct. Rather, he could not, even if he desired such things.
The order of the world was shaken, he realized. It was all right, he decided, with a kind of reluctant acceptance. There was nought in the ways for restoring such things. And for that he would dwell on this no longer.
In the grove, in between the shadow, he noticed flowers up ahead where sunlight cut through a circular opening in the thick canopy of trees above. There, he saw what he had been tracking up until this moment. Grimacing slightly, he did not hesitate. Instead, he unslung his bow from around his shoulder and aimed steadily, nocking an arrow slowly backwards until the tension grew very taut. His brow furrowed, left eye narrowing to a squint as not to betray his vision.
Link knew he would require only one shot.
It was all he ever needed.
Some time later, on the cusp of evening, he found himself riding along familiar dirt pathways again. In the distant vista over the trees, he could see plumes of thick smoke billowing into the plum-coloured sky from chimneys, and windmills further than that.
Home was near, and Link's heart quickened for it.
His black courser whickered loudly beneath him, hot steam blowing from his nostrils. Uneasy hooves trounced the hard dirt below. Leaning over, Link patted him gently beneath the crest, hoping to settle the beast down. They had travelled long, he realized, and it was nearing time for both of them to rest. Tossed over the rear of his courser was the mountain doe he had hunted down earlier: a rare prize in these wilds.
It did not take long for him to see the welcoming gateway of the village up the hill. Already, he could smell the scent of the agriculture, the fields freshly tilled, the numerous cuccos and cows. It smelt a bit like he left it, and yet it was different. Hylian tomatoes were out of season by now, he thought, and lamentingly so. Those were his favourite, and Zelda knew that.
A wind caught the hood of his grey cloak to pull it down. Link's golden, shoulder-length hair followed wispily. His old hair tie was missing, and he had not bothered going about for a replacement. Still, he shivered a little. The air was noticeably cool tonight, a sign of the changing seasons. Even so, it was a welcomed feeling. The climate in East Necluda was usually agreeable, considering the close proximity of the ocean and the breeze it provided. Yet this year had been particularly hot and miserable. But Link loved this place anyway, and when he crossed underneath the gate to see the clay and brick homes, he felt that deep in his heart. He had been gone far too long this time, and this was a much-needed visit. He noticed the village was quiet now, the school up the hill vacant and closed for the day. The farmers had finished tilling the fields, put the cuccos up in their houses, and the roads were clear of most life. Nobody greeted him at the gate like usual. Little Teebu was missing, probably playing with his father who had finally returned. Even the East Wind seemed still this evening. There was one friendly face still up and about, though.
Link waved to Miss Ivee who swept out front, and she returned the gesture with a smile. She had forgone her mushroom attire today, donning a more subdued, less contemporary style. He kept on his way, though, following the pathway to his old house. The people of Hateno were a simple one, early to bed and earlier to rise. The village was perfectly quiet for them now, and that was his final thought before he crossed the rickety wooden bridge over to the yard. A low light emanated from the windows; several voices, both young and old, could be heard from inside the home. Link rode his courser up to the tethering pole, dismounted firmly to the grass, and tied his reins to it. He would not linger long, and with that in mind, he need not make use of the stable tonight. Afterwards, he fidgeted with the doe, cutting the ropes which held her down. Careful not to make a mess—though he, of course, had bled her out properly—he grasped hard, lifting the beast up and off his mount, tossing the carcass on the rack near the side of the house. The eager voices from within the house grew louder. Link then eyed the trough his courser drank from carefully, taking note of its half-full state. And now, remarkably or predictably, depending on how one chose to see things, there came a rumbling as several pairs of small feet trounced a wooden floor, then the door swung open.
In the last, brief second, he hid behind his courser. A storm of children then flooded from the doorway, and there he saw Aster, of whom lived next door, and Karin, the little girl from down the road. And even Azu as he followed the two girls—giggling all the way—over the old bridge and down the lonesome pathway. Then, the comforting sound of a familiar voice trailed them:
"Please, be careful, all of you!"
It was a beautiful evening when he heard her. His heart lifted a little to her tune like the singing of birds, or the smell of the crisp morning air. And when he saw her step out onto the porch in her blue silk shift, his mind paused. He felt defeated, already, if such a sight could fell even the mightiest hero, and it did, in that moment. His knees felt suddenly weak—his head dizzy almost—and his lips parched, as if he had forgone water for more than a day. She had such an effect on him, and it was for this very reason he kept himself away. But he could not any longer.
Link lifted his head up, pulled his shoulders back, donning his best and strongest look. And then he crept out from around his black courser. There, he heard the quiet sound of a muffled gasp, and he saw Zelda waver slightly, using the available doorframe to steady herself.
She did this every time, he thought remorsefully. And it was for this reason he was ashamed. Why was he so headstrong, so unwilling to give in? He had not a bit of courage left in his blood and bone, he realized. Nothing but fear, and confusion. She, on the other hand, was much too strong in his stead.
So he stood on this threshold again, with a curtain of darkness closing behind him; a nebulous sky above him, and then he heard her voice say, in a tone he knew all too well, "How long must I wait for you next time?"
He felt anguish then. A reaction he dreaded but deserved all the same. He watched quietly as she lit the lantern dangling beside the door, and afterwards, turning to him once more, her emerald-green eyes piercing him to his soul. Link was suddenly finding the lantern quite easy to stare at. Already there were many kinds of insects floating about it, attracted to its fervent light. He started counting them.
For a long moment, Link struggled to rein in his emotions. When he had replied, it was in the most measured way he could manage. "I did not realize how much time had passed. Please, forgive me for my indiscretion."
"You didn't realize?" Zelda murmured, gazing straight ahead.
Link shook his head. "I fell into some work," he replied, keeping his even tone. "My travels did not take me past Fort Hateno, but I was delayed. You see, there was this travelling troupe . . . and they were in need of some assistance traversing the Fir."
"That is little excuse. You needn't assist anyone with crossing a river in these times." Zelda's tone was quietly serious. "I have bidden Hudson to repair the Big Twin Bridge, and a ferry service has been raised just past the Dueling Peaks. Besides, I would rather you be here, by my side. Where you belong."
"As you wish," Link said, bowing his head slightly.
The princess, with her hands crossed at the waist, softened slightly. He saw her take note of the doe on the rack.
"I see your hunt was fruitful," she said softly, smiling now, "as it always is, I suppose."
"It is not always so easy," said Link curtly.
"Well, no," Zelda said, gesturing with a knowing smile; "but it always bears fruit. Please, come inside now; it is dreadfully cool out tonight, and quite windy. You mustn't catch a cold, and I have a warm fire working already." She turned to the side, opening the doorway for him to peek inside.
Link quickly registered her change in demeanour, watching the lanternlight flicker and play on her fair features. She had been hurt by him; he knew it almost immediately. And his only wish was to fix things between them. He turned belatedly after her, following Zelda into what used to be his home.
Things were more or less the same, he found. Just like he left it before, not much had changed. The weapon racks he had kept around were still gone, replaced by bookshelves and other pleasantries of home decoration. A warm, welcoming fire crackled in the back. The dining table was fixed for two. The place smelt heavenly; something had been cooking.
"I have fixed a trencher of bread," said Zelda. She eyed him as he laid his bow against the wall. "It is there on the table, if you are hungry," she continued. There was a hint of pleading in her voice.
Link cleared his throat, but stayed silent. He nodded plainly, eyeing the plated food carefully. It was simple enough a gesture. And Zelda always enjoyed feeding him, as he did for her. Indeed, he was starving, and with that in mind, he broke a piece off to eat. It tasted buttery, and freshly herbed. Wonderful after a long day's journey.
Silence permeated the house now. An uneasy quiet between the two.
"I had been doing the wash this afternoon," she said swiftly to break it, "when the children came knocking on the door. I did not expect company today, but never can I turn them away."
Link watched as Zelda turned away from the table and went to work the washboard. He stood gazing down at her as she dumped a rag in the pan of water.
"Let me do it," Link said evenly, walking over to her with haste to offer his aid. For a brief moment, his hand touched hers. "It is the very least I can do," he continued, as his eyes met with her verdant own, silently pleading for her to acquiesce.
There was another silence. "If you insist," Zelda said quietly. She was trembling, he felt.
"You were saying something about the children?" he asked, straining to alleviate the heavy air between them. His eyes strayed from her, as he worked the rag over the washboard.
"They were asking about you."
Link heard a mild amusement in Zelda's voice. "About me?" he asked incredulously.
"Is that so hard to believe?" she replied, crossing her arms. "They haven't forgotten the time you prepared monster curry for them."
It was Link's turn to sound amused. "Oh, as you say. Even I did not think they would enjoy it, but I could never refuse Symin a favour. He has done so much for us. For you."
"But of course," said Zelda, "you always hide things like that from me, don't you?"
A look of sadness came over Link. "It was not my intention . . ."
Yet another brief silence between them, then: "Link, I did not mean to say such things."
Zelda had seemed to realize the hurtfulness of her words. He stayed quiet, though, working the washboard even harder. His focus shifted from her to his hands, something he was altogether comfortable with. He always kept secrets from her lately, and before, almost nothing went untold between them. Link knew he had changed; and yet Zelda took a step forward and she clasped her hands with his, interrupting his work. For a moment Link thought they would embrace . . . but they did not. Instead, she moved closer to him. He shifted his gaze to her briefly, her eyes a darker veridian in the low-lit house. He looked away immediately, and then felt her slender fingers glide alongside his cheek.
"Ah!" he said excitedly, standing up without warning. "Please, Zelda." Some surprise in his voice. He had not meant to reveal it. "Are you hungry? I was planning on a meat and fish fry for supper."
His tone was courteous and detached, a well-mounted front of a royal knight upholding his steely demeanour. She saw right through it, he realized. There was little he could keep from her, here, alone like they were and with her beautiful eyes of emerald boring holes into him. Turning to face her, he could see how her own walls she put up were slowly crumbling.
"I am not," she said shakily.
Link then turned to look at the discarded rags and clothing, realizing his mistake. Always he had to create excuses to avoid her.
Seeing that, Zelda continued, saying, "It is too late to finish the wash anyway. Leave it for tomorrow. You must be so tired after your long journey. You may find rest here if you so desire it."
He had been afraid of that offer. Still did not have a good response for it. He looked over to the now vacant corner where he had once left the Master Sword. For some odd reason, he suddenly wished the weight of it straddled his back once again. Memories of it flooded back to him. Of all those he cut down with the sword which sealed darkness. He remembered, then. Recalled the six Yiga men he killed in Akkala. His hands remained still, though, betraying none of this to his host. His steel-blue eyes briefly caught glimpse of her, then. He was quick to control himself; he banished those thoughts, turning to her fully.
"Where is it?" was all he said finally.
She seemed to recoil from that question. Nervously, she twirled the ends of her now shoulder-length hair with her finger, averting her gaze.
"Your sword is upstairs," she said hesitantly. "It has been some time since I last heard her voice. Perhaps she wishes to be returned to her home."
"We cannot be certain." Anger trickled outwards. He sounded more tired than anything. "Needs must I remind you what happened last time?" he asked.
"Of course not, Link," Zelda said, looking down at her hands in dismay. "You know I remember better than anyone. I just thought with the gloom receding, and the monsters retreating into the Depths. It . . . it would be fine, right?" She forced her head up to meet his gaze.
"I will not live to fail you again," he said bluntly. "I will not allow it."
He could see Zelda's brow knit with concentration. "You did not fail me. Please, never utter such things."
"But I did."
"Link!"
He could hear her swallow harshly. Turning away from her, he pushed his hair back from his eyes; it was snarled and matted, miserably so. He needed a bath. Perhaps, he thought, with the grime and dirt washed away, he could feel better. And he did not mean to sound so . . . self-deprecating. He was not usually like this, keeping his mind occupied with tedious tasks and such. Tonight was quickly becoming unfortunate, he felt. It should be everything but that, here with her and in a time of peace.
Which made it even stranger how near to tears he suddenly seemed to be. Link could not remember the last time he had cried. Maybe it was that fateful day, he recalled, when he embraced her out of the weakness of his own heart. Yes, he suddenly realized, all of this was his fault.
He was feeling dismal. And when he noticed a pair of trembling hands travelling along his sides until they met as one over his nave, he froze.
Link shook his head. "We should not be doing this," he said matter-of-factly.
"I know," Zelda replied, squeezing hard; "but I cannot bear to see you suffer like this."
"It is my duty to suffer for you," he said firmly. He felt sick almost. Swallowing hard, he continued, saying, "I took an oath, a vow of chastity . . . I, as your sworn knight attendant, am bound by this. That is my burden as the one—the hero—who was chosen by the sword."
"I know," she repeated softly. Her gentle voice was barely a whisper, then. But all of his focus was on her, and the faint tickle of her breath on his ear; her enveloping him from behind.
Link had bowed his head, as if under the conjoined weight of all the world's problems. He felt heavy, terribly so, and weaker than he had ever felt before. His hands shot out to the railing of the staircase, steadying himself. And then his left travelled to the two hands clasped over his midsection, covering them reluctantly. Zelda, who was by now a bit taller than him, had cocooned herself against him, her chin finding the crook of his neck to rest solemnly. She was shaking now, and he squeezed her hands hard for it.
"I see," said Link.
Two words only, but in them spoke a thousand.
Zelda shifted against him, her thin strands of hair tickling him. "If you stay with me tonight," she murmured, squeezing even tighter, "nobody will know what we do." She turned into him even more. "And what care have we for others anyway? Yes, they do not matter. We need only each other."
She walked him slowly into the staircase, pressing him up against it. Link turned away from her futilely. He was so close to giving up. She wanted him, and he her. All of that was certain.
But his mission . . . his duty . . .
"Give me some time," he whispered hoarsely. "I need to think some things over first."
Feeling her grip on him loosen, he contorted his body around until he faced her. Link looked up at her then, drinking in, like a flask of cool, sweet wine, the verdant-eyed, flawless beauty of her.
"Don't make me command you to stay," she said after a moment. Her fingers toiled idly with his locks of golden hair, pulling at it playfully and then tugging harder. He was helpless under her like this. "I will," she added afterwards, "if I have to."
Link audibly swallowed. His mind drew a blank, as he gazed at the princess of whom trapped him mercilessly like so. She was deadly serious, he knew, could see that evidently in her furrowed golden brow and dagger-sharp eyes. He had gone too long in avoidance of her, he realized now.
"Then command me to leave," he said, pleadingly so.
"Hush," she murmured. "You are making a fool of me."
He laughed, helplessly at that. It was the nervousness of it all, beckoning such a response. It had grown darker in the room by then, the night deepening outside, and the candle-lit room dimming slowly. In the shadows he saw her most serious look—one so stern—it by itself was enough to write a royal decree from thin air, from nothing even.
Link took a shaky breath. "Never would I jest about such things. Regardless, I will take my leave now. There are rooms available at the Ton Pu Inn. Worten owes me a favour; you need not cover the fee."
"Then go!" Zelda exclaimed softly, pulling away with little warning. "Never think to fill this deepening hole in my heart, Hero of Hyrule."
Her words stung him then—cut his flesh deeper than any steel—leaving scars clear, and long-lasting. She had failed to understand his position, and he her own. They were at an impasse, he realized, and with that lone, sad thought, he bore his bow which he had laid against the wall.
"Forgive me," he muttered.
And heavy footsteps carried him out the door, past his courser and into the dark of the night. The moon was covered by a thick sheet of clouds. The nebulous skies a blurry memory. Everything was silent. There was no wind. No birds of the night, no insects.
Only the small, melancholic whimpers of Zelda pervaded his thoughts as he walked, alone and unsure of himself, down the streets of peaceful Hateno.
