Midnight whispers a shower out across the canopy as they rest, and when dawn breaks across the sky, it's easily displaced by the rosy hue of morning seeping through the rising mist. The Spring and its surrounding pools settle into glittering repose beneath the borning day's arrival, but even in its fledgling hours, the jungle has already grown fussy; it's only just begun to stir before its damp air is nipping at Link's limbs, riling him from sleep with the most aggravating kisses. A small scratch pricks at the back of his throat while an equally small ache throbs along his spine—remnants of a not so sound night's sleep. But as the static in dormant limbs begins to even out, it only takes one small adjustment for him to realize that something is… not quite right.

It would be perfectly reasonable to attribute such a sensation to Faron's climate, but Link is not so ignorant as that. He's hardly even surfaced from sleep before an uncomfortable warmth is flooding his can't remember the last time he's had to deal with a nocturnal emission , of all fucking things. Guilt commences its long, dreadful procession up through his body, and when it finally stands triumphant upon his shoulders, its miserable fingers drumming away at his temple, Link submits fully to remorse. He's nothing more than a boy again, small and juvenile as he lies atop the stone of the spring, the Princess of Hyrule only a few feet away.

The color staining his face vanishes from it with more haste than the birds flitting across the olive crowns of the surrounding thicket; Princess Zelda is sleeping still, but if the jungle's muggy air intends to assail her just as well, there's no doubt that she'll be stirring soon.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck .

He sits up sharply, hips noticeably sore as he rises while his mind snaps to full attention as though he's been torn from sleep by a blade pressed to his throat. If the discomfort in his cheeks has proven to be an issue, the sensation against his front only makes the matter worse—he has to move quickly. Bright blue eyes narrow in thought: there's a fresh set of garments in one of the packs, tucked just beside an extra first aid kit he's shoved in as an afterthought ( Gods, if only he could get his hands on something that might cure such humiliation.)

They call him Hyrule's Hero. He assumes the moniker has crawled its way up from the town and edged its way past the fortified walls of the castle. He hasn't enjoyed the title—hated it when the Princess would spin venom through it and hates it even more when her handmaidens ogle him beneath the same two words. Hates it when couriers bow before him and address him with malicious sparkles in their eye. Really hates it when the King states it aloud in the great hall, intentions fully clear as the title rings in his ears– you will succeed where daughter cannot. They've created a myth that doesn't exist; he's nothing more than a man, his soft spoken nature mistaken for something inherently divine, as though every moment is spent with the Goddess or whatever history binds him to whispering in his ear. They don't realize he's a glutton. That he's spent endless summer afternoons cultivating flowers and herbs at his mother's side. That he doesn't kill the spiders that creep up from the floorboards, but simply carries them out and sets them down in the bending grass. That his first kiss was shared behind his family's shed and that it had not, in fact, been a very good one. (It's his fault, he'll admit.) They know nothing but the sword strapped across his back.

They certainly don't know about the sort of predicament he finds himself in.

Link is quickly on his feet, hurrying across the stone landing towards the horses. Epona moves sharply, perturbed by how quickly her riders come upon her as he dives for his pack, and it doesn't take very long for his fingers to glide along familiar fabric. Thank the Goddess above. With a force that's decidedly far too hostile for the first few minutes of the day, he tugs them from their spot and sends the remaining packs tumbling to their sides in the whirl of motion. The jungle is growing louder now; the time, scarce. Though he knows it would be far more convenient to use the Spring for a quick rinse, he's grown substantially more superstitious since the day the Master Sword had claimed him as an amenity of its own—the thought of cleansing his transgressions in what ought to be such a holy place feels as though it begs for a bout of bad luck. He can't help himself from feeling that it carries a risk he isn't quite willing to take.

He can be quick; he sprints to the mouth of the serpent, the sharp blue of his tunic already halfway over his head by the time he brushes past the tapered stone of its fangs. He's stripped and at the water's edge so quickly that he catches the loan boar drinking from one of the neighboring pools by surprise and sends it dashing off with a squeal. Link drops into the water tenuously, jaw clenched tightly as though he might manage to silence the small splashes with sheer will. He moves with decent speed as he scrubs at his skin and runs damp hands across his face to wash the last bit of sleep from his eyes; at this rate, he might even be able to prepare a quick breakfast before she—

"Link?"

The Goddess really is cruel, isn't she?

It makes no difference that Link's splendidly meticulous in the face of monsters and assassins—tension binds his lips together and launches a chill up his spine at the meek sound of her. He doesn't even recognize the slight hints of panic clasping up against his throat as he turns to meet his Princess' gaze. He finds her lingering between the serpent's fangs with fingers linked together, her golden hair still luscious even when rumpled by sleep. She appears almost breathless, her posture lacking the grace she normally carries, and if the alarms sounding off in his brain would lower for just a fraction of a moment, her knight might find himself acknowledging the fleeting way that he admires the sight.

"Forgive me," she says, her voice still mangled by sleep, "I woke up and… I was wondering where you'd gone. I'm sorry."

Link doesn't know how the words come to form in his mouth. "My sincerest apologies, Princess. It felt inappropriate to bathe in the Spring itself. I-I thought I could…I…"

She blinks slowly—once, twice—and nods. "I understand. That's all right."

Idiot, he thinks to himself, face growing hot; he hates the way embarrassment collects along his jaw and tenses him up, builds up his defenses and keeps others at bay. You left her the Princess of Hyrule alone!

Under normal circumstances, Link might silently welcome a distraction in a moment like this, something to train his racing mind away from the bitter taste of regret—but it comes as a double edged sword; by the realization that there's very little fabric covering her up. That if he were to glance down for just a moment, he could find himself simmering in the soft sight of her thighs, the gentle flare of her hips beneath the chemise that clings to them. He lowers balmy eyes to trace the overgrown weeds that thread through the gaps of stone beneath her.

"I apologize."

"No, no…it's fine. It's really fine…really." The Princess stammers, the last shades of her regality splintering away to leave her as something he hardly recognizes; much more innocent, far more uncertain, as though she were a simple village girl intercepting matters of trade beyond her comprehension. But if he were to train his glance upon her again, he'd very quickly be reminded that she's anything but. Her eyes are soon fixed high, eyelashes kissed gold by the rising sun as she follows its crusade into the pale blue of morning—as she avoids him.

They both move to speak at once, a "let me—" and an "I'll just—" dancing about one another, while Link glances around with a panic and Zelda seems to acknowledge the way bare pectorals glisten under the soft light.

Silence comes to claim them both.

"I'll…give you a moment," the Princess finally manages, wrapping her arms around herself with all the vulnerability of a defenseless fawn, but she hesitates as a thought makes itself known. "I think I'd like to spend a little more time here." Link blinks up at her, unsure as to what sentiment is pinning itself to her voice. He cannot tell if she's cross with him — if he's shattered every hint of amiability he's managed to earn.

"I hope that won't be an issue?" Inquisitive blonde brows raise when he doesn't respond.

Link only shakes his head.

"Alright, then." She nods curtly and proceeds further into the serpent's mouth, something akin to disappointment twisting her own as she turns from him fully. Link feels his stomach double in weight, something sitting so heavily in him that he thinks he might be sick. He's clearly upset her, yet again: each time he thinks he's managed to break down one of her barriers, something forges them up again, reinforced masonry pushing her back to painfully familiar lengths. Some hero, he thinks to himself, scorn sweeping across his mind; he expects other thoughts to follow, snide and scathing,but they never do—even his own mind has grown tired of chastising him.

"Though, you're not really bathing , are you?"

Link's glance is torn from the glint of the pond to find Zelda sweeping back into sight, arms still neatly folded and her own glance set firmly aside.

"P-pardon?"

"I just mean that…that you don't seem to be luxuriating in a bath. Perhaps the Goddess wouldn't mind so much, then."

"Oh."

The Princess clears her throat, pink cheeks far more like a coral bloom popping against the surrounding grayscale.. "Right, then."

It isn't long before he's lingering in his lonesome once again, the gentle patter of her footsteps quickly swallowed by the meddling prattle of the jungle.

Zelda stands at the foot of a tree and cranes her neck to watch Link collect three eggs from an unattended nest, hints of irritation sprouting up at her neck beneath the strands of hair that cling to her skin. She watches as his legs bend beneath him, cushioning his leap to send him springing back to full height only moments after he's met the earth below. He holds them out for her to see before he's gently setting them in the pack he's brought along and moving through the grove to the next post.

She can't suppress the sympathy wringing at her throat, stifling thoughts before they can turn into full-fledged words. She hadn't meant to intrude upon him, truly, and she really hadn't minded that he'd been tending to his hygiene. (Knowing of some of the other soldiers in her father's garrison, she's suddenly grateful she's been bound to the one who takes care to bathe.) Zelda watches on as he calculates the precise way he angles his foot or stretches an arm, a miscalculation of her own bubbling to life as she stops to acknowledge the way his heel digs into a gnarled stretch of bole, his hips snapping forward with each leap.

To say that meeting his eye is difficult would be an understatement, only made worse by this morning's encounter. If sympathy has managed to ensnare her, it's evenly matched by the slight swells of guilt rising like bile in her throat as she tries to untangle her memories from the previous night. All at once, Link is both a stranger again, and yet the closest companion Zelda has ever had. Her maids are kind and agreeable, yes— but she hasn't committed the soft, salacious sounds of their bliss to memory. The discomfort at her neck fractures at her jaw, tensing the muscles and blanketing the bridge of her nose with a rosy tint.

"I think there's one more nest in that tree, over there." She says, pointing east. Link follows an indicative finger and nods agreeably before he's bending to collect the knapsack, but Zelda moves a bit more swiftly. "Oh, I can be of assistance!" She snaps back up with a warm smile, one that he manages to reciprocate when the initial astonishment wears off; it hits her in the same way the sluggish breeze slams across the thicket of the Damel Forest.

(She's pleased with the way she moves more quickly than he does—nothing more.)

"I insist," Link says after a moment, voice coloring stern as he remembers just where he is and who he is with.

Zelda waves her hand and clutches the bag a little closer to her chest, noting the way Link's eyes widen just a little bit with muted concern. "Nonsense! I can carry it." She brushes past him, flicking a playful hand in his direction. "Or do you find me incapable of handling something as simple as this?"

Link quickly takes a knee, which is something the Princess ought to have predicted. "I did not mean to imply–"

"Oh! Oh, I'm only joking!" She hurries on, voice a little weaker than she hopes for it to be. "I apologize, I…".

He doesn't look particularly entertained.

Zelda hears her father's voice pinging between her ears like a most unwelcome guest. It isn't so much the words he offers, but the undertow beneath them, his intentions abundantly clear as she studies Link's uncertain expression: she really is a fool. She's dragged her knight attendant deep into the sweat and sun of the jungle — wastes his time as she fails to clear the sole objective that's brought them this far south in the first place and finds herself face to face with the mild exhaustion that droops his eyelids and slumps his shoulders. And here she is, humoring him, humoring herself, as if she hadn't despised the soft sound of his breathing less than a few months ago. Zelda sighs, fingers gripped tightly around the bag's straps. "I'm sorry, Link. I'm trying to be kinder. I appreciate your help."

Avian chatter echoes a response in lieu of his, and if he eventually does give one, she doesn't linger long enough to catch it.

They settle near the Spring for a late breakfast, both of them silently grateful for the slab of cool stone beneath them that makes the humidity a little more bearable. Link offers a much simpler meal than the one he'd prepared the previous night—boiled eggs and bananas to ration for a slightly longer stay than expected. Zelda spends the silent minutes with words prising at her lips, jumbled sentiments twisting this way and that as they try to twist themselves into something coherent.

In the end, she keeps it simple.

"Thank you, Link." Zelda's voice floats across the languid flame as she sets a drooping peel aside. "I really do appreciate you." From the corner of her eye, she watches him tense up near the firepit, his reach slowing in midair as he seeks out another egg.

"Thank you, Princess." He matches her prudent tone, eyes cast low as he reluctantly drops five more words before her. "I value you as well." If she were not familiar with his stoic demeanor—his cool, calculated air—she'd have half the mind to think that he's blushing under his own words…but she does know him, and she knows better than to think that could ever be the case.

Even so, Zelda turns her head away slightly, just in case the sensation pricking at her face is a blush of her own.

Feels worse today , Link thinks as eyelids start to droop beneath the heavy afternoon air. It's hard to stay upright beneath its firm hand. Bright sunlight slants through the cracks of the structure, glinting off of his sword, casting bright pops against the small clefts long notched into its slate gray walls.

The Princess is quickly approaching her third hour spent in the pool, and from the looks of it, nothing of importance has made itself known. He doesn't envy her in the slightest—though he will stand for just as long as she, he can afford to let his mind wander a smidge if he wants. The Princess isn't afforded the luxury. Link tries to imagine what that must be like; to spend nearly every moment wishing for a miracle. Hoping for someone to finally make her face known, to smile down on him. Goddesses, a strongly worded scolding might even suffice—anything at all must be better than silence. He feels for his Princess, he really does; he knows how hard she works, how badly she wants to be good enough for her people.

She's more than enough. He wishes she knew.

He won't tell her such things, because he's very aware that an unsolicited opinion from her knight attendant is…perhaps not something she desires very much, but it's the truth of the matter. It's the Goddess who is failing her people.

Link reaches for the hilt of the Master Sword, just as he does several times a day. Sorry. He's quickly drawn back to that fateful day in the sylvan fortress of the forest, the day that it had fallen into his lap without any wanting or wishing. He remembers the way his fellow soldiers reached for the blade and tried to rouse it from its slumber, their pleading faces hungry for a taste of divine glory. One by one they stumbled away from the pedestal, grumbling and disappointed, each one taller and more formidable than the last. Link remembers the way that wretched hush unfurled across the forest as she awoke for him, not a single hint of petition in his draw; the fragile thread of life, unraveled in one, facile move.

He never had to plead for his destiny, soaked and exhausted—why should the Princess?

"Nothing." Princess Zelda's call bounds across the cavern, the soft slosh of the rippling pool whispering around her as she turns. "I'm concerned." He can tell from the way her soft, sad tones kiss the tips of ears that she's speaking to him, that perhaps she wants him to look back. He tends to avoid glancing at her when she's in her prayer attire; it's not so improper that he'd be reprimanded for looking upon the exposed ridge of her collarbone and the delicate slope of her bare shoulders, but the thought of her bare shoulders sits against the back of his mind a little differently today. Link feels his stomach drop.

This morning's predicament has left him far too perturbed; even when he thinks he's pushed the thought aside, moved on to focus on the knightly duties he's been tasked with, it's still there— a small, nagging feeling that curls up beside his ear and chirps up haphazardly, taunting and mischievous. He wishes he could swat it away, smash it deep down and resume this strange new normal he's come to know. The knight closes his eyes and exhales.

"You seem troubled…are you well?" She sighs, a nervous exasperation wringing at the edge of her voice.

Link frowns, half to himself. "Yes, Princess. I want to make sure you have your privacy."

"I understand. I'm starting to feel that privacy is all I really have," she says, smiling weakly as her voice drowns beneath her own echo. "But I suppose you're onto something…I really do need to change out of this." He summons a hint of courage just in time to find her gesturing down the gown, which has proven to be a rather remarkable piece of fabric, its color still vivid and bright even when barraged by sun and sweat and stagnant water. The Princess herself seems rather unmarred, save for the few sinuate strands of hair diverting from their usual pattern and the soft sheen coating her skin. He's seen the dress often, in the cathedral, in the Temple of Time, glossy verdant eyes set above the cream and gold wrapped around her body. She appears as she always does, contemplative and plaintive—a familiar portrait of concern with her hands folded and her brow creased in thought and her shoulders riding high with unease. He knows this image well—the royal crest glinting beneath the bright light of midday sun, the fabric of her gown acclimating to the shape of full thighs. And then, limbic circuitry springs to life as the realization dawns on him—as he recognizes just where else he's seen such a sight recently.

She's just as she looked in his dream the night prior, before she she took to her knees and opened her pretty little mouth to—

Oh fuck.

Link nods his head gently, words lost somewhere in the back of his mind. He drops his gaze to keep from taking in even another inch more of her skin, his lips pressed together to keep from dropping his jaw in complete horror.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

He nods. "The heat, that's all." He dares the quickest of glances, just quickly enough for it to find hers before he's bowing his head again.

"Ah yes, I understand." The Princess says, running fingers through golden tresses before she's pushing them to one side and exposing an elegant neck. She fans herself, a weary smile threading her lips before her teeth are pulling at her bottom lip in thought. "Perhaps I'm too distracted by the heat." Link musters a smile that's just as uncomfortable, though he's fairly certain it's far more attractive on her than it is on him. "I'm sorry I've wasted your time," she says, folding arms across her chest; her knight sets his gaze a little higher, just as a precaution against the slight lift of her breasts above bare arms. (If he really is Hylia's beloved Hero, surely she ought to show a little more sympathy than she's offering.)

He's quickly shaking his head, sniffling, suddenly very curious about a small rift of stone overhead. "My mother used to say that time spent working hard is never time wasted." Link's shoulders lift as though there's something else he needs to get off his chest; it's swallowed whole by the way their eyes meet, the way he finds himself ensnared by the green of her eye that suddenly feels far more perilous than the wilderness around them. A small, pouty smile works its way onto her lips.

"I hope you're right."

Night carries the musk of pond water with it as it rolls across the southern sky. In the thinly veiled comfort of her tent, Zelda tucks pruning fingers beneath her pillow as squirms into yet another position atop her bedroll. In spite of the fatigue cradling her, her legs and arms bridled by the hot hours spent at attention, her mind has grown stormy, everything inside of her swirling up into a tornado of ifs and buts . It's unbearable; each time she thinks she's ready to cross that threshold, something pulls her right back—if it isn't the Goddess statue lurking beyond with its blank, taunting smile, it's the panic that's sure to flare up in the King's eyes when she delivers less than pleasing results. Zelda rolls onto her back and places a clammy hand across her forehead—clearly, her troubles have no intention of releasing her anytime soon.

She's been foolish, she knows. Just one more day, she'd thought. One more valiant try. It's invigorating, reveling in such a sacred spot—it should happen here, shouldn't it? Perhaps the spirit of courage is not so fond of her. (She wouldn't be the first to hold such a sentiment.) At the very least, Zelda has earned another day beyond the hardened castle walls, and a day gone by without her father's dreary glance is perhaps a gift postmarked by the Goddess herself.

And, at the very least, she's managed to earn a few of her knight's sparse smiles.

Perhaps, in a certain light, the beauty of devoting every ounce of herself towards the seemingly hopeless task at hand is that she isn't permitted to do much more. Hours slip by with every thought drawn squarely on said task—afternoons spent in petition as begs in the Spring, every dinner spent dwelling on the forecasted failure that's sure to follow in the next round of prayer. The subtle panic that creeps up across her as she muses on her return to Central Hyrule as she tries to seek out sleep.

In the midst of it all, there's very little room for her to dwell on her past twenty four hours with Link.

But she thinks of him now as her mind seeks a reprieve. She thinks of him huddled in his sector of the spring, glancing over his inventory while she settles into the center of the pool. Thinks of him granting her request for another portion of durian for dinner a few hours prior, the dish's pungent aroma a decent indication that she's been at her little attempt for far too long. She rubs her eye and thinks of him fast asleep beyond the canvas of her tent, curious as to what dreams float through his mind tonight.

Dreams are meaningless , she reasons. It's wrong of her to assume she knows what his subconscious unearths. Perhaps he'd merely dreamt of…hydromelons in the parched desert, or perhaps he'd found himself wallowing in the bright sea air of the southeast. Perhaps she herself had been mistaken the night prior, perception warped by fatigue; perhaps she's made him difficult to look at all on her own. Zelda fine tunes her ears and finds his gentle breath floating through the flap of her tent. She crawls across the entrance and pokes her head out, and when her eyes finally adjust to the darkness, they train themselves on his slumbering shape.

Goddesses, she's surprised at how easily peace comes to claim him, every admirable bit of him tucked away beneath sleep. She's come to know all of them; the stern expression that settles above a hardened jaw when the bickering squeals of an enemy camp float through the trees. The accuracy, the agility, the surprising strength that lies dormant in his limbs until the moment it's called upon—until the moment he needs to protect her. All of it lies somewhere beneath those closed lid and the gentle locks that swipe across his brow in sleep.

Perhaps she isn't quite as immune to him as she's believed.

A small grumble crackles in the hush, like a heavy footstep upon the crinkled edges of leaf from an Akkalan redwood. Zelda's breath hitches, throat tightening as his thin sounds smear into one heavy sigh, a wash of air that feels like it's been begging for release for far too long. Something edges up behind his nose, the hint of a droning hum as another heavy exhale tumbles from his open mouth.

Oh Gods, she thinks, pinned to the spot, hips firmly planted against the foot of the bedroll. Not again. She can't simply dart away from the campsite–she'll wake him. Zelda knows she should scurry further back into the tent, pull the thin sheet over her head and press palms against her ears.

And yet, she does no such thing.

"Br….brn…"

Consonant clusters she does not recognize, but the sound of Link's voice resonating once again sends a thrill bristling up her throat.

"Brn."

Zelda really should pull away now; she should return to her bedroll and cover her ears like a child rattled by a tantrum—but as she watches his fingers twitch at sides, sees the way his lips hardly manage to touch, something else washes over her, sends her snapping to attention in a way that makes her stomach somersault.

"…sel… Zelda. "

It's delivered quietly, so quietly she thinks she may have imagined it entirely. The Princess in question doesn't recognize the way something grips at her heart, digs its claws in and sends blood pounding through her ears. How could it possibly be her name slipping from his mouth as he slumbers away, her given name that's gently gliding across the serpent's mouth? Yes, she's surely been mistaken—

"Ze…da… "

She brings trembling fingers to her face and hides a gaping mouth behind them. It rings differently the second time, far more audible and pitched a little more like a howl. Like a whine. Gods, if she could harness that specific tone to beg for the Goddess, she'd have captured her divine attention long ago—would have mastered her ever elusive craft years prior. Zelda's mouth clamps down around a small gasp, teeth nearly missing the tip of her tongue as it does so.

There's another sound, something soft and approving; and then, one short, shuddering breath.

Zelda closes her eyes.

All that follows is a one more heavy inhalation that quickly dissolves into an unbothered snore before he's settling into his natural rhythm once more. She knows that sound very well. It sings of ashes dancing on the dying fire once camp has drawn to a rest, of crickets harmonizing out into the evening air. Link rolls onto his side and leaves Zelda with only the sight of his clothed back to keep her company, vivid Champion blue slicing through the dull light.

Dreams are pointless. Dreams are pointless. She chants it silently, again and again, in the same way she asks for the Goddess hours on end, but even so… pointless cannot mute the twinge that's quickly simmering to life in her groin.

He thinks of her—of her! —when he…when he…

Oh Goddess , her mind spins and her vision blotches like she's lingered in a dry heat for far too long. Part of her hopes that she might be locked away in a dream of her own, consciousness waiting to surface at any moment. And yet, if she were in a dream…why should her knight attendant be here, gasping her name out in a voice that he must grant his lovers with? Zelda covers her eyes and sighs; the proposition of Link as a lover, of all things, is enough to send another blush splattering across her cheeks. So then, what might he really think of her as they traverse the kingdom? When she turns her back to begin her prayers? When he follows behind her at his short distance, with only the sight of her backside to keep him occupied?

It should frustrate her, offend her. It should take each little hint of frustration and multiply it. It should send her huffing to his side to berate him. How crude, she might say, stamping her feet while tightly curled fists tremble at her sides. But the anger never comes. It may be the most frustrating thing of all —that she's not frustrated by the prospect. Not in the slightest. Curiosity triumphs where anger has withered and passed.

When she finally remembers to breathe, however hollow her breaths have grown, Zelda traces the path of disheveled linens back and settles beneath one, her heart pounding as she buries her face into the pillow. Pointless. Meaningless. No, whatever this is can't be interpreted as anything of importance.

But even so, in spite of all she knows to be true, her heart leaps up—he thinks of her. In his dreams, she comes to him simply as Zelda.

And in his dreams, he cums to Zelda.

She buries a hoarse groan into her pillow, spurning the tiny spot in the back of her brain that wants to pretend that it might be the crook of his neck she's snuggling up into. She isn't quite sure exactly when sleep finally overshadows the ache in her legs, but when consciousness finally ebbs away, it fades beneath the night herons' cries. Her last fleeting thought wonders if he sees her again that night.

She doesn't dream.