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“I had a sister.”
Zelda bit back a wince. She felt Link’s fingernails dig into her skin, agitating the fresh bruise already forming from his sudden stop.
It was as though he’d been blocked by an unseen force. On the first moment they ran free, but on the next his boots anchored to the ground in the middle of the field. As a result, Zelda’s arm snapped in place, and her body whipped backwards, knocking her off balance. A prickle of annoyance trickled through her gut at first, but all thoughts of a pleasant afternoon fled from Zelda’s mind when she turned to face him.
She couldn’t speak, words stolen by the agony on her hero’s face.
“Her name’s Elena.” Link swallowed hard. His hand shook uncontrollably, still gripping her arm. He was looking directly at her, but his gaze focused farther, straight through her body and into another era entirely.
Link’s memories always came sporadically, at random and often inopportune moments. Sometimes they would return with a kind of elegance. It would take something simple, like a word or sentence, and the memory would return to him with such grace that he’d only realize later that it was something he’d forgotten.
But then there were the kinds like these. The ones that stopped him dead in his tracks, snapping his eyes awake to a vision so painful that it was no different than a blow to the chest.
The eyes that had been filled with nothing but happiness just moments earlier were now grief-stricken. The small smile warped into a grimace. Laughter choked, stuttering in an uneven wheeze.
“Link.” Zelda finally mustered the courage to whisper. She lifted her free hand to his cheek, wiping away the first wave of tears. “I’m here.”
“She was ten years old.” Link’s voice hitched. He returned to the present, fierce blue eyes spearing her with a phantom pain she was far too familiar with.
Zelda felt her throat tighten. No, I will not cry. Her jaw clenched in a fight to keep her composure. “Come,” she commanded, tone soft but stern. Link complied without thought, following the tug of her hand like a doll dragged by a string. Zelda led him past the flower grove to a niche in the rock of the mountain. The field was the trigger, she surmised, but it was too late to do anything about that now.
Link’s breathing evened out at this point. Each breath was long and slow — far too slow for Zelda’s liking. She guided him to a seat on one of the rocks jutting from the wall, settling herself beside him to conduct a proper examination. “Link,” she hummed, hoping she sounded comforting, but frowned when he didn’t respond. He gazed downcast to the floor, eyes drawn and ambling nowhere in particular. Even his head hung, shoulders slack, expression dull and lifeless with that formless kind of shock that shrouded his entire being in fog.
“ Link.” she tried again, half-choking as her throat constricted around the tight lump that formed in it. That seemed to have an effect as Link lifted his head to meet her gaze. But still, his eyes remained spiritless and watery, looking without seeing. “I’m sorry,” the apology blurted from Zelda’s mouth before she fathomed the weight of her words. Her brow wrinkled, feeling an immediate pang of regret as Link’s lower lip quivered.
“My father,” Link struggled to speak, “h-he called her ‘little miss sunshine.’” The phrase ended in a hiss, emotions snapping to the surface and hitting him sideways. His hands fisted her tunic, clenching the fabric taught enough to tear, and he drew a deep, stuttering breath.
Zelda closed the space between them. She pulled him close, wrapping him up in a tight, crushing hug. He buried his face in the crook of her neck to stifle his sobs, breath unsteady as his chest shook and spasmed with unwanted cries. Feeling helpless, Zelda could do nothing but hold him, one hand curved around his back to keep him close, the other combing through his tousled golden locks. There were no words to say that would console this kind of grief. Each sob he choked broke her heart all the more. Each tear that trailed her collar burned her skin like fire. Each mumble from the memory sent her careening back to a century long past, to a place where wounds she thought had scarred over and healed ripped open in a bloody mess of pain and anguish. Still, she would not cry. It wasn’t her place to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Link’s voice rasped after an hour or so. He slumped against her, exhausted. The front of Zelda’s tunic was damp, and her arm had fallen asleep, but she would never complain about those petty things.
“Whatever for?” She frowned, lifting his chin with her free hand to wipe at his tear-stained cheeks.
“I ruined our afternoon,” he whimpered, mouth stuck in a grimace.
In spite of herself, Zelda smiled. “Oh, no, do not apologize for that,” she protested, tilting his head forward to plant an affectionate kiss on his forehead.
“It was your first day off in three weeks.”
“There will be other days.” Zelda wrapped him closer. “Besides, there’s still daylight left.”
“The sun is setting.”
“If I recall correctly, I believe that if the sun is present, then there is still daylight. It has been one hundred years, however, so it is also safe to assume that the definition of daylight has since been altered.”
Zelda’s heart thrummed when she felt Link let out a slow, breathy laugh. “The definition is still the same, princess.”
“Good. Then we still have time.” Zelda’s smile widened, happy to plant another kiss in his hair.
Link let out a slow breath, body relaxing just a little closer, loosening and feeling just a bit lighter than before. Zelda pulled them both back to the face of the alcove, sprawling out on the rock bench to watch the orange sun sink slowly under the horizon.
“I had a sister,” Link whispered again. It was more absent-minded this time, less painful. He took Zelda’s hand and gave it a light squeeze.
Zelda hummed, taking time to choose her next words. “You said her name was Elena.”
Link nodded. “She was so bright,” he began, tone remaining calm and even. “She always brought smiles to everyone around her.” Link sighed. Whether if it was from sadness or relaxation from Zelda running her fingers through his hair, she couldn’t tell. “After I drew the sword, she — she tried her best to make me smile.”
The small smile the princess sported turned sour.
“‘I just want to see one smile a day,’ she’d say.” He lifted his pointer finger for emphasis. “She used to wait at the barracks for me, after I’d finished training. Often in the summer we’d venture just out of town to pick flowers for our mother.” Link let out a single, dry laugh. “Elena’s favorites were sunflowers, much like the ones in that field. She said she liked how they matched her yellow hair.”
Zelda smiled, hearing the playful tone in his voice. “That’s a perfectly valid reason to like sunflowers.”
Link scoffed. “I thought they looked so stupid,” he chuckled. “They were huge and bulky compared to the rest of the bouquet, and mother always complained about the seeds. They’d fall all over the table when the flowers wilted!”
“But dried sunflower seeds make a tasty treat, do they not?” Zelda argued, leaning over to peer down at him.
“ Harvested seeds, of course,” Link clarified. “But these weren’t harvested. They were from unripe sunflowers that wilted before the seeds could fully form, so we didn’t eat them.” He gazed up at her, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“What’s your favorite flower?” Zelda asked before she could stop herself.
Link showed her a quizzical look before turning his gaze back to the setting sun, watching the sky begin to turn various shades of blue. “Swift violets,” he answered a few moments later.
“Those are quite rare, but very beautiful.” Zelda nodded in approval.
“And if I cook them, my body feels much lighter and faster,” Link added with enthusiasm.
Zelda chuckled. “Faster than hot-footed frogs?”
For the first time since that morning, Link threw his head back and let loose a loud laugh. Zelda felt her chest constrict at his true, bright smile, but this time it was in a happier, almost bittersweet way. His laughter — short but joyous — was always infectious, and she soon found herself cackling alongside him.
The laughter faded, replaced with melancholy. Zelda leaned down to place a slow, lingering kiss on Link’s temple, pulling him tighter as she felt his body begin to tense. “She must have had a beautiful soul,” Zelda breathed with tenderness and care. “As beautiful as yours, surely.”
She kissed the corner of Link’s mouth when she saw it twitch in a frown. “It’s so weird, Zelda,” he whispered, eyes wrinkling and lip quivering. “I didn’t even know who she was an hour ago, but now, I — I just want to see her again. I miss her so much.”
Zelda grasped his hand again, trailing her fingers over his calluses and rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. “I miss them too,” was all she could think to say to show her empathy.
Link closed his eyes and nodded. He already knew the words she couldn’t speak aloud. He lifted their intertwined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of her hand and pulling in a slow breath.
When he opened his eyes to look at the sun, he saw that it had sunk just under the horizon, tinting the sky just above with a yellowish hue. “I think our quarters could use some sunflowers,” he suggested in a quiet voice.
Zelda tried to show warmth in her smile, but it wouldn’t shine through. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”