Chapter Text
The ride to Zora's Domain was longer than the lines on a map would denote, with its winding roads and frequently wet weather. Zelda imagined there were many a traveller that would be put off by this fact but, more often than not, she and Link met it with delight. They relished the extra time—in fact, they would often extend it further. There were simply too many distractions; too much opportunity to sneak in some extra adventure along the way. A new cave to investigate, or a spawning shoal of fish to wonder over. Frogs to catch; the fresh air to take in. Between the forced stops from torrential downpours and muddy roads, it was easy for them to find a little joy.
Not this time, though. This time, Zelda couldn't help but wonder if they should've just left the horses at Wetland Stable and teleported.
"Sorry." Link's voice was small and muffled against her shoulder. "Didn't think I'd need to stop this much."
"It's not your fault." Zelda worked her fingers into his hip, trying to relax the tight muscle; relieve the seized joint. She had better leverage on the cramp than Link could get himself but so far, the only thing she felt she was succeeding at was bruising him. "And even if it was,"—she found a small knot of resistance and massaged her thumb into it—"you've spent years slowing your pace for my sake. It's only fair I return the favour."
There was the slightest click under her thumb. Link's breath hitched. He slackened against her, and Zelda's chest quivered with plucked harp strings of panic. "Link?" She snatched her hand away from his hip, trying to steady him. "Link, did that just make things better or worse?"
"Better." Link drew back from her, leaning against the hunk of sky island rock behind him and tilting his face to the sky. "Better," he repeated, though he looked anything but. He remained as drawn and pale as he'd been when he nearly toppled from Enbarr's back—as drawn and pale as he'd been all day, really.
Zelda stepped towards their horses, both waiting as calm and patiently as ever. "We don't have much further now," she said. Only the final leg of their journey awaited them: one last incline to the crest of Ruto Mountain, then the steep, serpentine descent to the Great Zora Bridge. She pulled her canteen from Honey's saddle, carrying it over and pressing it between Link's hands. "Fingers crossed Kodah will have one of her water beds free."
Link snorted. "That's presuming Sidon hasn't already reserved the best room for us." He drank, and Zelda let her fingers settle into his fringe, absentmindedly twisting the locks while she took in their surroundings. The piece of debris Link was supporting himself on felt out of place amidst the cerulean cliffs. In particular, it stood in magnificent contrast to the tablet that made up one of Sidon's monuments. The brilliant, blue stone caught in the light, and Zelda narrowed her eyes, noting the collection of familiar characters that were carved into its face.
"I didn't realise this monument was about you," she said.
Link paused mid-sip and glanced over his shoulder. Immediately, his cheeks and the tips of his ears flooded with red. "Wish he hadn't written that one so big," he mumbled, head dipping to stare a hole in the ground at his feet.
As Zelda moved to look at the monument closer, she understood why. Where the previous tablets they'd passed had covered an array of Zora wisdom—personal anecdotes, history of the years under the Calamity, and tales of Mipha steeped in brotherly adoration—this one stood apart. Its purpose seemed to transform as the words went on: from mere storytelling into a tribute flush with praise, admiration and love for Link.
Zelda chuckled. No one could accuse the Zora King of being discreet with his feelings. "I quite like it," she called down to Link. "Sidon has a rather lovely way with words, don't you think?"
"Laugh now. There's one about you further down the road."
She grinned, turning back to appreciate the monument. It was an admirable tradition. With each new ruler the Zora had, new inspirations were taken; new examples were striven for. The replacement of the monuments served as a beautiful representation of the passing of leadership, carved into the face of their region itself.
That said, Zelda would be remiss if she didn't confess to a little frustration she'd had with the practice in the past. More than once, she'd bemoaned to Link about the lack of stronger records for each iteration. It would've been a wealth of information—something for her to sink her teeth into. The records of day-to-day Zora life; the lessons and histories past monarchs had valued; the goal of that first ruler who chose to put the monuments in place.
Only… she knew that last one now, didn't she? She had been there when Qia first mentioned the idea. She had listened as the young queen expressed her desire to immortalise the memory of her father; preserve it for the generations that would come after his death. She'd even seen the first of the tablets installed, in a way—slotted into place as she glided over the hills. It'd been a rather plain-looking slab, adorned only with Qia's words.
Words that, mere centuries later, had become so eroded, so ground down, that they needed to be replaced. Zelda had seen that, too. She had borne a detached witness, over and over again, as each version of the monuments was swapped out for another. As the Zora moved forward, in both craftsmanship and tradition, with every replacement. And as Qia's original design—original wish—was forgotten. Weathered down. Worn away. By wind and by rain, by the boots of conflict, and by the fist of time, itself.
A sharp pain yanked Zelda from her musings, and she turned her attention downwards. Her hands were clenched into white-knuckled, furious fists, and when she stretched out her cramping fingers, she noted that one nail had drawn blood. A small crescent moon of red—welling and weeping into the creases of her palm.
She swiped it away.
A breeze, leaf-filled and brisk, drifted over the hills. Zelda shivered, turned and trudged back to Link. "Are you up for continuing?" she asked, strengthening her voice so the wind couldn't snatch it away. "Saddle up now, and I think we'll get to the Domain before dark. Before it gets too much colder."
She received no reply. In and of itself, that wasn't unusual, but when she rounded to see Link's face, his mind seemed to have slipped elsewhere. He was stock still, staring down the path they'd come from. His jaw was stiff with tension; his lips set in a frown.
And his hand was gripped around the hilt of a sword.
Not the Master Sword—that was wrapped carefully amongst the packs on Honey's back, where Zelda was assured it wouldn't cause Link to pass out as they travelled. She'd managed to talk him out of trying to wield it until he'd gotten the all-clear from Yona, but as much as she'd insisted he not use it, he had insisted that he have some weapon on hand. So, he thumbed the scabbard of a standard knight's blade; fingers twitching, ready to unsheathe it.
Zelda turned, searching the expanse around them until she caught what he was so fixed upon. Down by the shore under Luto's Crossing, in the shade cast by the cliffs, sat a small campfire. A small campfire, and one—two—three lizalfos surrounding it.
"Link." Zelda reached out with a tentative hand, settling it on his arm. "They don't even know we're up here. They're not going to bother us."
Link continued to stare past her. "We aren't the only people travelling to Zora's Domain."
"True, but…" His wrist was taut under her fingers, and she gave it a squeeze, desperate to release the tension as she'd done on his hip just before. "They're nowhere near the main road. We would have encountered them already if they were."
She should count their blessings that they hadn't. A morning of cross-country riding had been enough to incapacitate Link; there was no way he would've made it out of a fight with three lizalfos unscathed.
I could, though. The thought came to her unbidden, accompanied by an increased awareness of the weight at the back of her belt. It would be simple enough—a strong, well-aimed arc could divest the two weaker lizalfos of their heads in a single move. Their leader would require more effort, but there was little doubt in Zelda's mind that she would defeat it, too. She could almost picture it: the lizalfos's confusion as she surrounded it with orbs of light; the outraged squeal it would make when she flung her blade past it; that foolish, overconfident snarl falling from its lips when she recalled the blade to her hand—by way of the monster's back.
And the look on Link's face when he saw what she had become.
She turned to him, moving to block his view of the monsters. "We're almost at the Domain," she said. "The second we arrive, we'll tell Captain Bazz about them. He can send some of the guard to take a closer look—see if they need to be dealt with."
Link tightened his grip on the sword, and for a brief, irritated moment, Zelda wanted to shake him; tell him he was being a pigheaded fool. She swallowed her frustration however—buried her own desire for a fight—and matched his hold on the sword with her own on his wrist. "Link," she whispered. "Please."
And, just like that, he deflated. His shoulders slumped, and the hand under hers went limp. A shadow crossed his face, but as he slipped out of her grasp and headed towards the horses, the only answer he offered was a faint, defeated: "Fine."
A lie.
Unease bubbled under Link's skin; a current of frustration, feebleness and fear. The tide of it grew, more and more with each minute that passed by, spilling over and flooding his limbs.
He never should have said anything. Should've just left it, let Zelda forget about it—ducked out at some point and dealt with the monsters himself.
It wasn't that Rivan and Gaddison couldn't handle a fight against three lizalfos, of course. They had just as much experience as he—more so, really, if he counted the extra hundred years they'd had while he was taking a nap. If Link had been the one choosing who to send to survey the monster camp, the only person he would have chosen before them was Bazz himself. It was just…
They should have been back by now.
"This is hardly going to work if you continue to squirm as you are." Yona's voice cut through the stillness of the chamber, and Link felt the water around him stiffen. A band of it, pulsing with Yona's magic, tightened around his waist, and while he was loath to do so, he allowed it to guide him to the side of the pool.
The room Yona had chosen for her gloom-poisoning treatments was secluded, surrounded by softly glowing walls that sheltered from both foul weather and prying eyes. Link might've been grateful for it, if not for its woeful view of the plaza. He craned his neck as Yona sat him down, trying, once again, to see past the crystalline pillars. It had to have been four hours by now—five, even—and still, the Zora guards were yet to return.
"How long does it take to swim between here and Luto's Crossing?" he asked.
"Headed downstream? A little over an hour," said Yona, stepping into the pool herself. "Longer coming back upstream. Now, please"—she eased her watery grip on Link, employing a stern expression to hold him in place, instead—"as torturous as the idea may be for you, try to relax."
Her hands settled on his right shoulder, and Link bit back the urge to cringe. The scars that had been left in the wake of Ganondorf's attack were gnarled and knotted—a pelt of marbled tissue that carved a path from the tips of his fingers up to his neck. It was all Link could do to not recoil every time he caught so much as a glimpse of them; he didn't even want to imagine what they felt like under Yona's fingers.
If she were at all repulsed though, it didn't show. Only her disappointment did, filling the chamber with a weary tut. "I believe I told you the last time you were in our pools that you need to scale down on the combat training."
Link fixed his stare on the ripples dancing over the water's surface. "Zelda tell you otherwise?"
"She doesn't need to," Yona replied. "Your own body betrays you." Her magic pushed through his veins, probing at twisted tendons and swollen joints. "The strain on these muscles is not one borne from relaxation."
He really should've anticipated her to catch on to that. He chewed his lip.
"She is worried, though," Yona added. "As is Sidon."
Link looked up the stairs that led to the plaza. He half-expected to catch either—or both—of them spying from up there. Zelda had already hovered by a few times, using the guise of conversation with others to pace back and forth, sneaking glances at Link whenever she could. Sidon had managed to be a little more sly, but even then, the sound of his voice travelled down to them, both often enough and loud enough, that there was little doubt he was lurking just as much. If Yona hadn't stressed the need for concentration during her healing, Link was certain the two of them would've lingered about all day—watching with scrutinising eyes and anxious energy as she tried to fix all the broken pieces inside him.
Link wasn't sure he'd be able to endure that. He wasn't sure how many more concerned looks he could take. Yona's healing reached a particularly troublesome spot in his shoulder—a knot of pain that felt as if it were growing more and more taut with each passing day—and he squeezed his eyes shut.
"How long will it take to get everything?" he asked.
"Longer than a single day if that's what you were hoping." The knot unravelled under Yona's healing, sending a wave of pins and needles down the rest of his arm. The tips of his fingers burned, despite being submerged in the water, but before Link had mustered so much as a gasp at the pain, the magic travelled down to soothe it.
"To be honest," Yona continued, "I hesitate to even go beyond your arm, today. Push any further than that and I imagine you'll need to be carried back to the inn."
A part of Link wanted to disagree with her on that, but any argument he had would've been a weak one. Even as Yona spoke, he could feel fatigue slipping into his limbs, nestling itself in the gaps where perpetual pain had once been.
"Three days is my estimate," said Yona. "My preference would be for a day or two longer—to take things a little slower—but three days minimum should alleviate the flare-ups."
Three days. Three days for a temporary solution. Link grit his teeth. "And to stop them completely?"
Silence washed over the chamber, and the flow of magic came to a halt; a cool, swirling balm around Link's wrist. He opened his eyes and looked up at Yona.
"You still haven't found a way to get rid of it," he rasped. "Have you?"
Yona's lips tightened. "I'm sorry, Link." She turned her attention back to his hand, her magic weaving in and around its strained muscles. "Between sundelions and our healing magic, we've made great strides in managing what remains of the gloom's effects, but in terms of curing it completely…"
She sighed. "It's seeming more and more likely that may be beyond our reach."
There was a part of Link that had seen that coming. The part of him that, since he was a teenager, had primed itself for the worst possible outcome of any situation. But even with that preparation, Yona's words withered something in his chest. He stared at the hand in the grasp of Zora magic—the weak, worthless hand that had failed the simple task of grasping another when the moment counted—and forced down the bile that was building in his throat.
As her healing rolled over the final ache in scarred fingers, Yona released Link and took a seat. She considered him: eyes narrowed, face drawn with caution. "I know I'm simply repeating what I told you in your last visit," she said, "but it may be time to think about some… lifestyle changes." Link felt his face shutter, and she raised her hands in surrender. "I would say the same to any soldier. Particularly one with your level of historical injury—gloom or no."
"I'm not any other soldier."
"Perhaps you should try seeing yourself as one. Better yet—as any other person." Yona tilted her head. "You weren't preparing for battle non-stop in the years before the Upheaval, were you?"
Link let his gaze fall to the pool. No. He had not. He had let himself relax; both he and Zelda had. Fallen prey to complacency and the idea that the rest of their lives might be peaceful—might be normal.
Then look what happened.
He should've been able to move past that, he supposed. A better person would have. A better person would've simply gone back to that peaceful, complacent life. A better person would have more inside their chest than a hollow, decaying, chas—
A commotion, coming from the direction of the plaza, ripped Link from his thoughts. Harried voices called out, their echoes carrying down to the healing chamber, and in their wake, the Zora guard followed.
Rivan was hobbling, supported on either side by Gaddison and Sidon. A bandage had been hastily wrapped around one of his thighs and already, it was soaked through with blood. Runaway droplets fell to the tiles: they slid down the stairs, clouded the puddles pink, and sent a lurch through Link's gut.
"It's fine." Rivan chuckled—in awfully good spirits considering the colour leaching from his scales. "I'm fine. It's just a cut. No need to make a fuss over it."
Necessary fuss or no, Yona peeled off to meet them on the other side of the pool. "What happened?"
"One of the beasts was a little too handy with its horn," Gaddison explained. She helped her partner-in-arms sit by the water's edge, sending him a cheeky grin. "I fear you're getting slow in your old age."
Rivan groaned—out of embarrassment or pain as Yona peeled back the edges of the sopping wet bandage, Link couldn't say. "No one tell my daughter," he said. "She doesn't need any more encouragement to press me for my retirement."
The mood hanging over the other end of the pool was lighthearted—jovial, even—but the moment Link caught sight of what lay under the bandage, all of the jokes and gentle ribbing fell into an indecipherable hum. He stared, blood roaring in his ears, at the wound that stretched over Rivan's thigh: a tear, longer even than the span of Yona's hand. It was an ugly, tattered thing; a raw, weeping thing.
A thing that should never have existed, would never have existed—not if Link had just dealt with the monsters himself.
"Here." Calm and clear, Zelda's voice cut through the susurration of the chamber. Link hadn't noticed her enter—hidden behind the bulk that was three Zora bodies, no doubt—but there she was, crossing the tiles with a healing elixir in hand. "This should make things easier," she said, handing it to Rivan. He accepted the flask with a wince and grateful nod and, from across the water, Zelda's gaze flicked up to meet Link's. Her brow furrowed, her lips pinched, and her eyes softened. In compassion—in concern.
Link pushed himself out of the pool, shattering its surface with a clamour of sloshing water and shaking limbs. Goosebumps, called forth by the brisk air, peppered his skin, and he scrambled for his pile of discarded clothing.
They were all watching him; each gaze that landed on his back had the intensity of a brand. Forgoing any attempt to dry himself, Link yanked his shirt over his head, letting the linen cling to and conceal his skin. He kept his own eyes low. Fixed. On the bloody tiles; the wound knitting together under Yona's hands.
"Same time tomorrow?" he rasped.
The healing halted a moment, Yona's fingers twitching. "You may want to see how you feel after a night's sleep before we commit to that," she said. "It might not seem like much now, but that was a lot of healing your body went through today. It's going to take a toll."
As she spoke, a pair of hands entered his periphery, hovering with a towel clutched between them. It was only as he regarded them that Link realised he was shivering. His skin stung with cold; with the desire to allow himself the warmth of that towel and the arms that would accompany it.
He shook his head. "Same time tomorrow," he repeated and, side-stepping Zelda, he made for the stairs. He couldn't afford to waste any more time; couldn't allow others to keep getting hurt in his stead.
He needed to be well enough to wield the Master Sword again.
There was a small puddle of drool under Link's cheek, soaking into the pillow as more fell from between his lips. Zelda had attempted to clean some of it up, a sleeve from yesterday's shirt crumpled in her fist, but mere minutes of dabbing had her admitting defeat. Deep in the hold of exhausted, recovery-induced sleep, Link didn't stir—didn't even twitch. Not when Zelda peeled soggy strands of hair away from his mouth. Not when she wriggled out from his grasp. Not when she clambered, wobbling and awkward, off the famed Zora waterbed.
And not when she ransacked Link's packs for both the Master Sword and his knight's sword, gathered them up, and carried them out of the inn.
Had she employed a little more foresight, she probably could have thought of a more sensible plan. Alas, foresight was a tool that had eluded her of late. She strode to the Domain's eastern bridge with two baldrics slung across her back. Each was heavy with its respective blade; leather straps rubbing lines of raw through her tunic and into her skin.
Fronk and Ledo—the Zora artisans who, Zelda assumed, were far more comfortable with hammer and chisel than weaponry—eyed the hilts over her shoulder with apprehension. Sidon, on the other hand, didn't so much as blink. His trademark grin spread across his face, and when he spoke it was smooth and carefree: "Shall we set off, then?"
He fell into step with Zelda as they made their trek to the reservoir. "You should have mentioned something," he said, the exuberant tenor dropping from his voice. "I could have brought along the trident—made some excuse about us surveying a nearby monster camp after this."
"Sorry," Zelda muttered. She tugged on the baldrics, trying to situate them someplace on her shoulder that was less liable to chafe. "It was a… spur-of-the-moment decision"
Amber scrutiny fell on the miniature armoury strapped across her back. "How long do you think you can keep him from them?" Sidon asked, prompting a sigh to fall from Zelda's lips.
"Would it be awful of me if I wished to keep him from them forever?"
"I wouldn't say awful. A little hypocritical, maybe." He gestured to Zelda's hip, and keen awareness of the third sword she had on her person added weight to that of the others. "Link avoids the Zonai weapons," Sidon explained. "Something about disliking how they're balanced. I'm guessing he hasn't yet told you that?"
Irritation buzzed at the base of Zelda's neck. She readjusted her cloak, ensuring that the deactivated Zonai sword was well-hidden beneath its folds.
"Very little of Link's journey has been given to me by his lips," she said. "Only everyone else's."
Rays from the morning sun had cast the reservoir walls in a shadowy twin of themselves. The air cooled upon stepping past its threshold, and cooled further as Zelda followed the Zora through a small tunnel that'd been dug into the cliff wall. The smell of fish and damp tickled her nose, the echo of dripping water graced her ears, until the path opened up before them and the Lanayru Waterworks revealed themselves in all their magnificent—ruined—glory.
Now on the familiar ground of their latest project, Fronk and Ledo seemed to forget their alarm over the swords on Zelda's back. They dove into a prepared presentation, voices raised over the hum of water being stripped of contaminants and pumped down to the Domain. Before its discovery during the Upheaval, the ancient site had toiled away in almost complete obscurity. Now though, in the name of peace and perseverance, Ledo and Fronk hoped to give it a fresh, new life. It was the way of Zora artisans, after all: constantly on the search for new projects to make their mark—new ways to repair, restore, renew.
"On the whole," said Ledo, "the engineering has held up remarkably well. The Sheikah Robbie gave it a thorough inspection for us. He was even able to sketch up a rough design for a replica—a smaller installation that may prove useful in purifying other bodies of water throughout the kingdom." He turned to Zelda. "Have you seen it?"
"I believe I can recall something of the sort," Zelda lied. The past six months had seen several letters in Robbie's cucco-scrawl cross her desk, but by this point, each of their contents had merged into an indecipherable mess. Perhaps she had seen the design Ledo spoke of; perhaps it was somewhere amidst the piles of paper crammed into her packs.
Perhaps it was amongst the ashes of the garbage she'd burned.
Ledo continued on with his spiel, rambling, in a familiar fashion, about their plans to remove the cavern's debris—crushed catwalks, shattered stairs—and rebuild them in the style of modern Zora architecture. "To make maintenance easy, of course," he said, "but also to better display the beauty of this place. The structure underlying these ruins seems to indicate the same goal. Wouldn't you agree?"
Zelda cast her eyes over the rubble, one hand rested on the edge of a larger piece. She couldn't see what Ledo did. As much as she scoured and searched the skeletal remains of the site, her mind couldn't visualise what it had once been.
She could feel it, though: the longing of that skeleton itself. The debris under her fingers was calling to her—to the secret stone in her pouch. Flashes of a sleek balcony, sophisticated canals, and shimmering mosaics thrust themselves into her mind; begged her to recall them to the grandiosity of what they had once been.
She snatched her hand away from the stone.
"You certainly have a large undertaking ahead of you," she said, trapping her fingers under harsh, rubbing leather before they could be called anywhere else.
Ledo beamed. "Indeed we do. But we also have our King's endorsement"—he bowed his head to Sidon—"and more than enough time. The work itself is invigorating. From all I hear of your own exploits, Princess Zelda, you can surely relate."
She could have. A year or two ago.
Tens of thousands of years ago.
"How do you keep up with it all?" she asked Sidon once the presentation was complete. The builders had delved deeper into the waterworks, adding to their lists of plans and preparations, and Zelda sat herself on a half-broken step by the facility's entrance. "I mean, Mipha Court, the monuments, now this place…"
She loosened the buckles of the baldrics, lifting them up and over her head until their scabbards rested on the damp stone beside her. "Each of those projects alone would prove too daunting for some. Where do you find the motivation to keep them all going?"
Sidon had been staring at the waterworks' central pillar, his eyes reflecting the ever-glowing brightbloom torches at its zenith, but at her question, he turned to give Zelda a confused look. "Do you really not know?"
She shrugged.
"Zelda, it was you." Sidon smiled, a soft chuckle following his words. "Watching you was what motivated me. All you've achieved in the years since the Calamity has been nothing short of inspirational. How could I not be encouraged to follow your example?"
Zelda blinked. "Huh. If only I could reflect that back onto myself." She turned her own gaze to the pillar, a phantom desire to scale it, to study it, poking at her limbs. "My mind has been anything but motivated of late."
"Allow yourself some grace. You're still recovering from quite the ordeal."
"Oh yes, being able to experience Hyrule's ancient history firsthand was truly a torment." The words, heavy with sarcasm, felt sour on her tongue. She shook her head. "It's for the best, anyway. Link needs my focus now—distractions would only get in the way."
"Does he know that's what you've been doing?" She looked up at Sidon, finding herself trapped under the regard of his narrowed eyes. "Ignoring all your discomfort for the sake of worrying about his?"
Air caught in Zelda's throat, and irritation—her new, oft-visiting friend—once again rose on the back of her neck. "Should I not be worried?" she countered. "You haven't seen him these past months, Sidon. Most days, it's as if training with the sword is the only thing getting him out of bed of a morning. It's all he does, all he seems to care about, even as it's…"
Her gaze fell to the Master Sword. It glimmered—damp air and dim light dancing over its form—and she took a deep, steadying breath.
"He won't stop," she murmured. "Sick or not, as long as the sword—any sword—is within his reach, he'll keep doing it. He'll…. he'll burn himself down to nothing."
"You're liable to do the same yourself, you know." Her shoulders locked, jaw clenched at Sidon's words, and she kept her eyes fixed on the glistening metal. "All this talk about wanting to keep Link away from the sword, but Zelda… you're the one that came here today carrying three."
His lips were tight with caution, almost sheepishness, but when Zelda looked up to meet his eyes, she found only compassion swimming in them. "Maybe it would be good for both of you," he said, giving her a gentle smile. "Setting all of them aside a while."
Zelda bit down on her tongue. She shifted, the Zonai hilt a comfortable weight on her hip as she turned away from Sidon and frowned over the ruins—damaged, decrepit, yet still shambling on.
"I'm not the one who needs convincing of that."
The first man Zelda watched try to pull the Master Sword was one she had known all her life. He was a knight of her mother's royal guard; had been since before Zelda herself was born. Dignified and deferential with, in the form of folded paper frogs, just a hint of grandfatherly cheek.
The second man had been his exact opposite. Far younger; far less experienced. The son of some lord or official, he'd had his role bestowed on him largely in thanks to his family's high rank. While Zelda now would describe him as pompous, arrogant—a conceited fool—the only word she had at the age of seven was "dolt".
Regardless—veteran or novice, humble or proud—the moment they touched the sword, both men dropped like stones.
Further disappointments had followed them. Knight after knight, year after year. Zelda could still remember the tension that had trembled through the air; the whispers that skittered over the crowd. She could recall the weight of everyone's anxiety—hammering on her tiara, splitting her skull—all the compounded pressure of that one, harrowing fear shared by everyone present. The fear that no knight would succeed; that no one would ever be able to pull the sword.
And, deep inside, Zelda had cradled an additional fear of her own. A quiet, shameful fear—that one day, there would come a knight who, in fact, would claim the sword.
Even now, she couldn't say which of the possibilities had scared her more.
One century, two apocalypses, and an untold amount of grief later, very little had changed. "You've just had three full days of healing," she said, clutching the Master Sword to her chest. "You should let that settle in before trying again."
Across from her, perched on the edge of the bed, Link held her gaze. His hair was still damp at the ends; it clung to his neck and, though he tried to hide them, small shivers were rippling through the shirt that hung over his frame.
"I'm just going to lift it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not about to go fight something with it.
Not tonight, maybe, but how long will that last? Zelda shook her head. "Even so, you know what Zora healing is like. It's exhausting in even the best of cases." Link's head dropped, and he wrung his hands—picked at his nails. "The best thing you can do right now is rest," Zelda continued. "If you push yourself too quickly—"
"You think it's going to happen again, don't you?"
Zelda's mouth slammed shut, and the room fell silent around them. Even the sound of the Domain's countless waterfalls dropped to a hush as Link stared up at her. In the cool light of the evening, the shadows under his eyes were particularly pronounced, and Zelda found herself struck with the urge to reach for them; to rub all that darkness away.
Instead, she tightened her grip on the Master Sword's hilt. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know what will happen, but Link… we don't have to find out tonight."
"Better we find out tonight than when we need to use it." Link pushed himself up from the bed, crossing the room until he was stood in front of her. "Just think of it as an experiment," he mumbled with a shrug. "You like experiments."
Zelda's jaw tightened. "Toying with your health," she hissed, "is not an experiment."
She hoped for a response—an attempt at a rebuttal at the very least—but Link gave her none. He merely stared at her hands; at the sword grasped between them. Every twitch, each minute shift, he tracked with his eyes, as if he were a predator and the Master Sword his prey. Beyond that though, his expression remained inscrutable, hidden under that mask of blank.
Zelda sighed. "Listen—"
Link's lips crashed against hers, and any words she had were smothered to a squeak. The utter surprise of it pushed Zelda back a step. She stumbled into the dresser behind her with a thump, but Link only deepened the kiss—so fierce, so desperate, so unexpected that Zelda couldn't even muster the proper concern as the fine, Zora-crafted mirror by her elbow toppled onto its face.
It had been so long since he'd done this—since he'd shown even a fraction of this much initiative, this much passion. Zelda couldn't help but welcome it. She cast away all reason and let herself be consumed. By the chest pressing itself up against hers; the kisses travelling along her jaw, her neck.
The cold, clammy fingers, creeping down her arms until they reached her hands—reached the hilt of the sword clasped between them…
"Link." Gasping, Zelda wrenched the sword out from his grip. "A kiss," she said, teeth gritted, "is not about to erase my concerns."
Link slumped, his forehead dropping to rest against her collarbone. "Worth a shot," he muttered, eyes lidded and pointedly avoiding her own.
Her neck was cold where his lips had left it, aching with want and disappointment. Her chest, though—her chest pulsed with heat. The kiss had kindled a flame beneath the cage of her ribs, a flame that now blazed with fury. Six months of nothing—of shrinking from any shred of intimacy she'd offered him—only for him to reciprocate now, for the sake of this. Zelda felt like a fool. She felt… used.
There was something else she felt, though—something that fished her mind out from under the hurt. Link's forehead, still pressed up against her. He hadn't retreated from her. Not yet.
It was more than she could say for the past six months.
Zelda took a deep breath, tempering the flames in her chest, and brought a careful hand up and away from the sword. She buried it into Link's hair, fingers scratching at his scalp; peeling damp locks away from his neck.
"Are you sure about this?" she whispered against his temple.
It took a moment—breathing in the scent of him, listening to the cascades outside—but, slowly, Link shifted against her shoulder. He lifted his head and took a step back.
"We need to know," he said. His words were quiet, flat, and certainly didn't inspire all that much confidence. "I'd rather know sooner than later."
"And when you do?"
His gaze slid past her, fixing on the fallen mirror. He shrugged.
Zelda looked down at the Master Sword. The hilt had grown slippery, dampened by her sweat, and it felt as if its weight had tripled over the course of their conversation. Even so, part of her wanted to continue clinging to it—most of her, really. She wanted to envelop it completely; meld it to her skin; leave no part of it available to hurt Link again.
A little hypocritical, maybe.
Bit by bit, she lifted the sword. Link tracked the movement, his attention anchored to Zelda's hands as she readjusted her grip; wiped down the hilt. Her fingers passed over the guard, settled around the scabbard, and she angled the blade until its pommel bumped against Link's chest.
His eyes flicked up to meet hers. She gave him a nod.
With a deep breath, Link rolled back his shoulders; straightened his neck. A shroud of glacial focus settled over his face, as Zelda had watched it do so many times before, and he wrapped his fingers around the Master Sword's hilt. He took one step back, two—Zelda angling the scabbard for him—and slowly, surely, unsheathed the sword.
For a moment, it seemed all of Zelda's concerns were unfounded. The blade emerged fully, its edge glinting in the light, and Link remained standing. He cradled the sword in both hands, inspecting its length with naught but a small frown on his face.
Then, his eyes narrowed, and Zelda caught the slightest, sparsest, shake of his head.
"Wait, is it speaking to you?" She took a step towards him, peering at the blade herself. With all the blue of their surroundings, it was difficult to be sure, but it didn't appear as if the sword were glowing at all. No pulsing; no fluted sound like the times it had spoken before. However…
"Link?"
All at once, Link sank. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed in on himself, as if someone had taken a blade to all the strings that held him together. The Master Sword clattered onto the tiles and Zelda surged forth, catching Link before he could follow.
"You're okay," she whispered, easing him to the floor as gently as his dead weight would allow. "You're okay, you're okay." She held her breath, fingers fumbling for his pulse, but the only pounding beat she could discern was that of her own.
It was only as Link's hand gripped her elbow, gave it a soft, communicative squeeze, that the roaring panic ebbed. Zelda exhaled, suddenly glad of their position on the floor as relief flooded her veins and weakened her knees. She rubbed at Link's side, waiting for him to fully come back to, and as she did, her gaze drifted to the fallen Master Sword.
He had fainted. Again. Not unlike that very first knight, not unlike the second, and not unlike all those that had presented themselves after them. Zelda stared, the confirmation solidifying itself in her head, and that fire once again began flaring in her chest. It danced, not in anger this time, not in fear, but… delight.
The Master Sword had rejected Link, and part of Zelda was awfully, viciously, happy about it.
One look at Link however, doused that happiness as thoroughly as a wave over flame. Leant against her shoulder, he was staring at the Master Sword himself—eyes hollow and empty, any hint of light within them extinguished.
"That answers that," he whispered, and Zelda felt her heart crack in two.