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She feels the thickness of blood and Goddess knows what else between her fingers. They rub together without her consent and in her state of shock, the weight and warmth of it is too much. Her heart thuds heavily in her chest and reverberates in her ears and she hears nothing else.
And it's everywhere. Not unlike the dark pools of malice they had found in the fields after fleeing the castle with every intent to fulfill the roles that had been set upon their narrow shoulders whether they were ready or not. Whether their companions were ready or not. Whether the soldiers, the townspeople, the farmers, her father, his father...
When Zelda's vision focuses abruptly it's not just blood between her fingers but also the soaked, torn edges of Link's brilliantly blue shirt. Her hand rests there on his chest and she realizes that she needs to stem the blood flow. There's too much of it everywhere- on him, on the blackened remains of the grass, staining her dress and even her once-golden hair now matted in the rain and caked with mud. She knows it will never come out.
Zelda searches from her position in the grass near his head that rests on the ground because she is afraid to move it. She wants nothing more than to gather all of him into her lap, run a soothing hand through his hair and whisper that everything will be okay and give him some damned peace for once but she knows she can't. He's too pale and fragile and his lips are already tinged with blue. If she ever wants to run a hand through his hair or feel his gentle kisses across her cheekbones again, she needs to act.
She damns the tears leaving wet trails of dirt on her cheeks until she finds a rag in one of the pouches at his belt. It's damp but otherwise clean. Zelda quickly folds it and presses it firmly to the hole near Link's chest where most of the blood is pooling from. It's just missing his heart which is nothing more than a soft flutter, but it's that small flutter that gives her some semblance of hope. His shirt is also cleanly slashed from the shoulder to just above the navel but miraculously, there is no mark on his skin. Another attack that would have certainly gutted someone less agile.
Green eyes dart about the remains of their surroundings, coming to rest on the felled trees, burning fields and the guardians strewn about in pieces. If only she could take him somewhere else to rest and recover, away from the watchful eyes that she now feels looming in the castle, reveling in the gore and the smell of death and the rust-colored sky. It's enough to make her nauseous but Zelda tightly shuts her eyes and breathes.
When she does so does he, but it's an awful rattling sound that yields nothing promising. Her eyes snap open and she searches his face for a sign of life, of anything, but all she can see is more blood behind his chapped lips. She's certain something has ruptured but what more can she do? Why couldn't she be more like Mipha, her skilled hands overflowing with such otherworldly warmth and healing? Something had awakened inside Zelda herself not minutes ago- why couldn't she use it to save one boy?
Despite this, the blood flowing from the wound in his chest starts to slow beneath her hands. Whether from his own body attempting to heal or her powers, it stirs something within her. She blinks and feels her jaw working as if to say something but no sound comes out. What can she say? Would he even hear her?
She runs a tongue over her lips and tries to speak but her throat is raw and it burns. Still, she manages despite her trembling and Zelda rasps into the unsettling quiet.
"You're going to be okay."
The words leave her lips and unearth all of the emotion she has tried so hard to bury. She draws breath again and finds herself unable to keep the warm tears at bay as she sees nothing but his too-small form, the unbearable pain lacing his features. She tries again.
"You will be okay," she draws an arm across her nose and her face is burning. "You will."
When she sees his eyelids lift slightly her foolish heart lurches, but she knows the sliver of blue peeking through is unseeing. She knows his mind is elsewhere, if anywhere, but if the sound of her voice gives him some sort of purchase in this world then Goddesses, let that be enough.
She leaves one hand on his chest and lets the slender fingers of the other ghost over the curve of his cheek. She's so afraid to touch anything but the covered wound in his chest and she fears a head injury over anything else but she needs to reach him.
And when she finally does one century later, they remember.