Chapter Text
The wedding ceremony was absolutely terrible to get in order, and Zelda had hated every day of arranging it. That was what she told people, anyway.
First, Prince Link and Prince Sidon tried to out-chivalry each other by insisting on the event being hosted by their respective Capital. Honestly, Zelda didn’t know what had possessed Link to keep that up as long as he had – Hyrule barely had a Capital to begin with. So Link lost, obviously. Prince Sidon was most graciously overjoyed to get the honour of hosting-
Okay, so they were going to have their disgustingly cute and joyful wedding in Zora’s Domain. Nice.
-Now, what would they wear? What would the banquet be made up of? What kind of flowers would they need? What sort of oaths would they say, probably while crying and smiling and staring tenderly into each other’ eyes? Where and how would the horrific cultural collisions take place, and would Zelda need to move the entire (very tiny) royal guard over to Zora’s domain or would it be enough with only the Chosen Hero, namely her?
Would they need any translators present? Would they need to order the finest quality rock roast for the Gorons? How did you even order rock roast? –Zelda was happy to leave that particular issue to the Zora chefs, but she had barely escaped the kitchen before Link caught up to her in the corridors, and asked if she would mind handing out the invitations? In person, face-to-face? Staring at her with huge blue eyes and pleading, “Please, for the good of Hyrule?”
“…Alright, alright,” Zelda agreed grudgingly, and pretended not to notice Link’s gleeful expression. That kid was going to play all the other diplomats like fools, just they wait for his kicked-puppy-look and then they would probably hand over all their territories to him with a complementary fruit basket…
Three days later, and Zelda was sitting on her trusty steed Storm, heading for Gerudo desert. It was raining. Or, actually: the sky was being torn asunder by lightning, thunder rumbled like Calamity Ganon itself, the wind howled and yanked at her clothes and hair, and rain was pouring down like a great waterfall, the road turning into muddy soup. She was drenched, cold, tired, and fuming. She should’ve gone to Death Mountain first, then she’d be getting a nice tan right about now, lazing in a hot spring with a glass of Din’s Wrath.
She was angry. But nature doesn’t care for simple mortals, and the weather raged on.
Memory 19
The rain whipped against their backs and the wind did its best to topple them as they staggered inside of the little cave. Mipha had an arm around Zelda’s back, and Zelda limped resolutely forward even with her sprained ankle sending jolts of pain up her leg every time she moved it. Their clothes were cold and drenched, and strands of Zelda’s hair had come loose from her diadem and were hanging down in her eyes, dripping…
A storm had appeared out of nowhere on clear blue skies, and in their haste to find shelter Zelda had stumbled on the flat slippery rocks near a river. Mipha had pulled her out of the river, coughing up water and shivering uncontrollably, and then Mipha had spotted the cave. They started moving, carefully.
Now, Zelda’s satchel was soaked through. Maybe she should’ve been more worried about her ankle or getting hypothermia or something annoying like that – but when they finally sank down to sit against the wall of the cave, mercifully dry, all Zelda could think about was that she had lost her journal, and likely her entire research too. Her three years of meticulous research and planning, writing and drawing and cataloguing – all turned into a soggy, unreadable lump of wet paper.
-She bit her tongue until it stung more than her eyes did.
And then she forced herself to pry open the satchel and see the damage for herself.
“Zelda?” Mipha asked, but her voice sounded strangely far-away. “How are – how is your ankle feeling?”
Her journal was beyond saving. The papers had melted together and ink bloomed upon it like bloodstains. And her research-
“Zelda…?”
Her hands trembled. Fucking- she blinked furiously, and reached into her satchel. Pulled out her research papers, that for some reason were neatly shoved into a – a blue book-jacket…? Made of leather? What is this-
She let the book fall open. And her research – it was all dry. She didn’t even breathe as she fumbled to turn the pages, her own fingertips damp against the completely dry paper and how-
“I – I changed the cover of your journal. It was supposed to be a – a surprise gift, but-“
Zelda, very gently, put down her research. And then she turned around and embraced Mipha, burrowing her head into Mipha’s shoulder and almost sobbing. “First m-my ankle, and then my j-journal-“ Oh, what is this? Get your emotions under control. She sniffled, and said, “Where would I be without you?”
There was a sound, like Mipha was clearing her throat or- “In Hyrule, I reckon.”
Zelda felt her lips pull into a smile and she couldn’t stop it. “Well, probably.” Mipha felt stupidly warm against her freezing skin, and she didn’t want to let go. “You’re my best friend. I’ve t-told you that, right?”
“And you’re mine,” Mipha agreed, softly.
The storm calmed, eventually, and they managed to get back to Zora’s domain, or well, close enough for some guards to spot them and rush to their assistance. Zelda caught a cold and lay ill in bed for a week, her ankle expertly wrapped up by Mipha, who visited at least once a day. Mipha’s little brother Sidon even drew Zelda a get-well card, which Zelda after some consideration tucked into her research journal for safekeeping…
(She’s still got it, but she doesn’t think Sidon would remember drawing it)
Chief Riju takes one look at her invitation card (masterfully designed by both Hylians and Zora, made of paper from Akkala and with actual pearls on it) and recalls, “Link… he’s that Seal-guy, isn’t he?”
Zelda, who had gladly forgotten that set of puns, says rigidly, “He’s the Prince of Hyrule.”
“Marrying the Prince of the Zora,” Buliara rumbles, reading over Riju’s shoulder.
“Yes. That’s why you’re invited to a wedding.”
Of course they’re coming. They, namely Chief Riju, Buliara, and a small entourage of guards. To be polite, and to keep up appearances and a good relationship between the Gerudo and the Hylians, and according to Riju: “Because their wedding will be fantastic. The first big party in a hundred years? I’m in.”
Zelda then stays for a day in Gerudo Town to rest, but mostly she just roams the streets looking for anything she could give as a wedding present. In the evening, when the city is starting to cool down to a bearable temperature, the market life is the busiest. People with clothing in a rainbow of colours amble around from stall to stall, the lanterns casting dancing lights across the scene; merchants haggling with customers, a musician in the corner drawing forth a pleasant tune with a set of strings, and the occasional group of guards passing by on their way to the cantina.
The air is heavy with fragrances, with music and chatter, and the shield feels heavy on Zelda’s back. She can’t really remember – and it feels like a failure on her part, this amnesia – but she thinks, that this market must’ve been just as lively a hundred years ago. Maybe Urbosa had walked through this street, looked at goods much the same and breathed this air.
…Maybe Zelda had walked this street, heard a different musician play the same song and seen these lantern lights and she cannot remember it.
(her waterlogged journal, thrown out with the trash so long ago)
She ends up buying nothing, and thinks that she can buy something in Goron City instead. There’s plenty of time before the wedding is to take place, after all.