Chapter Text
In another timeline, the king has a daughter. She is blessed with her family's divine bloodline and gifted with future sight. She is kind and intelligent, and the king knows she will grow to be a wonderful queen.
He thinks of his daughter's future. He looks at Hyrule and thinks of the war that they've been fighting for years and says, "I don't want my daughter to rule a kingdom of blood and bones."
And so he plans. First, the Zora. Then the Gorons. And last, the Gerudo.
(the Kokiri have always been neutral, their guardian attacks only if they're attack, only fools enter that forest with the intent of fighting.)
In this one, the queen dies giving birth to a stillborn.
Officially, the labor took a toll and the child was sickly. Unofficially, it seems it took a toll on the midwife and healers as well. And the guards.
The king sees the gleam in Impa's bloody red eyes and mentions nothing when she disappears (he asks how was her week off and gets a curt "Good").
He dives into his duties as if a blade is pressed against his throat and any misstep will lead to death.
There is the kingdom to worry about and enemies to (suspect) watch (carefully). There are walls to be fortified and battles to be won. There are civilians to protect and soldiers to train.
If Hyrule was stronger, his wife would have lived. If Hyrule was safer, his child would have survived. If (he) Hyrule was better, then maybe his family-
He keeps working. Papers to sign, people to deal, battles to win.
And when the soldiers are worn from the endless battles. When the people are weary from the fear. When the knights have dwindled. When his late wife's dearest friend-guardian-sister looks at him with tired eyes and a silent plea to end the war (when he realizes she has no family left to return to because the war has killed all of them).
He does. It's easier said than done, but by the goddesses he does.
Peace talks are just another battlefield.
Leaders bicker and argue, poke in old wounds and flex on who has the shiniest plaque of sins in the war. They haggle and plead and stomp their feet.
Push and pull, push and pull.
A treaty is made, peace is announced, and as he sees the people of Hyrule cry in joy and hug their loved ones, he yearns (and grieves).
It's unfair, he thinks. That my daughter will never see this.
He doesn't say it, because rulers should be happy for their kingdom's happiness. It's an honor to have this duty, and it's his greatest pride to see Hyrule rise up from an age of war.
He should move on, it's been years.
And then he's given another chance.
If the king had his way, he would stay a widower indefinitely. His heir did not need to be his child. He could pluck a noble and let him deal with the problems once he retires.
But he knows, for he's told the secrets and true history of Hyrule (for there's nobody left to tell and Impa can’t be the only one left to have this knowledge), that that is not enough. The heir needs to be of her blood. The future depends on it.
He learns about deities and prophecies. He was never a devout follower of any of the goddesses, but he's seen the miracles his wife had done and felt the old magic seeped in the walls of that temple. He's not a fool (not anymore).
With the death of Zelda (his wife, his light, his beloved) comes the end of the true royal bloodline. The end of Hylia's descendants.
But Impa (the last of her clan, the guardian of his wife, the only person who loved her just as much as he did—who mourned the loss of his daughter just as heavily) gives him another alternative.
A ritual as old as the kingdom, perhaps older, made for the sole purpose of summoning a vessel worthy for Hylia.
Impa tells him it's a secret even within the Sheikah clan (when it had more than one member). That ancient scriptures say this was the ritual that started the royal bloodline that brought the first queen.
He wonders why the goddess would put so much effort. Wouldn't a vessel she creates be just as good?
"The goddess cannot reside in a body born from this world," Impa says, and from the intonation he knows it's something she repeated countless times. "And so she takes one from others."
It feels too good to be true, there has to be a price.
Will he be taking another child away from a father? And can he take another blow to his heart should the ritual fail?
Impa pesters him. Endlessly. Day by day.
Hyrule has always had the bloodline of Hylia to guide them, she insists. Her blood is needed.
For something like this? He wonders. He knows the history, the hidden songs and rooms, the secrets layered in pretty riddles.. He knows, and he doesn't doubt, but is it needed now?
There are no giant monsters that plague the land, no horrors that lurk in the dark. They are now mere stories, things to tell children so they can behave.
The worst enemies they have are the Gerudo, and they are one village against Hyrule and its allies.
If divine powers could help in politics, he would consider it.
He tells Impa that. And they argue back and forth. Like they often do.
In another timeline, the king doesn't bother to listen to her (she is just a bodyguard in his eyes). He doesn't bother to listen to his daughter's worries. They are fantastical, even in a kingdom that's built in legends of goddesses and heroes.
In here, the king sees Impa as the only connection left to his wife. The shadow that always followed her.
And so he listens. He doesn't accept all her views, but he listens.
His mind tells him it would be good morale to have an heir. A beacon of hope, a symbol of a new age.
It would also shut the council up, and stop people from pursuing him (because thank you, but no).
His heart whispers that he could finally put the nursery to good use, change it into a bedroom with toys and books (Impa said the youngest to be summoned was ten).
He gives in eventually.
Preparation is tedious. It requires trials that help purify the summoner. His blood is needed to transform the vessel. A few drops.
He's forced to see his flaws and beat them out of it (at least, just long enough until the ritual is completed).
It's so tempting to give up. He wonders if that's the point. That summoning a vessel worthy of a goddess won't be easy.
Hylia demands perfection, body and soul, and she cares little for mortal societal rules like respecting the king.
And finally, he does the ritual.
If he were Hylia's descendant, he would have been able to commune with the goddess. To see the infinite possibilities and choose for himself.
But he's not. The goddess shows him her choice, shows the life she led and the knowledge she has. Tells him she will be a central point in the future, a change in time.
There’s no room for argument, so he accepts.
The smoke clears and he sees a young girl who looks so much like his beloved it hurts.
This is the official story. The king's child never died, she was hidden. Away from the horrors of war and the ruthlessness of men.
After the death of his wife, the king couldn't bear to lose his only child. And so he faked her death. Princess Zelda is raised in obscurity.
The people accept this. Oh, there are skeptics, as there always is. But they're drowned by the cheer and elation of the king having an heir.
Princess Zelda becomes the crowned heir at ten years old.
There are several truths the princess is given.
A voice tells her that Hyrule (what) will need her wisdom.
A ninja lady (what) tells her that Hyrule needs a worthy heir.
An owl (what) tells her she’s destined for great things.
The king tells her nothing.
He gives her a room fit for royalty (which she is now, apparently?), he assigns tutors that will help her learn this world, he asks about her day and if her needs are being met, he asks if she has any questions.
There is a question on the tip of her tongue, that burns and itches like a particularly strong pepper, but she swallows it harshly.
Shame climbs up her throat as she shakes her head. She is a good daughter. She has a mother back at home who needs her. She has responsibilities to do. She should find a way to go back home. It wouldn't hurt to ask.
(But she's treated so nice here.)
Maybe later.
"You don't drink?" She asks.
"I'm drinking right now." He shakes his goblet to prove that point.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He laughs as he gets a frown (a pout, really). "No, not anymore."
Purifying his body meant not consuming anything that was “impure”,, it became a habit (and he's sure his wife would appreciate his healthier diet). Plus he finds it hilarious to see nobles' faces as he drinks all manner of beverages in a goblet besides wine.
"Oh." She has a contemplative look. "Okay."
He raises an eyebrow. "Was there something you wanted to ask?"
"Nah, not really."
Things change eventually.
The relationship to describe the king and the princess would be cordial to some, and tense to many.
It makes sense, the people say. The dear was never raised in the castle, never actually knew her father! Why, she's confused when we call her name! It must be odd for her, to suddenly be a princess.
The princess doesn't know how to act around the king. She doesn't know what to call him, mixing up his title and name so many times. She is tense and stiff around him. Back straight, words stilted, and eyes everywhere but him.
And then, she changes. Little by little, baby steps.
She roams the castle without the skittish air she once had. She greets the servants and guards with an energy they've never seen her have. She asks the king questions. A lot of questions. Why's and what's and how's and who's.
And if she's not satisfied with his answers, she goes to Impa and asks her.
Both Impa and the king expect her to ask if she can go home, she never does.
She asks why the Gerudo don't have the same agreements as the Gorons or Zora. Why Hyrule has given more demands than offers.
In another life, the king tells his daughter that she'll understand when she grows up. Gritty politics is not for children.
In here, the king is not soft, loss becomes his forge and grief his hammer. And he will not let his second daughter be soft, that is a luxury for kingdoms that never knew war.
So he asks, "What benefit would there be to help them?"
"Benefit?" She repeats, the word spat like bile. "They're people asking for help! It's called decency!"
"If decency was common, we wouldn't have a war in the first place," the king points out.
"Don't you care?"
Should he? He grew up knowing they were the enemies. "I don't hate them," he says instead, because that much is true. He feels nothing towards them, neither care nor hate. "But the council demands value, and in their eyes the Gerudo are worthless."
"Worthless," she repeats, voice cold.
"The Zora bring trade, the Gorons bring ore and gems," he says. "The desert is barren. The Gerudo are lucky that I could convince them to leave their village alone."
He doesn’t know why the council wants to invade a small desert village. Pride perhaps? Conquest? A show of dominance? Ridiculous.
"But aren't you king? Can't you do whatever?"
Oh, how he wishes. "In theory, yes," he sighs. "In practice? We're stretched thin and recovering from the war. No support from the council means they will do anything to fight against it, maybe even dethrone me." He shakes his head. "It's not worth the risk."
"And if I told you that there'll be a time the Gerudo will get revenge?" She tries. "That Hyrule will fall and-” People will die, he will die. And she’ll be- “-it'll suck? What then?"
"Then I will teach you how to talk to fools," he replies. "Impa and I believe you, my dear. It's everyone else you have to convince."
He gives a wry smile. "First lesson: Use wisdom that they are willing to hear. To talk about things they never cared about is fruitless, they will forget they have ears honed to listen to the softest of tunes."
She takes the lesson like one would suck a lemon, as sour and acidic as the fruit itself.
"So," he continues. "What benefit is there to help the Gerudo?"
The answer is easy.
She sees soldiers who are clumsy even in her untrained eyes and remembers Zant, where Hyrule had only cowards for knights and could not protect their own princess, where a farmer had to pull their weight to do their jobs.
She wonders if this power drain started long ago, when the civil war killed everything from the kingdom. The resources, the people, the potential. Because if she thinks about it, where were the fighters in the seven years Ganondorf ruled Hyrule?
Was it only the sages and Link? Only eight people? She hopes not, she hopes the games aren't accurate on that account.
She sees Kakariko, a village that was once for the Sheikah, now only filled with Hylians. It's easy to imagine what it would be like if Impa wasn't the only Sheikah. Their items, their weapons, their tech.
Their divine beasts.
But that is not something this Hyrule has, and not something she will see (too bad).
She thinks of the Gerudo and remembers Urbosa. A queen in her own right. A warrior in every way. A mentor (even a mother) to a princess burdened by a heavy (unfair) duty. A woman who can and will and has unleashed her deadly fury for the sake of her loved ones.
That is something this Hyrule could have.
"The Gerudo are warriors," she says, tugging on her skirt nervously. "And… and there's nobody left, right? Nobody who can, um, really fight good. Not like Impa or-" Link's parents? The knights? Link himself? "-... there's nobody left."
The answer is easy, because Hyrule forced it by process of elimination.
They have no fighters left, their defenses are a joke.
This is a truth about the Gerudo: they are a tribe of women who take pride in their heritage. Merchants call them thieves, soldiers call them monsters. They are quick and clever and powerful.
This is a myth about the Gerudo: A Gerudo and a Hylian will always produce a Gerudo, their blood is that strong.
This is a truth many know but don’t say: A Gerudo will be the one to judge if a child is a Gerudo, and if the child fails, then that Gerudo never had that child at all. Gerudo don’t have pointed ears or pale skin, their hair is always a brilliant shade of scarlet, and their strength dwarfs any non-Gerudo.
This is what Talon repeats to himself as he ushers her daughter inside their home, keeping a wary eye at the Gerudo riding towards Castle Town. Her daughter protests, saying that the cuccos needed to be fed.
“Ingo and I can handle it,” he murmurs, combing her (brilliant scarlet red) hair. Pointed ears and tan skin (but not the rich brown the Gerudo have), with the fiery spark she got from her mother. “Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry, he repeats in his head.
(This is another truth many know but don’t say: A Gerudo will take a child and call them their own, if they deem they’re Gerudo enough.)
In another timeline, the king of Hyrule does not patch up relations with the Gerudo, deeming them low priority compared to the Gorons and Zora.
In two timelines he is killed before he can even think about it.
In yet another, it is a boy in green who jumpstarts the link between Hylians and Gerudo.
In here, the king requests a meeting with the Gerudo.
Despite what most of Hyrule expected, it did not end with screaming and murder. Unless they were thinking of his council, in which case, only screaming happened. And it was coming from the council themselves, at him.
The murder was purely imaginary.
This is how Princess Zelda and Ganondorf first meet: in the dining hall where she usually ate dinner.
It’s less dramatic than peering through the window in your private garden, scheming with a partner in crime who snuck into the castle with ease.
But interesting, at least.
They’re eating. It’s a quiet affair, with only the clattering of their utensils making noise.
She looks at Ganondorf, observing his features and comparing it to how the games depicted him.
His skin is not green, she thinks, chewing her food slowly. His eyes aren’t tinged yellow. His face is not in a perpetual sneer. His hair is long, bundled in a ponytail like Nabooru.
He reminds her of Urbosa, if she was cranky instead of calm.
And if she had the tact of a rampaging dodongo, for Ganondorf finds he has enough of her staring and snaps, “Is there something wrong with my face, princess?”
Nabooru looks ready to wallop him.
“No, it’s very pretty,” she says, because she also lacks tact, and has the debilitating condition of foot in mouth. “Uhm.”
Ganondorf blinks.
The guards, both Hylian and Gerudo, cough discreetly.
Nabooru looks ready to die of laughter.
She looks ready to die.
“Don’t sink in your chair,” the king admonishes. “It’s unbecoming of a princess.”
This is their agreement: They don’t fight each other. The Gerudo are welcomed in Hyrule, and they don’t kidnap any of their people (“It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t you who gave that order,” the king says firmly. “The moment you take the duty of the leader, you inherit your predecessor’s sins. Now is the chance to make it right.”). The Gerudo improve Hyrule’s army and Hyrule will send aid for anything they need.
Ganondorf’s request is immediate: a sustainable source of food and water.
There are stipulations and nuances and a lot of law and politics mixed into it, but that’s what the people know and need to know. And that’s what she cares about.
Things change in small ways.
There are a few Gerudo who come to Hyrule and stay to train the soldiers, as per agreement. And there are a few Hylians who go to Gerudo Village to figure out ways to create a sustainable source of food.
The Hylians don’t want to go, and the Gerudo are adamant at keeping their martial art to themselves. But king’s orders are king’s orders, and they follow their duty with as much grumbling and complaining as they can.
They still follow it, at least.
She sees a few Gerudo in the training field, barking orders at the Hylians crumpled on the ground. Sweaty and exhausted.
“I’m dying,” one of them moans.
“If you have energy to talk,” one of the Gerudo says, tone saccharine sweet. “Then you have energy to use the twigs you call legs. Up, up, up!”
She sees Nabooru and Ganondorf visit the castle, usually not together (one stays in the village when the other leaves). Ganondorf often talks with the king, while Nabooru prefers chatting with everyone before discussing things with the king. The servants, the guards, the cooks, Impa, her.
“So.” She tenses as she sees Nabooru’s grin. “He has a pretty face, huh?”
Well, if she’s going to be like that. “Yeah, he does.” She sniffs, looking at her up and down. “You’re okay too, I guess.”
“I weep for joy,” Nabooru says dryly. “Thinking about marrying him? That’s what Hylian girls talk about, right?”
She wrinkles her nose. What? Gross. “That’s weird.” No, just no. “He’s old enough to be my dad.” Probably? Probably.
Nabooru dies from laughter a second time.
She sees the Hylian… botanists? Agriculturists? Magicians? Druids? She’ll go with researchers. Talking with the king, reporting their findings. She’s not ashamed to say she often eavesdrops.
It seems the researchers take it as a challenge to plant life into the village. Once they got used to the Gerudo, got over their fear and wariness, the thought of experimenting crops on a different soil and climate than Hyrule was exciting.
“We’ve had luck with bananas,” one reports cheerfully, practically bouncing where he’s standing. “Just bananas. It grows like crazy there!”
“... I see,” the king says, when he clearly does not.
Another shrugs helplessly. “A few crops have grown, but they’re finicky,” she explains. “Bananas have been the only success so far. At least, when worst comes to worst, they won’t starve?”
“They’ll go absolutely-”
Everyone winces before he even finishes it. The king does not, because he has a poker face that rivals Impa’s (she suspects he learned from her).
“No, don’t-”
“-bananas!” He looks absolutely proud.
His companion does not. “Really?” She whispers, covering her face. “In front of the king?”
The king sighs.
Things change in small ways.
Like the way the troops invite the Gerudo for drinks, the way they frown at the wariness and hostility of their fellow Hylians.
Like the way the researchers stay up all night, muttering to themselves on what to try next. They remember the village, dry and hot, with people who are pure bone, skin, and muscle at this point (they wonder if the war did this, if they did this).
Like the way Ganondorf scowls less and Nabooru laughs more.
“How do you deal with stubborn old women?”
The king raises an eyebrow.
“My mothers,” Ganondorf sighs. “Are not happy at all with Hylians in our village.”
He doubts that’s the only thing. “Distrust runs on both sides,” he says. “My council has been against allying with the Gerudo since day one.”
“And how did you make them change their mind?”
“I didn’t,” he replies. “I told them my wisdom and went through it regardless of their opinions.” He smirks. “They’re my advisors, they give me advice. It’s my choice if I follow it or not.”
“Gutsy.”
“Tedious,” he corrects. “Headache-inducing, difficult, tiring .” He was never the true ruler of Hyrule, never from the royal bloodline, and the council loved to poke at that every chance they got. “I bear with it and drink a soothing chamomile mix after.”
“Can’t you get rid of them?”
“Can't you?”
Silence.
“Our jobs would be simpler if we just followed them,” Ganondorf mutters.
He hums, thinking of his council. His daughter has asked again and again why he still keeps them, and frankly, if he'd found better substitutes, he would have replaced them in a heartbeat.
It would be so easy just to follow whatever they said. And once upon a time, he can imagine himself doing just that. Grieving and heartbroken, with a kingdom he never wanted and his family dead.
He would have been overwhelmed. Too many things to learn in too little time, and he would have nodded at this and that in the drop of the hat (or crown).
Impa was a goddess-sent gift. Helping in getting his bearings and working in the shadows to sweep any hindrances he would have.
(In another time, Impa would be too focused on protecting the princess to watch the king.)
“I’ve found that having a companion makes saying no bearable,” he says. “Someone to back you up when you argue, someone who isn’t afraid to say you’re foolish as well.”
“Hm.”
"It's your choice."
He goes back to his home and plans to confront his mothers. He loves them, he really does. They raised him and taught him how to survive in the harsh desert. But they are rigid to change and prefer their old ways.
And he is tired of fighting.
Things change in many ways.
She wakes up in a bed that's large, soft, and warm. A servant is outside, knocking on the door and telling her it's time for breakfast.
Her room smells like flowers. It's clean and tidy, not a bottle in sight. Or a can for that matter.
The servants handle all her things with care, she doesn't worry about things breaking. She can keep things and expect it to still be there.
She bathes. In this, she refuses to let servants help her. It's quiet, and she gets to have that now. The water is warm in her tub and the soap smells like cinnamon.
Nobody is banging the door and demanding her to hurry up.
She gets dressed and goes to the dining hall to eat.
She doesn't have to cook, doesn't have to trudge through a kitchen empty with food and filled with drinks she can't stomach.
"Good morning," she greets, taking her seat.
"Good morning," the king greets back. "It's almost your birthday, is there something you'd like?"
She blinks. Has it been a year already? She hums, thinking hard. She’s never really celebrated her birthday.
What did she want?
She turns eleven and things change in big ways.
Not all of them are good.