Chapter 12
In the hall that was built of wood, capped by thatch, and suffused with the distant echoes of history, Zelda knelt on the unremarkable floor before the old Sheikah woman who once served her long ago. And the light of the rising sun shone brightly on her shoulders, and Link's blue eyes beneath a furrowed brow of gold flashed back a light all their own, deepening her intreating expression. And kneeling there she besought an answer from Lady Impa, the oldest and wisest of her tribe.
Old days would not let her be, harrowing memories thronged about her: The war-torn lawns of Hyrule brought her unease, lawns upon which she had walked in many differing points of time, perhaps before any histories were written here, or when there were no echoes to be felt; she had loved the sweetly soft grasses of the fields moving like enchanted reeds against wind out in the meadows; she had loved every history and fable and song which had made her home hers; and yet the horrors and terror of war could not pass the barrier of twilight and the ebbing tide of time—much like a song would—beat note-by-note in her brain, and her heart had shrunk beneath such thoughts as they bloomed in her mind like those little wildflowers on the very same meadow, never fading away, never forgotten.
And in those memories, wasting away in her dreams there with all those she had lost, she knew Sonia wandered upwards, knew Rauru had lived and died and passed out of all thought and record, and both, when she too passed on, would soon be lost forever and ever, when the tall gates of Hylia's domain would open up to her a golden beacon. For between Hyrule and the ether beyond was no path, no road marked for travel and easily followed; and neither ever sent envoy to each other. She yearned to again hear the musical bells of Hyrule Castle's greatest spire, which rung day after day to mark the hour of the candle burning in her holy name. Auspicious were those times, in the days of her mighty father whose good name she would never besmirch.
And there came the moment when she had finally met her noble hero, the one who would bear the sword of evil's bane and twice seal the darkness eternal. And Link did come forth, both to fill and hold her heart, and ease her troubled mind in her direst hour of need; and the flickering shadows of her sorrow, set loose for all to see, had been caught and bottled by him like water taken from a pellucid stream. But as she so humbly knelt there on the wooden floor, it hearkened her back to an age-old memory standing beneath the high-rising, sparkling crimson throne of her ancestors, with Link beside her, prostrating himself in shame upon the red-carpeted floor. And the gleaming pillars holding up the dome of the roof, or above which it floated, for a moment seemed to shake amidst the booming voice of her father; and the shadows of her sorrow which she long since kept within spilled outwards again, for a moment dimming the very vibrant colours of the greatest of halls in all the land. What could she do who would not sanction the magic of true love, and beget a forthcoming age of partnership in a time of despair, withering the peoples' souls like the leaves in the dwindling autumn hour, whose hearts were made small by the overwhelming uncertainties of the impending Calamity?
But these memories, these vague and dreamy recollections of a different life playing out in her mind as if sprung from the pages of a book, could not simply be shared to others. For Link's fractured mind, made so fragile by his untimely death all those years ago, should not have recovered such things. He had never once spoken of what had, as princess and servant, transpired between them. Translating her bitter need into earthly words, might say she desired so much to speak of it, to tell him the truth of what they had done in the very sight of the Goddess. And those words: deceit and treachery, she realized . . . were altogether merciful. Perhaps she pitied them, like a mother pities her children. Impossible? Was it impossible? Indeed, it was not possible. To divulge such secrets locked away and kept safe in the vault of her brittle mind? She could never do such a thing, above all else in the face of their momentous and joyous union of body, and spirit.
She now besought answers from this old wise woman, kneeling upon the mundane floor in the midmost centre of the Sheikah; and beside her lingered Link, who stood solemnly with his eyes now set sternly on Impa. She besought an answer that, whatever it might be, should beget her happiness and joy, bringing her and Link closer to where they would be bound eternally by the blessing of all. And with this, she prayed some miracle might come to bestow upon them the answers she sought.
She lowered her eyelashes to where her hands entwined together. After a moment, she remembered her voice. Looking up now, with a subtle desperation creasing her features, Zelda said, repressing consternation, "What is it we can do? Late is the hour for our action, as I am now with child."
Sometimes, even now, it was all a little too much, a little hard to believe. From the time since she had first taken ill, the revelation of conception had heightened her awareness of such things. And as time slipped further by, and the days with child passed into months, she found herself sinking deeper into her misbegotten bearing. She was twenty-four years old, and somehow with the manifold years which had escaped her, so much like Link, she found herself feeling like a child again, unworldly and frightened of the unknown.
"Two questions," Impa, eldest of the Sheikah, had asked, gesturing for Princess Zelda to rise. "Have you thoroughly considered each other's feelings, my Princess?"
She had expected that. "Only too much so," Zelda replied evenly. "Through much self-reflection and dialogue of the heart have we been led to where we are now." She looked briefly at Link, smiling smally at him, before returning her eyes to Impa. "We are as you see us now: There is no more confusion between us . . . no more secrets. We are now one, bound by fate and a love which cannot be quelled. Never again shall we be apart. And when we do part, it will be together, so our eulogy will speak only of how even death itself could not separate us."
"So it would appear," Impa replied, smiling now. Her many wrinkles creased about her aged face. Her brown eyes had remained sober though, and direct. She said, "My second question: Do you understand fully the consequences of uprooting tradition; a tradition which has persisted since the first recordings of your family's long history?"
And that, she thought, had almost surprised her. It was too unexpected a question, and poked at a place far too close to her heart, however strong it might be.
She turned her face away, unable to bid her reply. In those brief, uncomfortable seconds which followed, she fidgeted with her hands, deep in thought. After exchanging a short-lived glance with Link, Zelda returned her eyes to Impa, asking, "Which 'tradition' do you speak of? There are many customs of which the Hyrulean royal family has practised for generations."
Sitting upon her cushions, Impa said, "That of the virtuous princess and her valiant hero."
Zelda shook her head wonderingly. "There is very little written down in the histories . . . the sacred texts and scrolls. I have read over them myself. Many times, in fact."
"That may be the case," Impa replied, face darkening considerably; "but there are other means of passing down knowledge; forbidden things which there should be no record, in order to be kept secret from the prying eyes of the castle and courts."
"Other means?" Zelda asked.
Almost reluctantly, she shook her head. "As the eldest of the Sheikah, and formerly the chief, I was passed down knowledge from she who came before me. I have not told anyone of this, and perhaps the only other to bear knowledge of such was the King of Hyrule himself."
Zelda's eyes widened sharply. She was speechless for a second. "Father?" she finally managed to exclaim. "He was . . . I mean to say, there were not a great many number of secrets kept between us. I was his only daughter—his only child, after all."
"This is also true," Impa said placidly; "and yet, as your father, King Rhoam was a dutybound man above all else."
"Yes, he was," Zelda retorted.
Her own expression was blank right now. She wondered to herself—could Impa see through the walls she put up? Could she discern the truth of the matter . . . that she had been deceiving her? Her father had told her many times—and even Link at one point, though she knew not if he bore such memories from a life he had selflessly given up so long ago.
"Your task and duty as princess are unchanged," Impa murmured. "Likewise, this era's hero, being Link here, has his own part to play." She hesitated. "I cannot say what this part is, but I can tell you this: Never has a hero been made to love his princess, as a man loves a woman. Indeed, there has been deep affection. There has been romance, and delusions of courtship. There is grandeur in such things, you see, and in their time of need it provided necessary aid; it had mended their weakened spirits tempered by darkness and despair. But know that nought but sorrow has been born from such intimate aspirations."
"I fear you worry too much," she said after a moment.
Impa frowned. "Shall I regale you with a tale, then? One which has passed down through the chiefs of my family for thousands of years?" There was a little silence; Zelda could hear the laboured breathing of Link beside her.
"I know of which you speak," said Link abruptly.
"Link?" Zelda said, surprised. She turned from the hard consternation of his visage to that of Lady Impa again. "What of this tale? If you must tell me, then so be it." Instinctively, her left hand went to rest below her navel where it protruded prominently, the place where from within her future child flourished and grew.
"It is merely cautionary," answered the old Sheikah. She paused, somewhat awkwardly, which piqued her curiosity further.
"So it is," Link added softly.
Zelda had scarcely heard his voice. Something about the way he said it unnerved her: it had seemed as if he knew more than he had let on. His memory had not fully recovered, she reminded herself frequently. He could not remember such a thing, could he?
Impa grimaced, and then cleared her throat. "Our tale, Princess, immeasurably distant as it is," she began evenly, "recalls a kingdom not so different from your own. This golden kingdom served one purpose: to shield an artifact of great power, of which I know not its truest purpose. But it was said this same artifact had been taken and scourged by an outsider—rather, an evil man—who came from afar and sought out the hidden temple which housed it."
"An artifact of power?" Zelda asked, intrigued.
The old Sheikah wise woman nodded. "Yes," she said; "and it would fall into the nefarious hands of the enemy. The beautiful princess of this time, consulting her runes and gods of a bygone age which are now but forgotten, foresaw this cataclysmic event in her dreams. But the foolish king paid little heed to her warnings, dismissing them as merely the nightmares of a child. This evil man, empowered by the sacred object, slew the king, and sat the golden throne of the kingdom. In just seven years, the green meadows and fields fell to waste, and demons born anew walked the lands as men would. The lakes dried up, the rivers were poisoned. The princess had vanished; some even thought she had perished in the bloody night which took the life of her father and mother. Thus the evil man from afar, capturing the golden throne of the sacred land, styled himself thenceforth the Great King of Evil."
Zelda raised a pallid hand to her lips, trembling. Such a harrowing tale evoked memories of her own life in ways she desired little to think about. She had a bit of fear growing within her now—a fear mixed of physical revulsion hearing this forgotten tale of suffering and boundless sorrow which recalled her own story to play out in her mind when she closed her eyes, or even in her nightmares where she sought the dreams of happier things.
"But from the ashen ruins," Impa continued, "smoking and desolate, came forth a wandering hero garbed in green bearing a magical weapon of the old gods. This noble hero, who had travelled across time—across worlds, even—set free the princess from the clutches of demons, and struck down the Great King of Evil from his mighty and dark throne of power; vanquished him in his own wretched castle where he had foolishly thought himself safe and secure. Mighty was this hero, and quickly did he capture the pure heart of the princess, to which many said she had fallen to desire him above even her own people."
She cast her gaze over toward Link, seeing his eyes widen from deep in the many creases of his worried expression as he listened intently. He had his flowing mane tied up with his hair band, and he wore his leathers she had gifted him so long ago. The sun shining through the arch of the windows glinted upon his strikingly golden hair.
He nodded gently now. "A hero and his sword. A princess and an evil man."
Impa nodded gravely. For this unspoken truth seemed to resonate about them as a gloomy sky dampened a lively spirit. That however many times she might hear this tale, this royal legend—and she heard it many times, in one variant or another—she was to pay heed to it, nod knowingly, and accept its lesson meant only to teach restraint toward her own hero.
Zelda straightened her back and stood tall, verdant eyes strong on Impa, who looked up from her low position with dejection.
"What is it you seek to teach with this fable?" she asked. But she knew.
"I have not finished," Impa replied judiciously, as if giving thought to the matter. Her expression turned even more grave, then said, "Two truths are known: That the hero, who had come to love the princess as a man loves a woman, unexpectedly departed the lands of the golden kingdom, never to be seen again. None could tell of his destination, but it is said that he, a wanderer of time, might have ultimately returned to his place of origin. Or perhaps he took up the roads once more, to roam and seek out evil which continued to persist in the many corners of the world." She paused, and then cleared her throat harshly. "But the full-hearted princess, who had searched desperately for her lost hero, was said to have fallen deeply into anguish. Her second half had been lost, a piece of her soul—as a fabric, figuratively—was ripped and torn at the seams to where she might never be whole again. Stricken with a grieving heart, she retreated from society. Locked in her high tower, she yearned and sorrowed long for her hero, until one fateful day she sorrowed no longer. The endless aching and longing, finally ceased with the last of her breaths, as she departed her kingdom forevermore."
Her expression was unreadable, then. She struggled mightily to repress such feelings. Even those who knew her so well would struggle to identify what she felt now. But when she turned to Link to see his arms wound tightly at his side, his hands made to be fists and the trembling of his lip, she reached out to take his hand in her own.
As she did so—every single time she did so—Zelda could feel his fingers instinctively twine against hers, as if it were their natural state of being and their being apart was unnatural.
"Forgive me, Princess," Impa murmured sadly, "for it is not my wish to deter the love which you both share. I mean only to describe the outcome of such a purehearted love, a story which has played out time innumerable for thousands upon thousands of years."
Link was, predictably, looking toward her now, his glance precisely as bleak as it was the months before their coming here. It was a look which had bothered Zelda greatly when she had first viewed it. She had thought such troubled times were past them now, but she had never suspected Impa, of all people, would bear misgivings over their union. Perhaps not misgivings, she thought, but she was wary of it all the same. Was their inevitable union, one of body and spirit, truly the ill-omened occasion which so many believed it to be? Her father most of all, and now Lady Impa.
Over the years, Zelda had developed certain walls, certain defences which she employed regularly, in order to keep her most safeguarded feelings from coming outwards. She counted it as one of her own triumphs, more so than anything else in the time of her father when he had scolded her repeatedly for her pursuit of ancient technology and studies of the land. But now, those walls built so strong, had seemingly faded with the advent of the present. Ruined by the onset of love and her many emotions which followed and struggled greatly to suppress.
A triumph of deception, she thought, with a deeper irony directed toward herself which sought to amuse nobody.
Link stirred uncomfortably next to her, squeezing her hand.
"What then, would you bid me do?" Zelda finally asked.
Beneath her conical-shaped hat, the old Sheikah had smiled impishly. She then asked, "What does the Princess know of royal courtship and love?"
When Zelda understood that she had lost Link it was already well past midday and she had been gone from the village for several hours. Sir Toren had stayed behind. And for the second she felt alone, as she led her palfrey by the reins of her bridle to a brook beside a small wooden bridge; and with the sun stretching downward and the eastern horizon showing clear against a turquoise sky, her palfrey drank happily from the water which flowed calmly before her. She saw her own reflection there in stream, showing clearly her below-the-shoulder length hair, the single braid which kept it neat, and the hairpin to stray it from her eyes. Tonight the stars would shine, the moon starkly silver against the cloudless sky up above.
She loved the wilderness—Link did too. It was for this reason they found themselves here again. And at this moment, she was not quite sure where 'here' was. It hardly mattered, seeing Link in the distance carrying some kindling he had scavenged from the small wood near them. His horse near him whickered. The dark cloak he wore flowed in the wind, which carried the ends of his long bangs with it, golden and glimmering. He stood there, smiling warmly at her, and she back at him. He carried himself with such solicitude, Zelda felt the moment of her opportunity was come, and in leaving her palfrey at the stream, her anxious feet led her quickly to him as they always did.
The spring wind caught her own cloak, and she raised her hand to feel it pass soothingly through her fingers like the waters of the stream back there. The wood about them moved in another dance. The birds sang from their nests.
"The twilight is not far off," said Link.
"Yes, yes," said Zelda as she helped him with the logs.
They walked back toward the brook together, and soon his courser too drank happily beside her palfrey. She supposed they would settle here tonight. So Link fixed their fire, and then he laid out their mats where she knew they would sleep upon. Today's hunt had been fruitful, as always; several hares would fill their bellies. At sunset, the eastern horizon now glimmered a clear twilight cloven in two by a stretch of clouds, and the stars came out and were the stars she found herself familiar with, as were their familiar constellations. And soon, the flesh of their hares crackled and spat upon their working fire. In their rest they ate and talked, and when twilight fell and lay heavy along the eastern sky, they found themselves drawing deeper to each other as if the winding darkness squeezed them closer together. Then they lay down atop the flat of their mats where the earthy ground was softened by moss and pleasant; and as the cold of the night began to come over the wood they huddled closer to their inviting fire with their cloaks and blankets around them. They rested long like that in evenfall, looking into the dazzling fire which at a glance seemed to play out an interesting tale all its own. And in its mesmerizing flames she saw a tale of romance, of hope.
The moments which passed there in each other's arms appeared dreamlike. It seemed as much, and it was until Link, who had wrapped his arms around her, awoke her from such a dream with a timid voice:
"Forgive me," he said, running his fingers through her now free-flowing hair. "There are still some secrets kept between us. I had forgotten . . ."
"I know," Zelda said kindly. "I have withheld secrets of my own."
He smiled and withdrew his hand from around her. With a keen gentleness, he guided her toward his lap, so she now faced him. He hovered over her like that, with love in his eyes and happiness on his face. And that face is the beauty which filled her dreams of late. The face to banish the many nightmares which plagued her.
The smoke from their fire drifted upwards, a grey arrow shooting into the starry night sky. They lay there comfortably in silence, green eyes locked to blue. His fingers were soft on her cheek. Her own grasped his strong arms gently, longingly, like she wished never to part from him. There seemed to be a magic all round that fire as it smouldered beside them in the woods. Will-o'-the-wisps appeared and disappeared over the brook in the darkness. The weeping willows alongside it whispered in the brisk spring wind. She had a moment to think to herself: Who had lured those mystically fleeting, viridescent lights?
There was a silence. When it stretched, Zelda looked back upwards and saw Link looking down at her.
"Do you wish to talk?" he asked.
Did she wish to talk? For many years, from the moment she found herself reunited with him, Zelda had been wrestling with herself. She would let his memories return on their own accord, she had told herself.
Did she wish to talk?
Link breathed in deeply, and then angled his face upwards to look up at the stars. "Well," he said, "it is fine if you are not ready. We have a lifetime to spend together, after all . . ."
He seemed like he had more to say, but he trailed off regardless. Looking up at him like that, with the stars haloing him beautifully, he appeared so much like the valiant hero there in her heart. He was more than that, she swiftly determined. The Master Sword along his back seemed to glitter in the moonlight, its deepest blues manifesting under the pale light. His golden hair appeared as a crown of pure majesty. The sharp lines of his jaw . . . the contours of his visage. They spoke imminently of his unparalleled strength. Yes, he was different from the other heroes, of all those spoken in the legends passed down through the ages.
He was her hero.
Link's blue eyes blinked. Then he angled his head downwards to look at her again.
"What are you gazing at?" he asked, smiling now. "You seem distraite."
Zelda was smiling though. "I am gazing at the stars," she said, with a wry twist of her mouth. "Oh? Did you believe yourself to be the object my attention? Ever the humble hero, are you?"
Link's expression changed swiftly. "I am deeply sorry," he said mockingly. "Zelda, truly I am." He paused. "I should have known you bore a greater interest in the stars."
A small period of silence ensued. Then, after staring knowingly at each other, silvery laughter from both of them flowed outwards. Link bent forward and turned his head, so his lips met her cheek. Zelda smiled wider. Beside them, their horses had turned in for the hour, resting now near the edges of the brook. The air around them was birdless. Not even an owl could be heard tonight.
It had always been Zelda's dream to hold him as she did now. For him to hold her, tightly, as a man holds a woman. With the huge full moon above them, they fell deeper into their intimacy. The languid wind rolled through the wood. A flash of colour silvered the brook beside them. And after their intimacy was over, they rested beyond the fret of worldly fears, and the hours rested around them, as the brook stills when ice calms the stream: and the serene and twinkling sky above them stood like an unchanging dream.
