A/N: I've had this idea knocking about my brain for a while, and even though I told myself I wouldn't be posting without a set road map, that ship is sailing. This isn't really anything too deep, and I don't know how frequent updates will be (I also don't expect this to be more than a few chapters, anyway) but I hope you enjoy!

Tacet

Chapter 1

Faron welcomes its newest guests with all of the oppression that Zelda expects it to. The first sight of the Floria River comes into view as the sun crawls along to its zenith in the midst of an azure sky, and it isn't long before the damp air is pressing up against Zelda's skin, incessant and irritating, quickly gathering at her underarms and at the crooks of her elbows. Strands of cornflower are slowly adhering themselves to her temple as the stallion she's been gifted for the expedition trots along the unevenly marked path. Relief seems unattainable.

The Princess had set off for the Spring of Courage without a lance in tow, and when she passed through the galvanized apathy of the castle gates, there had only been one, quiet soldier following in her wake; through a persistence that's garnered more luck than her usual efforts, Zelda managed to convince her father that a smaller expedition would likely yield much more positive results. His initial recommendation of fifty men had felt far too overwhelming when he announced it— Zelda recalls the way anxiety jumbled in her stomach and twisted every which way so that she was nearly tossing up her feeble breakfast before the throne; but the thin tiara atop her head reminded her of its presence, and she struck the idea down in a fuller voice than her father had come to recognize. This should be done quietly. It hadn't been long before she'd wheedled the number so far down that the King was rubbing at his temple with exasperation, soon deciding, perhaps only out of spite, that it's Sir Link and Sir Link only that shall aid her.

Zelda can accept that—after all, Sir Link's daily routine already consists of an overwhelming dose of disappointment in her.

The sprawling canopies of the jungle soon echo with the strident call of birdsong and the prattle of a rushing stream. The copse begins to grow thicker, and for the first time all afternoon, uncertainty is gripping at the Princess' throat as tightly as her fingers around the stallion's reins. A flurry of cries tears through the veil of radiant green, perhaps drawn from a lone hog caught between some bloodthirsty predator's ravenous incisors. She inhales sharply and sits taller, the taste of the jungle's air sitting thickly on her tongue.

"Are you faring well enough back there?" She calls backwards in an attempt to shed her nerves. Faring, Faron, ha. She tosses the laziest of glances back at her knight attendant, catching just enough of him to find that humidity hasn't left him entirely unscathed, either. He nods politely before his sharp attention is pulled down to where a vine crackles beneath his mare's heavy step.

Zelda, for the most part, has grown warmer towards Link in the last few weeks. It's hard to stay cross with the man who once darted across the dunes to save her from what ought to have been a horrible death at the hands of those who'd sought the blood of the Goddess, meant to spill it across the desert's sandy swells. The hero seems almost indifferent to his efforts, as if he'd only prepared her a prompt afternoon tea; perhaps it's his indifference that's driving her a bit wild. Only a month ago, she'd hardly been able to look at him, each sight of his piercing stare and his long lashes and the damned sword on his back a blistering reminder of her own failures—but she's far more embarrassed now, critical of herself for reasons that have more to do with the huffed tantrums of days passed. Perhaps her knight, given his nonchalance towards much more pressing matters, might also turn an eye to the juvenile behavior she'd once reserved for him.

Zelda draws her stallion to a halt to assess their location and drags a finger, gloved and sticky, across the map, running along a trail of blue dye as she traces the river southwards. "How would you feel about a quick rest soon?" she asks, her voice competing against the thrumming swell of the jungle's mysterious strains. He has no objections, though she's sure he'd never voice them even if they were to float across his mind.

As she expects, a small clearing just south of the ancient ruins opens up to them, and Zelda is sliding off of her horse's stark white frame before Link has a moment to offer his assistance. She wiggles aching fingers and stretches her limbs, bends to feel the grass beneath her and raises her arms skywards with a sigh that her handmaidens might concern themselves with. For all of its uncertainties and in spite of everything that lurks behind the verdant curtain of foliage, the jungle is liberating. Hyrule Castle is far more oppressive than this.

Zelda's thighs quiver as she sinks into a shady spot. Link ties their horses to a neighboring tree and is immediately on the hunt, eyes flickering from one dense branch to another before they lock onto the spiked husks that dangle from them. He launches himself up into one of the trees with ease, leather boots digging into the bark and thrusting him upwards. The fruit hits the ground beneath him with a soft thud that pulls Zelda from her thoughts, and she squints to make out what he's gathering for them.

"Durians. I've never tasted one before."

He turns and disarms her with the gentlest of smiles, but he's quickly scaling another bole for more. When Link is satisfied with the pounds of durians he's tugged from their perch, he shovels them into a bag and rests them neatly among their belongings. More weight for his mare, but they don't have too much further to go—hardly an inconvenience for an animal as determined as the regal sorrel that gives Zelda's own dignified thoroughbred a run for his money. Epona, she's called, and she wonders if Link's given her such a strong name all on his own or not—before her near death experience, she wouldn't have thought considered asking purely out of spite: she's a little too embarrassed to do so now, doesn't want to feel her face grow hot when he wiggles his way out of a response with a shrug.

The reprieve ends far too quickly and they're soon descending into the heart of the jungle, equine footsteps surprisingly gentle as they maneuver through tendrils of vine and root running along the small palisades that line the Dracozu River. Zelda peeks over the cliff to find the body of water rushing by—wonders what it might be like to pitch herself into it for the quickest, most peculiar of moments. She finds herself wondering if Link would jump headfirst after her, scold her afterwards— and what would that be like? To find herself embroiled in his admonishment? She ponders such a curious thing, temptation flickering in her eyes before she's shaking the ridiculous thought away.

The river winds and bends, and just as the massive stone monument comes into view, one of the region's hallmark showers quickly rolls in and sends rain clattering off of the trees, blotting the sun out with pale gray. The horses skid across wet stone as they draw nearer to the Spring. Zelda's never seen it in person, and the sight of the structure stitches a soft gasp tightly to her larynx—it's large, ancient stone cut to resemble a serpent's unhinged jaw. When both sets of leather boots are firmly planted on the slickened ground, Link racks up the horses as Zelda glides through the two, protruding fangs that hang from the structure's mouth.

While Zelda ogles the craftsmanship, Link tends to the housekeeping duties that come with an expedition, and their campsite is fully set up by the time she's done inspecting the architecture—he's pitched the small tent that will house her that evening, a safe distance from where the he's arranged for the campfire to be, and just beyond that, his own bedroll sits unfurled. She wishes he'd let himself stretch out upon it, settle in for a cat nap while she attends to her duties—she knows he won't; he'll stand for hours instead, his hands resting on the hilt of the Master Sword while his focus drives hard into whatever looms before him. Sometimes, when she hesitates between beseeching thoughts, she wonders if he ever bends his knees or shakes sleepy limbs out or rolls his neck. Wonders what crosses his mind in the silence—wonders if he ever lets the thoughts grow curious in the ways any normal man might. Heat quickly colors Zelda's cheeks; what a foolish thought—of course he doesn't. Link is as much of a statue as the figure set deeply against the spring.

For all of the communication issues between the Princess and her knight attendant, they move fluidly together. Link pulls neatly folded fabric from her pack, her prayer dress nothing but a small patch of cream with gold jewelry perched upon it when he hands it off to her. It's hardly out of his grasp before he's wheeling around, offering her as much privacy as he can afford. She doesn't have to worry, really—she knows he won't dare to sneak a glance, and yet meadow green eyes affix themselves to his back, run along the slope of his shoulders to see if she can catch a flicker of movement as she trades leather for silk, gloves for golden bracelets. When she's ready, the Royal Crest up against her throat and inflexible around her wrists, she sets her belongings aside and draws nearer to the water's edge.

"Well…" she starts with a sigh, her voice reverberating off the stone. "Let's begin.""

Dusk stains the jungle with jagged shadows as the sun dips below the horizon, and Zelda is still waist deep in the tepid waters of the Spring when she hears the first scrape of steel against flint. It only takes a few clicks before a small flame is licking up from a patch of firewood, and she opens her eyes to find space doused in soft saffron, the Goddess statue's wistful smile now far more sinister beneath the quavering bloom of the campfire.

The last two hours have been lost to the divine thoughts that percolate her mind, but the Goddess ignores every one that Zelda has prepared for her– those same, echoed thoughts that bore no results during the hours already spent in the Temple of Time. Zelda will not admit, not even to Impa once she returns home, that the last few traces of prayer have dissolved into nothing but a series of silent pleas: the Princess of Hyrule ends her session begging for a guidance that's she expected to have secured long ago, as though it ought to have already been marked in a blueprint of her soul when she first came barreling into the world as nothing but a screaming infant. Perhaps it's foolish to admit such a thing, but she's expected this to…well, she's expected this to work . And yet here she stands, exhausted, her limbs soggy and her dress equally so, with a grumbling stomach that demands attention. She exhales heavily and returns to Link's side, and he watches her approach with raised eyebrows.

"Nothing," she says. "Not a single word. It's peculiar…don't you think? I truly believed praying here might have helped." She watches his eyes consider the words and for a moment, she thinks he might actually give voice to a response, but his lips twist in thought and he only shakes his head and shrugs.

"You have full permission to speak to me, you know," she reminds him, her voice gentle yet firm.

He ducks his head and nods.

Link prepares a dish of mushrooms and simmered fruit that tastes inexplicably sweet and savory and peculiar. The cooking process, however, is less than ideal—the odor leaves a bewildered Zelda pinching her nose as she tries to place some distance between herself and the cooking pot, but the stone mouth of the dragon traps her in the pungent aroma. She politely rejects the dish he tries to hand off to her, but he tries, again and again, and when she declares that she doesn't mind favoring sleep instead of a meal, he grows persistent.

"It tastes far better than it smells," Link explains, his soft voice like a crack of thunder and the blue of his eye suddenly as torrential as the shower that splatters against the roof of their lodgings. Pinned beneath his watch, Zelda considers that maybe he really is as handsome as the ladies of the castle claim him to be—no, it must be his kindness that has the tips of her ears burning.

He throws himself before blades and claws to keep her safe–he certainly won't lie to her about this.

"Alright, then."

It turns out that he's right, and for once, she's relieved to be wrong.

They eat in silence, as anticipated, save for an exclamation that durian tastes much more enjoyable than she's expected it to. Zelda is far too exhausted to try and coax any genuine conversation from him; she finds herself turning over her pleas to the Goddess again and again, wondering if she misspoke. Wondering if she had done something to cross her long ago, long before the endless evenings of prayer ever came to light, long before that wretched fortune teller bound her to such a devastating prophecy. She wonders what her knight attendant must think of this attempt; her stomach churns when she imagines her father's expectant face crumbling into distress as she stands before the throne and delivers such news. All lingering traces of hunger drain from her body at the thought.

"Thank you for dinner," Zelda begins, her voice hardly audible over the small crackle of the campfire. "I appreciate it."

She thinks Link will choose silence again, but a quick glance at his low lit expression tells her she's caught him off guard. His lips are parted slightly and his forehead creases. He clears his throat.

"You're very welcome, Princess."

A small victory—but it sends drips of warmth down her spine all the same.

"Good night, Sir Link," she offers politely. She doesn't wait for a response–she knows she's unlikely to get one–and if he speaks further, it's drowned out beyond the flap of canvas that waves in her wake as she disappears into her tent.

The stress of travel weighs so heavily on Zelda's bones that she cedes to the night's sleepy call without much protest. Her dream carries her closer to home, across the patch of wetlands, along the peculiar Pillars of Levia, over the settlement of Hateno further east. She finds herself summiting the Dueling Peaks, surveying the land, leaping from the southernmost of the twins and landing neatly in the plains below. Her feet have hardly touched the ground before the world is exploding around her, and when the blurs of blistering heat finally pass and the red skies melt away, there's nothing but scorched earth left, the steely scent of blood and ash and the ache of shell-shocked limbs as they struggle to shake off hints of paralysis.

She wakes with a sharp gasp, forehead damp from more than just a humid night. Zelda presses a hand to her chest and breathes into her palm. Deep breaths, it's just a dream. She settles back upon her bedroll and seeks sleep out once more, but the soft rumble of something unfamiliar beyond the tent tugs her up.

Zelda clutches the edge of the bedroll as she cranes startled ears forwards.

It happens again—a low murmur among the jungle's sleepy trills. Nocturnal voices chitter and hum, but above them all something grumbles: a moan, a sigh. A whine.

Is that…?

It withers away, dissipates into nothing before it's replaced by the unmistakable rattle of sleep lodged in a throat, a small crackle fraying the edges of his voice before a heavy sigh shoots out from his nostrils. And then, another hum, and the rustle of his bedroll as he moves atop it before another sound breaks free from his drowsy lips. It's a rather high pitch, Zelda thinks. She's never known her knight's voice to be stentorian or grandiose in any way, but she doesn't know what to make of these sounds. She hardly realizes that the corners of her mouth are turning up with glee.

"—oh," he breathes.

An oh ! Hardly a word, but it will be enough ammunition to tease him with once morning dawns. Perhaps she might convince him to open up with this newfound knowledge. Just a word, she'll tease before she tries to make him guess just exactly what it is that he whispers into the night. She's already giddy at the prospect.

Zelda can't help herself—she wants a visual to help with her recollection in the morning. She pokes her head through the tent's opening and finds his supine form exactly where she expects him to be, half illuminated upon his bedroll by moonlight streaming in through the slotted stone above. She squints and makes out his fingers twitching gently atop the bedding, his chest rising in a short shudder as his head lolls to the side with a non-committal hum. He inhales sharply through parted lips. A small grunt. And then another word, jagged and delivered as a harsh whisper:

" F…fuck ."

Zelda nearly chokes on an abrupt gasp before she's clapping a hand across her mouth in shock. It's spoken so clearly that she's suddenly panicked that he's speaking to her directly through the tent. And then she's panicking for other reasons: first, because the sound of an expletive of all things in her stalwart knight's tone is more than enough to send distress signals rippling through her body, and second, because it thrills her in a way that her instincts deem as far too unseemly for the Princess of Hyrule. It's as though he's taken that scandalous word, traced her lips with it and forced it into her mouth, dangled it on her tongue before pushing it so far down that it anchors itself in the pit of her stomach. She replays the sound in her mind, again and again, and with each repetition the aftershock grows more and more daunting

It's all over so quickly. The jungle draws to a hush—the creatures of the night must catch wind of her heartbeat pounding against her ribcage. Zelda doesn't know how long she sits at the tent's opening, on her knees, waiting for more, and soon his soft breathing—the sleepy inhalations that she actually does recognize— are floating across to her. She can only draw one assumption: her knight has had a rather… indecent dream. Vulgar and whining, crass and needy. Oh Goddess, he is just a man after all, isn't he? A man with simple needs, primal needs, like any other man. She's made the mistake of craving his voice and the Goddess has punished her with more than she's bargained for.

Something quickly swells in her, and when it settles, she's left with an unfamiliar thought peering over the edge of her mind, blinking up at her, waiting for her approval before it spills over entirely. Zelda shakes the thought from her head and darts back across the bedroll, but even weighted with sleep something in her body burns, her blood singing her veins and an impending storm rumbling to life inside of her.

No, she will most definitely not be mentioning this in the morning.