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The sound of metal hitting metal is loud, pounding, and almost enough to distract you from the sharp blue eyes that stand across from you. Eyes that watch the way you move your blade, swift, but inexperienced, seem to fill with equal parts determination and compassion. He glances down to where your hands hold your blade, strong but unyielding, and then down to your stance, still holding fast. Then to how your swords interlocked, each pushing against the other, deadlocked. Scans over you for places to interject, and finds one.
In a movement that’s almost too fast for you to see, he pushes his hands to your left side, and his sword follows. You were prepared for him to continue pushing forward, not shift his weight and you don’t have time to curse yourself—he had already told you to watch out for that—when your sword is driven toward the ground, a swift strike of his foot knocking your feet from under you.
The hard dirt of the training ground is just as uncomfortable as the other times you’ve fallen upon it today. Link stands above you, a smile—not cocky, but understanding—crosses his arms. “Ugh,” You bested me. Again.”
You’d meant to say it jokingly, but it’s betrayed by the way you angrily swipe for your sword. What had started as an excuse to spend more time with Link, said as a joke if he refused, had taken on a new life when he had agreed to train you. Really, you had no intention of using these skills beyond a last line of self-defense, but you were still eager to prove yourself.
“Again,” you command as you scramble to your feet.
Link doesn’t comply, instead looks at you, silently asking if you really want to continue. You can see the concern in his face: this is supposed to be a casual sparring session, him showing you the basics of sword fighting, but it’s gotten you more upset than anything. Sure, you didn’t expect to send him falling to the ground, like he had don’t to you countless times, but you expected to be better than this . You’re missing basic things, and you’re desperate to correct that.
As you take your stance again, you feel renewed energy. Link is the best sword fighter in all of Hyrule, and you want to show him that you can learn. Even if this was an excuse to spend more time with a friend that was quickly becoming more than that, your competitive nature shined.
The silent courtyard, abandoned midday when all castle workers are fulfilling their duties, seems to teem with anticipation. Quiet in an almost eerie way, waiting to see what you do next. Not one to hesitate, you take up position, and charge when he’s ready.
You clash, swords interlocking again. It doesn’t last as long this time. Your blade slides off his, pushing it down to the ground. In that split second where he loses control of his weapon, you use the hilt, now almost facing completely up, to swing back at him. He’s too fast for you, of course, and jerks back before you can land the blow.
He pulls his sword back again, and you’re almost in your starting marks. This time, it’s him that swings first and your sword, still diagonal but pulled higher to be level with your waist, blocks the blow. Still, at such an awkward angle, it sends your sword back and a shock to your hand.
If Link was using his full strength, you think, it would have hurt you much more. Looking down at him, you see that he’s not even using both hands.
“Don’t hold back,” you grit out. You didn’t even notice how tired you were, and it makes you feel—for a second—that you can’t take it. But you bar that thought from your mind and instead come up with a plan.
You take the momentum from being pushed back and continue, taking a half step away from him. He moves to chase after you, but that’s what you want. Moving fast, in case he was predicting this, you leap forward.
You throw all your weight behind your attack, driving the tip of the sword right at his chest. He wasn’t expecting it, from the way he backs up a bit, giving him a split second more to raise his own sword in a block. It stops you from hurting him, but with all the force you attacked with, it pushes you both back until you fall.
Perhaps, if you had aimed higher, try to have caused serious damage like a true enemy would, you would have toppled over him. But you didn’t, and you don’t. Instead, you stumble and fall forward, your head banging violently against the ground, chest and waist landing on something significantly softer. Your wrist, however, isn’t as lucky; when you fell, your sword dug into the ground, and your tight grip forced your hand to twist with it. You release, pulling your hand to stop yourself from falling more, you’re more focused on the pain than where you’ve landed.
Link blinks up at you, eyes wide, face red. You realize your position—sitting atop him, straddling his waist, the hand you forced to catch yourself trapping his head under you— the same instant you realize that he has his hand cupping your cheek to keep your head from hitting the ground again.
“Sorry,” you blurt out. It’s all you can think to say, but even as you say it, you can’t force yourself to move. Now that you’ve had even a moment of rest, your body reminds you of your exhaustion.
He nods in response, but doesn’t move to push you off either. Instead, he moves his thumb in slow swipes along your cheek. Almost like he’s asking if you’re alright. You tell him you are. And still, neither of you move.
His thumb strays lower. Until he brushes over your lips. Asking. You inhale, shaky. Then give your permission in fluttering your eyes closed and leaning down. He responds in kind, propping himself up to meet you. So close you can feel his breath bush against your lips, eager to meet yours. Moving close enough that he’s but a hair away from you, until he isn’t. Until he’s pushing you away like he’s been burnt, face redder than before.
Voices, footsteps, coming around the corner. No more than a handful, but still enough. You’re brought back to your place: you’re a lady-in-waiting, not a knight like Link. You’re not supposed to be training, nor spending time with the appointed knight in a way that could be distracting. No, he should be training on his own, not teaching you. Above all, you two are not to be friends, not when your only connection is Zelda.
Speaking of, it is her personal tutor that comes around the corner. A strict older woman who seems to spend as much time berating the maids under her command as she does teaching, she is too busy harshly talking to a housekeeper to notice you and Link scrambling to stand.
“There you are,” she says when she sees you. You’ve just risen to your knees, placing a hand down to support you causing shooting pain to race up your arm. You wince, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Zelda has just finished her bath. She needs you to help prepare her for her midday lessons.”
Link did notice your discomfort, and moved to help you stand. The head-maid takes one look at the scene before she strides into the courtyard. Unnoticed before, the swords catch her attention now. “Were you fighting?”
The surprise in her voice is evident. The friendship between you and Link has been kept mostly quiet, so getting together and sparring must be taking her back.
“I just— no, we—” you sputter and search for an excuse. You can’t find one as the imposing figure stomps over to you. She’s never liked you much, and you’re sure she’ll either fire you or slap you when she stops to tower above you.
“It was my fault.”
If you seem shocked by Link speaking up, it's nothing to how she reacts. Head snapping to look at him, pulling back in surprise. It’s no secret that the future hero of Hyrule is normally silent. The last time you heard him speak was merely word of mouth; a servant who heard from a cook who heard from a guardsman who had supposedly heard him speak to the king.
He offers no further explanation than that, and she doesn’t question him, probably still shocked that he replied at all. Instead, she looks at you, and barks again, “See to the princess,” before marching away again.
You nod stiffly, even if she can’t see it. It’s not until you hear the castle door they emerged from slam shut that you look at Link. His tan skin is tinted pink enough that you’d think it was a blush, if you thought you were influential enough to have that effect on him. “Thank you for teaching me.”
He nods, saying nothing.
“I should…” you trail off. You need to go, and he needs to keep training, but you don’t want to leave. If you had your way, you’d stay with him longer, or even rekindle the moment that was so violently snatched away from you. But it’s gone now, and so you settle for the next best thing.
Taking a half-step forward, just enough to enter his personal space, you lean until your lips brush against his cheek. He doesn’t lean into it, but he doesn’t pull away either, and you move back before you can embarrass yourself anymore.
You walk away swiftly, but stop when you get to the ironwood door. Sparring a look back, you see a small smile on his face. Maybe a bruised wrist was worth it.