Chapter Text
She’s 9 when the lessons start.
Father tells her at breakfast that her schedule is changing—that she’ll be learning something new. Something for the future.
Zelda tunes out the rest of her father’s speech, initial excitement fizzing down to dread. It’s really too early, she thinks, to talk about awakening her dormant powers. Whatever new prayer or ritual her father and the priests have come up with has no evidence to back its success —and Zelda doesn’t trust unproven methods.
She’s young, not stupid
Nevertheless, she is the princess, so she fixes her face into a polite expression of interest (she doesn’t think Father is fooled) and finishes her breakfast.
It’s a considerable surprise to find neither Teacher nor one of the castle priests in her classroom. Instead, it’s a woman she doesn’t recognize, dressed too nicely to be a maid and writing on the blackboard. Zelda doesn’t think herself quiet (Father says she takes after her mother that way) but the mystery woman doesn’t turn around when Zelda enters. She doesn’t turn around when Zelda takes a seat. Or when she coughs (daintily, as is expected of a princess) to make her presence known.
The woman turns around while Zelda is trying to decide how to best get her attention while not being rude, and if she’s surprised to see Zelda sitting there, she doesn’t show it.
Instead, she makes a series of hand motions Zelda doesn’t recognize.
When Zelda doesn’t respond, the woman makes the same motions again, only much slower.
In response, Zelda waves.
The woman smiles patiently and points to the board.
'Good Morning Princess. Are you ready to learn ?'
Underneath the words are drawings of the movements the woman had been making.
Zelda’s cheeks warm as she makes the connection. She nods tentatively.
It doesn’t take long for the excitement of learning something new to bloom. She pours herself into her studies with all the fervour of a starved man at a feast.
By her 12th birthday, Zelda is near fluent in Hylian Sign.
He’s 11 when he hears the song.
He’s playing with Aryll while their father scouts the area with some other knights. He’s meant to stay put, he’d promised his father he’d follow orders and stay at the camp.
But the song... the song is calling to him. He knows it, can feel his soul repeat the melody, his feet itch to give in to the pull.
It’s hard, but Link is a Big Brother, and song or no song Aryll is only 4. She doesn’t know the other knights, and he doesn’t trust them to take care of her properly.
So, Link ignores the song, willing it to the back of his mind until Father returns to camp.
He roots himself to his father’s side, running speed drills with practiced ease, even as the pull grows stronger.
He absently eats his dinner (“Goddesses Ralon, how does such a small boy eat that much!”) as the music crescendos in his ears.
...
When the song abruptly stops midway through the night, Link jolts upright, clawing at his heart as if making sure it’s still there. He feels like he’s missing a piece of his soul, and he has to stuff his fist in his mouth to muffle the sudden sobs. (The other last-stage squires constantly call him babyish or weak, and he won’t give them another reason to bully him)
As if in response to his sorrow, a soft voice flitters through his mind. It’s calming, and it gently soothes the pain in Link’s heart.
“ Come .” it says, “ Come and find me “
Sneaking out of the camp is easy, Link finds. He lets the voice guide him, though he briefly questions how it knows the path of the watch. (He never thinks to be scared or suspicious, he trusts this mysterious voice)
The voice is like music all to itself, and Link finds that following it is as natural as breathing.
It retreats at the entrance of the foggy forest, laughing gently at his confusion. “ This puzzle ,” it explains, “ is one you must figure out on your own . “
The thought of being alone, navigating through the darkness (he’s sure he sees scowling faces in the trees) has Link halfway through the sign for Wait before he remembers that the voice can’t see him. He spends several minutes simply breathing, willing his feet to either move forward to destiny or backwards to safety.
“ Courage, Little Hero !” the voice prompts gently “ Come and find me !”
When dawn breaches the horizon, Link walks confidently into camp —the Master Sword singing with his soul from its place in his arms.
She’s almost 1 when the prophecy arrives.
Rhoam doesn’t meet with the priests —it’s his wife’s territory and he refuses to meddle. (He doesn’t understand half of what they talk about, and she’s not allowed to explain any of the more sacred aspects anyway)
Instead, he plays with Little Zelda, listening intently as she babbles to him about the toy she’s holding. Rhoam gets a distinct impression she’s telling him a story, although it’s hard to tell since she’s “speaking” so fast.
She’s so smart, and he’s so proud.
Father and Daughter are so caught up in play that they fail to notice Mother walk in. Zelda notices first and practically flings herself at her mother —the enthusiastic greeting is almost enough to erase the haunted look on the Queen’s face. Almost.
They put Little Zelda down for her nap, the young Sheikah guard reading her a story. Rhoam has barely shut the door (he hates leaving his precious daughter, even for a moment) when he suddenly has his arms full of his sobbing wife. Through her tears, he hears the prophecy—hears how his baby girl will have to face the greatest monster of the millennia.
His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he tries to console his wife —what can he possibly say?
Calamity Ganon is coming for their daughter.
He’s 4 the first time he sees her.
Link isn’t shy. He’s not! But something about being so far away from home has him... nervous. He makes sure to keep one hand inside his mother’s at all times and contents himself with exploring with his eyes instead of his feet.
His father is always telling him that a knight observes his surroundings, and Link wants to be a knight more than anything.
(“Are you sure? What about being a chef?” His mother asks with a smile when he tells her. “Nu-uh!” he replies, “I’d eat all the food soon as it’s ready!”)
He’s watching a group of children he thinks are his age playing some kind of catching game and she comes right up to him and asks him if he’d like to play. He looks up at his mother for permission (an honourable knight follows the rules, and asking for permission is a rule) and follows this unfamiliar girl once it’s given.
“My name is Mipha, what’s yours?”
Link feels his throat close and his tongue go dry at the thought of answering verbally (he didn’t think that’d be possible, with all the water here). But he doesn’t think Mipha knows Sign (most people don’t) so he pulls on his courage to loosen his voice.
“Link,” he states, the syllable coming out quieter than he’d wanted.
If Mipha notices, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she explains the game to him, introduces all the other Zora and they start a fresh game.
By the end of the day, she’s one of his best friends.
She’s 6 (and a half) and her black dress is very itchy.
She doesn’t want to be here; she wants to be with Mama. Mama always says she feels better when Zelda reads to her, and Zelda wants Mama to get better as soon as she can. Zelda is particularly good at helping Mama, even the nurse says so!
So, she doesn’t understand why she’s standing next to Papa, in her itchy black dress. She does her best to sit still, which she knows is what’s expected of her.
(She can’t help that her fingers keep a steady rhythm on her thigh, but she tries her best to keep it secret.)
Zelda pouts (just a little) because really there are better things that she could be doing. But Papa told her this morning that it was very very incredibly important that she behave “in a manner befitting of a princess” (which is a phrase Zelda loves, it sounds so grown up!) and Mama says that being a princess is sometimes about doing things she doesn’t like.
She feels Papa’s large hand take her smaller one (it feels weird, all sweaty and cold at the same time) and lead her towards a man she kind of recognizes. He’s dressed in a Royal Guard Uniform, and his face is all red and splotchy. She thinks he must be sad because his eyes are pink and puffy like hers after she’d cried from hurting her elbow. (Papa had looked like that yesterday, and Zelda hadn’t been told why but knows she doesn’t like it.)
Papa takes his other hand and clasps the man’s shoulder; the man returns the gesture almost automatically. Zelda thinks she hears them talking, but her focus is elsewhere.
Just behind the man is a boy who looks about her age. His eyes are puffy too, but Zelda can’t tell if he’s sad cause his face looks like the statutes in the book Mama read to her (and now she reads it to Mama, which is what she should be doing, instead of standing here in this itchy dress!) The boy is wearing a black tunic, and he’s holding something in both his arms. He’s not looking at her, his eyes focused on his bundle as he bounces it gently up and down.
Zelda inches closer to the boy and tries to peer into the bundle. The boy looks sharply up at her and pulls the pile of blankets closer to his chest like he’s scared that she’ll take it away from him.
“It’s all right Link,” says the man, placing an arm around the boy—Link’s—shoulders, “why don’t you introduce your little sister to the Princess?”
‘Link’ looks up at his father, blue eyes wary but trusting, and cautiously angles the blanket bundle so that Zelda can see what it is.
“That’s a baby!” she exclaims, looking up at Papa in awe. She’s never seen a proper one before, and she’s so surprised that she forgets about her itchy dress and the rude boy. Papa laughs, and the mysterious man smiles a little at her obvious wonder and joy.
(Zelda thinks she sees Link’s face shift too, but she can’t tell for sure. The baby is way more interesting anyway)
She makes sure to tell Mama all about it when they visit her later on. Mama smiles and tells her she was a baby just like that, and Zelda reminds her that she’s not a baby anymore, she’s a Princess! She’s six (and a half) and that’s basically all grown up!
When Mama dies a few weeks later, Zelda is pretty sure she is all grown up, because she doesn’t think a little kid's body could hurt so bad.
He’s almost 12, and this is the most uncomfortable he’s ever been in his entire life.
It’s worse than that time Aryll threw-up on him at the market. It’s worse than the commotion when he’d brought back the Master Sword. It’s even worse than when he’d come before the king to explain the aforementioned commotion.
Public speaking is, easily, his worst nightmare.
Link swears that everyone else in the small class is whispering. Can they hear his heartbeat like he can? Is his face really as red as it feels? Can they hear the pounding echo of the clock hands?
He looks to his paper, where his speech is written. The words blur and swim on the page. He looks at his teacher (is he glaring? He looks like he’s glaring) for reassurance. Or escape. He desperately wishes he could sign his speech, but he’s meant to speak—that’s the point of public speaking.
Link looks at the clock to find it’s only been a few seconds (the clock must be wrong; it feels like it’s been hours) since he was called up to the podium. He’s the last of the class to present, and his teacher had announced that they’ll wait as long as it takes for Link to finish. He looks back down at his paper. His eyes burn and his vision swims, but he will not give the other children the satisfaction of seeing him cry (He’s a knight in the Royal Guard, and the King had said he was Farore’s Chosen, the Hero of Courage. He can’t cry from something as simple as speaking!)
Whispered words make their way into his ears, past the pounding of his heart and the echoes of the clock and the sound of his panic. They’re whispering about him and he knew they would, but there’s no satisfaction in being correct. Link looks up determinedly, trying to face it like he would a fight with a sword (he’d rather fight a Lynel than do this) but has to cast his gaze back to his paper not a half-second later. Their stares pummel into him like physical blows, and they cut deeper than any sword.
He half hopes that Calamity Ganon will arise right here and now. Goddesses know he’d rather deal with that than spend a single second standing here.
He absently fiddles with the seagull charm Aryll had made him (he’d meant to leave it at home, but she slipped it into his pocket when she hugged him goodbye. Sneaky Sister) and draws a bit of comfort from the rough clay figurine. Stroking it helps focus him on something (anything) other than the stares and the whispering (the way his mouth is dry, and his cheeks burn and his heart in his throat).
Link closes his eyes, lifts a silent prayer for courage, and works to speak without vomiting (either his lunch or the butterflies in his stomach).
She’s 11, and she honestly doesn’t think her life can get any worse than it is.
Well, she supposes that she could not be the Princess, and instead be homeless on the street. She thinks that would be worse, but it would also solve most of her current problems so she’s really not sure.
She’s frankly not sure how much more she can take! Bad enough that her every waking moment is spent praying for her powers to awaken (she doesn’t even know how she’d be able to tell when that happens), and that she has this prophecy of doom hanging over her head. But this? This is... insulting! It’s disgusting! It’s criminal!
Zelda wants to scream, and she barely holds back from throwing her plate off the table like a child. She doesn’t quite school her face into one of neutrality (not if the stern look Father is giving her is any indication). She doesn’t even care. Her hands are shaking, and she’s dimly aware of how stiff her body has gotten.
He can’t be serious... can he? No, no, she must have misheard him. Zelda quickly reviews in her head, and yes, yes that must be it. She’d misheard something vital, and she’s reacting pre-maturely.
Resolved to clarify this mistake like a proper princess, Zelda breathes out slowly through her nose and resumes cutting the steak into bite-size pieces.
“I’m sorry, Father, but I believe I misheard. Could we please start this conversation over?”
Father looks disappointed in her (which hurts more than she cares to admit) but nods his head.
“As you know, your position as Princess of Hyrule comes with many great responsibilities.”
Zelda puts a piece of food in her mouth instead of answering; she’s not a child and hates being talked to like one. She swallows and nods to signal him to continue.
“You’ve been working very hard on unlocking your sealing power,” he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners in pride (Zelda feels her heart swell) “and your tutors speak highly of your knowledge of governing and politics.”
This, Zelda thinks, must be where she got lost last time. Praise from her Father is so rare, and she takes extra care to commit it to memory whenever it happens.
“Thank you.” She says, trying (failing) to keep her voice polite instead of prideful.
“There is another responsibility you are ready for, although it is admittedly earlier than your mother was...”
Zelda holds her breath, willing her heart to slow down. Her Father trails off, seeming for a moment like the Father she remembers and not the King that he so often is around her now.
“The Hero of the Sword has been found,” he breathes, looking away from her, “and you are to be betrothed to him.”
Zelda’s entire world falls apart. She hears the loud crash as her chair hits the floor (the two smaller crashes of her fork and knife don’t even register) and stands, hands shaking. Her entire body is trembling now. She hadn’t been mistaken; she’d been correct the whole time!
“What?!”
“Zelda,” her father sounds resigned, but Zelda knows it’s about her constant temper and not the situation, “The Princess and the Hero are bound by a sacred power. The finding of the sword means we may not have much time until the Calamity is upon us. You need to unlock your power as soon as possible.” He turns to look at her once again, and Zelda’s temper loses some of its heat.
“You’re accomplished in math and logic,” he continues, voice fatherly and kind, “surely you can see how putting the two of you together increases the likelihood of your power awakening properly”
Suddenly the fire in Zelda is back at full flame. She’s trying so hard; can’t he see that? She has so little left of her freedom, and he’s taking it away and treating her like... like some kind of element in an experiment! She’s never met this hero, and she’s only eleven, and how can he do this to her?
When his face turns from Fatherly to Kingly, she realizes she’s vocalized her thoughts. The rawness of her throat suggests that she hadn’t been quiet about it either. (She’s too distraught to feel ashamed)
“This isn’t about you Zelda,” the words come out cold. “This is about our kingdom and its future! I have already decided you’ll meet him tomorrow, and that is final. Am I understood?”
Zelda doesn’t even have time to answer: Father turns and walks out of the room before she’s even processed the words. Food forgotten; she bolts to her room as fast as her feet can carry her.
She plans to write a letter to Urbosa, but she ends up collapsing against her door in tears.
Link wonders if she feels the connection too.
He’d been kneeling with his father when she came in, looking at the plush carpet and focusing on keeping his breathing even. He hadn’t looked up at the sound of the door, so he didn’t see her come in at all.
But the sword had.
The Master Sword had been silent ever since he’d pulled it from its pedestal. In the year since, he’d honestly wondered if the voice had been a figment of his imagination. But he hears it now, clear as day, rejoicing at seeing her.
(He stays on his knees, so he doesn’t see the split-second shock that crosses her face when she enters)
Link blinks in response to the sudden joy in his heart and looks up into the face of The Princess (his future wife). He’s struck with the familiarity, and even though they’ve never officially met (he decidedly doesn't think about his mother’s funeral) he wants to get up and run to her. He wants to wrap her in a hug and laugh with relief.
When their eyes meet, she levels him with a frigid glare.
(It hurts him in an entirely foreign way)
Their parents are talking, and he knows he should pay attention, but he’s still battling with the feelings he knows aren’t quite his. Link shakes his head gently and resolves to get to know this girl, without the expectation of destiny. He hopes that, at the very least, they can grow to be friendly.
(It’ll be pretty miserable if they’re forced to live with someone they hate for the rest of their lives)
Zelda is surprised when she sees him. (The brief, familiar presence in her mind is more shocking, but it fades so fast she hardly notices.)
She doesn’t know why, but somehow she’d assumed that the Hero would be much older than she is. She’d expected a knight, not this... boy (never mind that he’s already passed the tests to become a knight, he looks barely older than she is!)
So, her first thought is the relief that she’s not being betrothed to some old man. Her second thought is that he needs a haircut and a hope that he doesn’t smell like some older knights.
Then she sees the sword on his back (it’s almost as big as he is) and the thought she settles on is anger. How dare this boy just waltz into the forest and claim his destiny! She’s worked tirelessly for four years to claim her birthright and is no closer now than she was when she started!
The nervous smile that he gives her when he finally looks up at her is (familiar) infuriating, and she tries to show in no uncertain terms that she hates everything about this arrangement.
In response to her glare, his face morphs into an expression of determined neutrality.
(His unflappability makes her extra conscious of her lack thereof)