Akkala sun seeps through the battered canvas of their tent and pulses easy against Zelda's eyelids, and when it finally manages to tug from her sleep, she comes to with a distant warmth around her middle and along the gentle slope of her spine. There's an unfamiliar kindness in it—like knowing the comfort of sun after a hard frost—and she curls into it, inhales so deeply that she feels her body blending into the shape behind her. It's only when said shape seems to move in sleepy tandem that realization spades into her, as jarring as though she's been plunged headfirst into the biting Spring beyond the tent:
It's Link's arm across her waist, his stern front pressed into her back.
She grows as taut as a well-nocked arrow in the loop of his arm, her body ripped from its peace and set alight. Zelda finds herself dragged through every possible emotion, slung up above the highest peaks of satisfaction before she's crashing into embarrassment—sympathy on his behalf, because she can't imagine he's aware of the way he's molded to her frame, not if the languid exhale at her neck has any say in the matter. Her breath sits delicate in her throat, trembling and as thin as the morning light, precarious as though any shift in pressure might stir him. Her fingers quiver where they sit between her cheek and pillow, and she swallows, thick, studying this feeling—initial panic quickly twisting into something like admiration, admiration melting into something else:
She likes it more than anything she's ever known.
The realization blooms low in her belly, a sparkling flush that crawls the length of her neck and settles in cheeks creased with the signs of deepest sleep. There isn't anything inherently wrong with this arrangement; she hasn't forced him into it, after all—and it would be cruel to tear him from sleep after such a journey for the sake of convention.
Zelda closes her eyes and lets the weight of her head grow heavy on her pillow. It would be nice to fall asleep again this way, to steal a few more hours of sleep encircled in his arms. Sleep never fully returns, only a quick doze before the sunlight is just a little too bright to let her slip over the edge. So in his arms she stays, her mind crafting far too many scenarios for her own good.
He exhales heavily against her, his breath hot at her neck and the small, sleepy moan like a flame brushing across her ear, only a teasing hint across her skin. It's not the same sound she'd heard all those months ago in the thicket of Faron, but Goddess it's every bit as delicious—his gentle hum lost in the comfort of sleep, lost to the pleasure of her body as he wraps himself around her, fingers tightening as they curl around the fabric of her nightgown. He clings to her, kneads at her, his subconscious pulling her closer while his hips sidle up to her rear.
Goddess above .
Her cheeks flood with a crimson so potent she thinks it might set her pillow ablaze. But curiosity bests her, and she allows herself the slightest reprieve—a gentle collapse of shoulders, an ease into his shape; a slight arch of her spine to press the slope of her backside even further into him. Zelda closes her eyes and imagines what it would be like for his hand to slink up her nightgown and find a loose breast, to roll a hardened nipple between his fingers and swallow the sigh he'd tear from her. Or, even more deliciously, imagines his hand slipping beneath the hem of her undergarments, dark leather soon soaked with a burst of arousal. She finds herself arching further back at thought, involuntary and yearning. And thoughts of drawn out touches are swept aside to make room for things far more salacious—his body above hers, hot and panting, skin glistening like the dew-kissed armoranth just beyond the tent. He'd take her face between his hands, swipe her lips with his tongue before claiming her mouth as his own.
Zelda sighs aloud at the thought; Link incites a panic behind her chest when he begins to stir. She immediately slumps, curls inward again and feigns sleep without a second thought. She hears him sniffle, his wrist twisting against her in its morning stretch, and then—a slight jolt, his elbow into her side, not quite sharp enough to draw a yelp from her, but enough to let her know that he's very much awake and aware.
" Shit."
It's a ghost of a sound behind her head, hardly noticeable if she hadn't been looking for something. But something wicked rears it head behind her sternum, has her donning her theatrical skills with a fraudulent sleepy hum and a grasp of his hand as she pulls him in, like she's a child clinging to a plush toy. Link exhales, his breath carefully managed to keep from spilling over her entirely before the Goddess' name is muttered from his lips, voiceless consonants like a hiss across her ear.
Zelda has to bury a half smirk in her pillow.
He stills, and though he doesn't make a sound, she can hear the calculation in the silence—the shoulds and shouldn'ts, the possibilities, the hopes and the fears. Anticipation tingles in her fingers, in her toes, and it builds so tightly in her that she can't help herself from turning in his arms, the flutter of her lashes pristinely calculated when green eyes find the alarmed blues staring her down.
" S - sorry, " he yelps, hand pulling across her as though he's wincing over the red-hot edge of heated iron. He scurries away, nearly tripping across the lapis shell of the Master Sword's scabbard as he breaks for the tent's entrance.
Zelda feels for him, truly—he shouldn't feel as bad as he clearly does. But a part of her delights in it—savors the way his humanity shines through the facade as it so often does these days. Golden hair tumbles across her shoulder as she rises from her supine position, body mourning the new distance between them and the warmth he's taken with him. Dust and gravel collect at her palms when she crawls to follow him, and she's soon wiping them off on the cream of her sleepwear and rising to her feet, heart lodged firmly in her throat as she admires the length of his back, the sharp blue of his tunic gleaming under the morning sun. Boots unlaced and hair rumpled with sleep, there's something quite valiant about the way his heavy gaze fans out across the empty Spring.
"Link. Will you look at me?"
He does, reluctantly, and everything narrows into focus: stifled longing cloaked beneath the guilt—the taste of her name still lingering on his tongue, syllables dipped in the dusky hues of midnight.
"Princess, I'm so sorry." He drops to a knee, his voice still mottled with sleep. "I was completely unaware, truly."
Jade eyes peer down to where he genuflects, gloved fingers wreathed together solemnly, and it's nearly impossible for Zelda to think past the memory of them against her belly, tucked neatly just south of her breasts. "Why are you kneeling?" Her voice rings hollow, wholly unphased by his reverence. "You are not my servant, Link. Please get up."
When he does, it's with notoriously high shoulders and a deep pout he's completely forgotten to hide away. If the tint on her face is half as rosy as his, he's remarkably unaware of it.
"It was never my intention, Princess….please know…that I would never…"
"You would never?" Blonde eyebrows shoot up brightly when Zelda laughs, her own voice every bit as golden as the feather soft sunlight spilled across their faces. Her lips curve in a mischievous smile. "Am I so unattractive that you would never think to hold me like that?"
The way horror flashes so sharply across his face is enough to have her biting down on laughter. " No —" it's in his voice, too, hoarse and desperate while he flails for words— "I didn't mean it like that. I…I…"
"It's fine, Link," she giggles, heart fluttering wildly beneath the way his tongue ties, "I understand. Accidents happen. I'm not cross with you. You don't think I'd punish you for such a thing, right?"
"I'm—" But almost as quickly as the game has started, it's over; Link's head droops in defeat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Everything that follows is perfectly curated, crafted so dexterously that she surprises even herself. "You don't have to be, you know," Zelda says, setting herself on her knees and begins to crawl her way back into the tent, and it's only when she's at the entrance that she tosses a glance back, loose gold strewn across doe-eyes and her bottom lip plumped into a pout before she's admitting: "I quite enjoyed it."
The distance between them, sliced only by the thin fabric of canvas flaps, feels miles long as Link stands at the edge of the Spring, heart racing so quickly it can only be compared to the spine-chilling thrill of battle. This is the moment when he braces for the hint of a blade across his arm, his cheek—the narrow dodge of an arrowhead against his tunic. But the dagger that pierces his skin is sweet and starry, with edges dipped in a blissful heat that has him both at attention and at ease, simultaneously. Something curls up low in him, a primal little thing that looks up, smug and satisfied, a derisive little ' do you get it now?' humming up through him. A jolt tears up through his stomach and twists so hard that he has to steel himself, and he tenses buckling legs to keep from plunging forward into the Spring.
He doesn't quite know what she's laid out before him. What is it precisely that she enjoys—the camaraderie? The moment of togetherness in the midst of such solitude—connection in lieu of the misery found in the Springs and before her father? A simple touch she's been long deprived of? Or is it the sensation of him ; of his arms, his chest, his fingers against her? Is he allowed to wonder about such a thing? Inquiries pulse at his jaw, and it takes every ounce of his strength to keep from turning to face the tent, to let his eyes linger on her enclosure while his mind conjures hypotheticals about what might be happening beyond draped fabric.
The morning slips further past, pale sunlight skating across slickened stone and damp grass, hints of bright gold all the more effusive across the whispers of petrichor and the curious trilling from the soft green canopies of the cedars. He can hear his own breath steadying as the minutes melt by, noisy air stilling when he chooses to focus on the distant sound of the Spring's rumbling falls instead.
Eventually—perhaps hours later, for all he knows—there's a small sound behind him, and Link finds himself almost fearful of turning. It's the way a small child can't bear to survey its surroundings when it bounds for the safety of its covers in a darkened room; he's afraid of what he'll find if he looks to find pearl green blinking up at him, knowing and mischievous.
"Link, I'd like to bathe quickly before we depart, if you wouldn't mind."
He clears his throat, ignoring the way the tips of his ears burn. He nods. "Of course, Princess. Where shall I wait for you?" he asks, voice tilting far more formal than it has over the last few months.
"Where would you like to wait?" Her voice is soft, hushed in a way that swallows the air around them entirely, and Link has no choice but to surrender; he turns to look at her, his face paling. It's far worse than he's anticipated—it isn't mischief he finds wreathed throughout her features; it's something wistful, something earnest—a melancholy that touches him like the first sweet showers of spring. Whatever connection they share—whatever fate binds them together with—snaps taut the moment their eyes meet. He feels it coiling up inside of him; she must feel it too, if that gleam in her eye has any say in the matter.
She knows, he thinks. She knows.
"Wherever you'll…" have me, he's halfway to saying before wisdom decides to grace him, "...wherever you'd like me to wait."
"Would you like the tent? I won't be too long."
"That's fine with me."
Zelda rises, her chemise wrinkled, a strap threatening to slip from her shoulders as she hugs familiar blue garments close to her chest. "Promise me you'll stop wallowing soon?"
Instinctually, he darts his eyes away. "I'm not wallowing. I'm just disappointed. I never want to disrespect you."
Zelda laughs. "You're the most respectful man I know, Link." The words he searches for never materialize, tied neatly on his tongue and stowed away. But Zelda, in all of her glory, offers him an escape route: "But if you need some convincing, let's wait until after breakfast, okay?" He nods, and it's hard to swallow past the smile she gives him. He can feel his body easing, melting towards hers, wanting so badly to know what her mouth across his own would feel like.
"How would you feel about heading north for breakfast?" She glances east, squirting beneath the sunbeams. "I think it would be nice to see the ocean for a bit."
"Anything you want."
The path leading to the East Akkala stable is a rather long incline of a slope. On the heels of the steep ascent from the quarry, it's a bit more treacherous of a journey than either has anticipated. Sea air rushes across the eastern bluffs consolingly, the sun not so bright that the journey is too arduous to enjoy. There's already enough heat sparking in the silence between them, in the distance between where they sit in their mares' saddles—at least, it certainly feels that way, Zelda thinks, her flickering eyes turned out toward where the Akkala sea glistens.
Link has, disappointingly, reverted to the silent knight of days past. He's hardly offered an approving noise at the few comments she's managed to share as they make their way north. It isn't that Zelda is surprised per se—she's caught him in a rather delicate situation, after all—but she's hoped that the ice between them had melted enough that he could feel better lingering in the peaceful waters that run there instead. Perhaps he'd hear the truth ringing silently between her words of consolation—that it's okay could be translated into something equivalent to continue, please.
Perhaps she's underestimated things.
But a quick back to where Link rides along behind her, blue eyes downcast across the soft green of the bluff, brows knitted in contemplation and his cheeks as pink as any spring blossom, and Zelda knows she's far from mistaken: his feelings run warm, as blatant as ever, and the Princess of Hyrule feels her stomach twisting as though she herself were sliding down the banks and preparing herself for the shock of the sea. The conspiring voices that sing of right or wrong in her head subside, and all that's left is more more more —it's hard to stifle such thoughts, especially when she knows he wants them, too.
The familiar facade of a Hyrulean stable waits atop one final slope, the dry colors of its wooden frames and its equine exterior almost invisible next to the dazzling pop of a maple tree. It's a quiet scene, far less frantic than what they'd stumbled across in South Akkala, and Zelda finds that it's precisely what she's longed for. The stablemaster is an older gentleman with kind green eyes and a thick voice who recognizes the pair almost instantly beneath parted lips and a silent gasp. He reminds Zelda a bit of her father, if the perpetual storm brewing across the King's face would ever subside. Much to her relief, the stablemaster makes no grand scene and he soon has the lady of the house tending to them.
"Could we sit outside, please? The weather is so nice here." Zelda doesn't have to ask twice, and the pair is quickly escorted to a comfortable spot beneath the embers of the maple tree. The woman, Edith, bows, again and again, her hands folded graciously as she promises to return quickly.
"They're very kind up here," Zelda observes, eyeing the way Link shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
"Yes," is all he manages, hardly loud enough to clear the soft rush of wind in her ears. She smacks her lips, refusing to hide her disdain, and a sense of self-satisfaction floods her when he notices.
"Link," she deadpans, "you're driving me nuts."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't want you to apologize!" She's laughing now, frustration mounting at how silly he sounds after all that's transpired. "I just want you to treat me like a real person again."
Link doesn't say anything, but it's clear from the way he curls his lips that he's lost in thought. He cocks his head to side, glancing up at the maple tree as though he's meaning to catch the words darting through the vivid net of its leaves. Before Zelda can say anything further, the sound of footsteps in the damp grass catches her attention.
"Freshly squeezed orange juice," the lady of the house announces, setting two glasses and a fair sized pitcher on the small table between them. She moves to serve them, but Link raises a hand and takes the errand on himself, pouring a glass for his Princess before his own. And though Zelda watches him in the hopes he might slip up and meet her eye across the bend of his arm, he never does—doesn't dare to explore that thing that fills her eyes when she looks at him. She hasn't named it—doesn't need to, really. Everything is instinctual, now.
"Thank you," Zelda mumbles.
"You're welcome." His voice hits almost as hard as the sweet flavor bursting on her tongue. The words are low, teeming with thought, muddled with a subtext she craves.
In the silence, Zelda contemplates: could she be crass, just this once, and ask him directly? What would it entail, anyways? Link, do you want to kiss me as much as I want you to? Do you want to know what it would feel like to make love to me, or am I imagining things?
She frowns. There is surely no way to say such things aloud with a straight face. Better left unsaid, she thinks.
"That's where I went wrong." Link's voice strikes like a lightning bolt, the swell of it unprecedented. He blinks a few times, bright blue kissed incandescent by the sunlight. Before she can ask his meaning, he elaborates: "I've forgotten my station."
Zelda tries to hide the way she shivers when his eyes finally dart over to her. "First of all, I don't see how. You've done your job—you've protected me, kept me safe. You've treated me with more kindness than anyone's ever shown to me. You care for me." His gaze holding tight to hers feels like arms around her midsection, her cheek into his chest.
"That's the problem. Perhaps I care too much."
The warmth of his voice quickly turns to something scalding hot, iron thrust against her heart. "I'm sorry that it's a burden to care," she offers, voice settling delicately around the words as she measures his intent.
"No, that sounds bad—" Link hurries to clarify, and though it seems impossible, his face twists even further with disappointment. "—I just meant that—"
"You've really come at the perfect time!"
They both shudder a little at the intrusion. Edith's cheerful voice feels like a sonic boom when it spills over the top of Link's head as she reappears with two plates bursting with food: oatmeal pancakes with orange walnut butter, an egg scramble with cheese and potato, a delightful bowl of berries— Zelda's satiated simply looking at it all. "Have as much as you'd like, and I can set aside some more for your next journey, if you'd like!" The kindness is hard to swallow, Zelda thinks. It's a kindness she cannot return—she can do nothing but take.
"You're too sweet, really," Zelda says, placing a hand across her heart. "We are so grateful for your hospitality."
"Anything for the Princess and her Knight. We're honored to provide as much as we can!"
Edith wishes them a pleasant meal and retreats with a quick bow, and Zelda finds herself relieved at the absence. She's hungry for Link's thoughts. She can't reinitiate, of course—he must pick up where he left off. Zelda pops a blueberry into her mouth and chews it with as much effort as though it were a steak, feels the way it splits open and spurts juice out against her teeth. Any minute now, surely, she thinks, trying not to glance at Link as he carves away at a pancake.
It is the first meal they've shared in a long time that feels heavy. He doesn't continue where he left off—only chews through his food and fixes his eyes out onto the bleary horizon. But Zelda is aflame—her body aches for his words in a way it never has, yearns for the look he'd given her in the Spring just last night, whines at the memory of his chest against her back and his hand beneath her breasts.
And Zelda is on the verge of exploding before Link finds his courage:
"I care about you. Very much so. If you dismissed me today, I would still care. And that's the problem."
Zelda swallows the bite of fare in her mouth as gingerly as though she were tiptoeing around a sleeping beast, her stomach fluttering. "So…we care for each other. And somehow that knowledge makes the world a little more difficult."
There's a cloudy silence that takes over, only for a moment before Link's breaking it with a small huff of a laugh to himself. "I guess it does."
"I don't think it has to. You aren't taking advantage of another by…caring for another. You aren't soiling every good deed by wanting to…wanting to be friends with the Princess of Hyrule. If we want to speak about stations, you should be the King of Hyrule. You're the Goddess' chosen. That should supersede any monarch. My father was lucky enough to marry a descendant of the Goddess—that's all. You were born of Goddess' undying love—" she dares a look at him, and his face is so kind, so plaintive, that it hurts to look upon him— "I can't imagine she'd truly prefer that anyone else rule her land."
Link doesn't find the words—she sees him searching, the tranquil blue brimming with an emotion she wishes so desperately he would put into words and cast out before her. And perhaps he's close, his mouth parting, his jaw twitching, his brow softening and his eyes flickering across hers to find something there, too.
"Do you really think that?"
"Of course I do. I don't think I am inherently wise on all matters, but I think there should be no question on the matter. I think her Chosen Hero should ascend the throne, yes. And as devout followers, the monarchy should prepare him for it." She watches his hands fidget in his lap, dark leather curling against the taupe of his trousers. "Do you think you could be content with a life like that?"
"I don't know. Maybe." Zelda watches the corners of his lips twitch up, a hint of amusement sparking at his mouth, and it's the way his ears are already singing with pink that has Zelda tensing up. "Am I…married to the Princess of Hyrule? In this hypothetical scenario?"
"Let's say that you are." She refuses to hide away as much as he does. "Does that sweeten the deal?"
"If I admire this hypothetical Princess half as much as I do you, then yes, I think it does."
Link turns his eyes up to her, and there's nothing but kindness to be found there; pure, unadulterated admiration shines across the table, peeking through the reservation that's still etched across his face. But he's close, she thinks—so close to dropping the mask. Just a bit more, a little bit longer and he'll be open and ready to spill every truth. Zelda's heart thuds against a sternum that feels frail, enshrined in a cage of thinning bone that could collapse from the force.
"So, you're not upset. You really…didn't mind it?" Link asks, swallowing hard.
Zelda can feel the hint of darkness rippling across her eyes. "I don't think that's precisely what I said." The realization dawning on his face settles in her stomach like the heaviest of stones. "It's important for me to be open with you," she admits, courage promptly slipping under the vulnerability as she tears her glance away from him.
Link inhales, and in spite of how quietly the air flows into him, it brings a crackling suspense, the whistle of a firecracker as it launches into the air; Zelda waits for the burst to ring in her ears—it never comes, only the softest words: "It means a great deal to me—your honesty."
"I hope you'll offer me some of your own."
"I've never lied to you, Princess." Test me, his eyes seem to say, and Zelda finds herself glittering in admiration, savoring the way the gentle morning breeze tousles his hair, wondering how it would feel to curl up into the crook of his neck and ghost her lips against his skin—how it would feel to be his.
Her face falls gently; she already is his, she realizes.
"Everything okay, Princess?" Link asks, craning to catch a better view of her expression.
"Yes, just—yes, I'm fine. A bit distracted, that's all."
"Are you enjoying your breakfast?" he asks, eyeing her over the rim of the glass he reaches for.
Zelda nods and turns her face to the sea. "It's spectacular. Precisely what I was hoping for. I'm grateful to have a moment like this before…well…"
"Before home," Link finishes the thought for her, brushing wheat locks from his brow in a way that endears him even further to her.
"Home…the Calamity…whatever lies in store for us. It is a privilege to feel this peace."
"It is a privilege. I'm very grateful…for this…time together." He only barely manages to get the thought out, face visibly shaken with the effort of admitting such a thing. But Zelda's heart leaps up and nearly bursts from her throat, golden.
Before she can share the sentiment—before she can try to coax whatever thoughts lie just beneath the glistening surface of him, Edith reappears, eyes impossibly bright, and the Princess is promptly corralling such delicious feelings beneath the woman's accommodations. She clears their empty plates, waits for Link to shove the last of the berries in his mouth before she's taking the cup directly from his hand—Zelda finds herself wishing it were her fingers in the line of fire, brushing against his.
"Long road ahead, then?" Edith asks, bowing her head as she sets Zelda's empty glass upon her tray.
"Indeed. It will be a few more days of travel before we see home again."
Edith nods kindheartedly. "Enjoy your time up here in Akkala?"
"Yes, I would say so." Mischievous green flits over to where Link sits, his eyes catching hers across Edith's reach as she lifts the last remnants of their meal from the table. "Would you agree, Sir Link?"
He nods with lips pressed together, an earnest glimmer shining at the edges of reluctant eyes. "This part of Hyrule is really beautiful."
"We're quite proud of our colors up here," Edith beams. "If you've got a few hours to spare, you should stop by the North Akkala Valley. The orchard there is really quite special. Finest apples in Hyrule, that's for certain, though I'm sure the Hateno folks might argue that." Zelda's eyes dart back to find Link's, his sandy brows furrowed gently with uncertainty. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, amusement laced through his look, and she finds her heart swelling at the sight of Hateno pride laid before her—beneath that heroic veneer, beneath Champion blue and the legendary sword and the fabled soul that he houses, he's a boy: simple, normal, with all the wants and needs that a boy his age might carry.
The thought is curiously satisfying.
"An orchard! What do you think, Sir Link? I've never visited one before."
There's a hint of a crack in the stone of him, his stoic demeanor soon melting at the way her face lights up at the prospect. Kind words spill out from where they sit just behind his teeth, his eyes doubly so: "Of course, Princess."
A familiar sweetness rides along the late morning breeze—the hint of apple that tints a good number of Link's childhood memories. The orchard sits quiet, but vibrant , blushes of cherry red against the oval leaves that line the carefully pruned paths. Link turns his attentive eye towards the closest tree, assessing the soil condition and checking for signs of pests. He's a bit too attentive, distracted by the minute details of the landscape, but it's exactly as he intends: he needs something to soften the hurricane inside of him from swirling up too violently.
The early morning had brought the darkest of clouds, like the gripping sight from the shoreline when catastrophe looms out on the horizon—but the wind shears have changed, and what was once a Hebran storm to be sheltered from beneath thick panels of cedar feels more like a deluge after a lengthy drought, a cloudburst—thick raindrops to be caught on one's tongue under murky afternoon skies.
"This row is labeled 'Sahasrahla.'".
Zelda's voice floats over to him in the same way dawn seeps up through the last dredges of a dream. Link dares a glance to find her squinting at a scrawl of obsidian paint against a wooden sign, her gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the woven handle of the basket that the orchardist had furnished them with. Elsewhere in the grid, the staccato of an oriole's call darts out, pithy and incessive, curiously synchronized to the triple meter of his heartbeat.
"Those are the kind that Castle puts orders in for," Link notes.
"Oh!" Recognition looks so charming on her. "I quite like those. Shall we get a few?"
He nods and rises to full height. "Would you like to do the honors?"
The sweetest of smiles is stamped across her face when she nods, vigorously, and Link stretches an arm out and silently lets her take the lead down the aisle. She draws nearer to a tree, steps across a muddy patch left by last night's shower and instinctively reaches over head, her fingers curling gently before she's asking: "Which ones?"
"They're probably a little cracked from the rain." Link twists an apple from the tree and holds it out to her. "See that? This one's split already." He watches her study the crescent indentation that runs along the ruby skin, studious eyes shining. "And maybe look for some that are a little more golden–maybe that one, over there—and of course, make sure nothing's rotten."
Zelda glances over at Link with her brows knit in amusement. "A professional I see… so, perhaps… this one?" She scouts out a perfectly appropriate specimen, finger pressing curiously into the skin.
"That's good, get that one."
Zelda moves to pull it straight off, but Link is quickly intervening. "Gentler, not a pull, exactly. More like a twist."
"Would you guide me?"
In spite of all that's happened, it catches him off guard—this question, the look she gives him—everything so delicately weaved together that Link finally begins to understand that this new shade to their relationship, whatever this may be, is here to stay. The realization nearly has the ground sliding out from under him.
Link nods. He raises her hand with his own, fingers sliding against hers, the leather so agonizingly unsatisfying compared to the satin against her body. She steps closer to him, lining her arm with his to grant him more control, and when Zelda's hand is firmly in the shadow of his own, her fingers perfectly overlaid by his own, he sets them both against the apple and curls, savors the way her own fingers echo beneath his, and with gentlest of twists, it pops free of the branch. He doesn't let go right away, the wiring of him short circuiting at the way the breath hitches in Zelda's throat beside him.
"Just like that," she whispers.
"Just like that." He sets her free, missing the hints of her as soon as she's gone. Goddess above, could he ask her for more? Could he ask to take it back, spend the rest of the afternoon with his fingers twined through hers?
"How do you know so much about orchards?" Zelda asks, her cheeks every bit as pink as the second apple she reaches up for her.
"My grandfather owned one in Hateno. I used to help him when I was growing up." Link smiles, half to himself, honey-tinted memories flooding back behind the familiar steel of his eyes. "I spent all my free time with him, learning about cultivation, irrigation…learning about the different crops. I loved it. It was my favorite thing."
"Cultivation," Zelda muses. "That's a really lovely thought." The second apple knocks against the first with a gentle thud as she drops it into the basket, green eyes low and glistening. "I had no idea." She lifts her face with her softening features. "You must have been quite close with your grandfather."
"I was. We'd take the fruit and bake them into recipes. And then it became another way for me to bond with my mother. She said she'd never tasted an apple pie better than the one I made her for her birthday once… but, she was a mom. I think she's obligated to say stuff like that." It makes Zelda giggle a little, and it only takes a couple of golden tones for Link to feel warmth crawling up through his chest. He sneaks a look at her, and it's like stealing the most decadent chocolate before dinnertime—like he's been spoiled by something so luscious that anything else that follows will hardly compare.
"It's fascinating, actually—that someone can be skilled enough to slay a lynel and be home in time to bake a perfect pie." Zelda's biting her lip for a moment before she's letting another thought slip through. "You're…remarkable, that's for certain."
He clears his throat. "Thank you."
Zelda looks as though she's about to speak further before she's stepping forward with the briefest shake of her head, boots squelching in the mud as she pushes on. In spite of his lack of confidence—his hardheadedness, perhaps—one thing is made clear: he's managed to tie the Princess' tongue. He sees her paw nervously at her hair, hears her clear her through and mumble sounds that don't quite form into words. That warmth in his chest is soon starting to feel quite a bit like pride, gnashing its teeth as it breaks from its sleepy cocoon.
They wander deeper into the grid, and rows of other types of apples soon come into view. Link recognizes each family, offers Zelda a bit of insight into the maintenance and harvesting techniques. He points out a patch of milkweed that's currently entertaining two butterflies, and Zelda delights at the sight—any doubts Link might have had about his divine heritage vanishes entirely: he's certain, with every fiber of his being, that he had been born to please her. And it happens again, that swell of pride—palpitating, pressing at his neck, at his chest, at his hips. A response to a call that her body sends out, a call that he doesn't quite know how to answer.
"So you had a passion for…cultivation, I suppose," Zelda whispers into the milkweed, voice gentle so as to not scare the butterflies away.
Link rubs at his face, a little bashful. "You're a big fan of that word, aren't you?"
"It's just a beautiful sentiment." She glances over at him. "Very nurturing. I'm surprised that you aren't the one in charge around here."
It begins this way, with Zelda leading him into a territory he's long been nervous to tread. But that feeling, that pride, smirks with delight at the prospect. "I actually wanted to take over the orchard when I got older. Carry on my grandfather's legacy. I really thought that was the path."
"Fascinating!" She rises slowly and pulls away from her observational spot, drawing nearer one of the larger trees to seek out a hint of shade from the noonday sun. "What changed your mind?"
"The queen passed. And we were summoned for the memorial." He's rehearsed these thoughts before—felt them roll across his mind in the darkest hours of night, structured them in such precise ways. They'd been tucked away for ages, tossed out entirely when he'd realized she hadn't liked him very much; but they float back so easily now, as if the Goddess herself had imprinted them on his heart for when the time was right. "And I saw a little girl who'd just lost her mother… she wasn't crying. But I remember seeing her eyes, knowing how much she was hurting. I didn't know her, but somehow… It felt like I was hurting, too. And I knew she needed help — someone needed to protect her. And I thought…maybe that person…could be me."
He glances up to find Zelda's lips parted, her hands gripping the basket so tightly there's bound to be indentations beneath her gloves. "You didn't….you really…sacrificed something as beautiful as this for me?" Her voice is thin, her walls crumbling. And if he could knock them down completely?
"I never saw it as a sacrifice. I traded one beautiful thing for another."
Her face crumples. Golden brows wrinkle and her sweet mouth widens around a gasp, her chest heaving like she's climbed one of the endless staircases to her chambers.
"Link… I…"
"I don't regret it," he presses on with a step towards her, the thought suddenly so urgent that he might explode if he were to think about containing it. "Even when you didn't want to see me, or talk to me. It was all worth it."
Zelda splays a hand across her chest. "Oh Link, if you keep speaking to me this way…I…I"
He stops, heart sinking, pride shriveling up as embarrassment fights for dominance. "I'm so sorry, Princess, I'm out of line. I just wanted to—"
" No , it's not that at all." Her voice breaks over the vowels, harsh air spiraling out from between each syllable. "I… I wish you'd follow that line. I wish you'd…." Her face is porcelain—pristine and luxurious, and all Link can think about is how much he'd like to take it between his hands, admire it from up close, cherish it. He holds her in his gaze, and him in her own, and in the periphery, he can see her hand raising, her open palm beckoning him forward—calling him closer to her.
"I wish you'd never stop speaking to me like this."
His hand slips into hers. Easy, natural— right. The gentle touch full of a longing that slams into both of them like bolts of lightning. Both of them plucked from the loneliness of their pasts, suddenly, all at once, lonely no longer. Something exhilarating takes root, threads throughout the soil beneath their feet and binds them together.
"I could keep going for you—i-if you want." His voice is like a whisper, so tiny that it might fit in the palm of her hand. His heart sits there, too. Her fingers tighten around his in response, and she's pulling, guiding him closer—asking, finally asking , for him to be near.
Link hears the gentle thud of her basket hitting the ground beneath them, and in the hush, Zelda brings her free hand to his cheek, her thumb gliding against the easy slope of his jaw and down to his chin. Glassy jade slides up to his mouth, calculating. "You…care for me? Truly?" The quiet lilt in her voice strikes something deep within him—that desire to protect, to tend.
Link nods. "Yes, Princess."
"Zelda," she pleads, "no more Princess, please . "
It's hard to believe Hylia could be so cruel when the familiar title rings out from beyond where they stand in an unfamiliar voice. They skitter apart, the moment broken by the sudden appearance of the orchardist informing the Princess of Hyrule that a light rain is rolling in.
"It will get muddy," the old man warns, and Zelda must be so preoccupied with the memory of Link beneath her hands, because her polite responses fall impossibly short of her normal composure.
"We'll be on our way," she manages to find, and they're soon shuffling off to where their horses await in silence. It's unclear whether or not the orchardist is aware he's interrupted something profound, but he's extremely polite as he gathers their acquired fruit and wraps them in sweet plaid, tucks them into a more appropriate basket for the journey and wishes them on their way and makes haste for his small cabin.
The air between them teems with stagnant electricity—it's still there, still eager, but expertly caged. En route to the horses, Zelda slows at Link's side, and when he turns, he catches the calculation flaring across her face, estimation and analysis rendered magnificent on such a countenance. She tucks stray gold behind an ear as the first drop of rain taps at Link's forehead.
"I think…I think I would like one more prayer at the Spring. If you wouldn't mind." Her voice is softer than dew on a spring lily, her eyes doubly so. One more try. One more night. "Would that be okay?"
One more try, Link repeats to himself, again and again.
He finds her eyes brimming with hope, with want, with need. From glowing green spills his past, his present, his future—whatever his fate may be, it sings of gold and glossy green, of softness and an endless longing, of joy and melancholy. For the first time, Link lets himself fall.
"Yes, Zelda. That would be okay."