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On the eve of Zelda’s fifth birthday, her mother came to her with fruit cake and maternal devotion. The two snuggled into Zelda’s bed, giggling between mouthfuls and staining Zelda’s pristine coverlet with violet streaks of wildberry jam. When they were done, Zelda laid her head upon her mother’s breast as the Queen stroked the golden baby hairs that still grew at her daughter’s hairline. She thanked the Goddess again, as she did several times a day, that she was graced with the honor of being Zelda’s mother. The Queen was the earthly avatar of the Goddess herself, and yet she still marveled at the divine providence that made this girl her own.
Zelda reached up, small hands clasping together around her mother’s neck. The gesture was so precious that the Queen felt herself nostalgic for the moment even as she lived it, drunk on the affection she felt for this little girl and the affection this little girl had for her. She would have mourned the passing of another year, but thus far time had served only to make Zelda more resplendent. Little Zelda had started lessons and had begun to read; she suddenly had an opinion on everything and could be irritatingly and adorably stubborn. She asked question after question, wondering at the color of the sky and the purpose behind the itchy petticoats she was made to wear on festival days (to which the Queen laughed and told Zelda to just wait until she began wearing corsets). Zelda was often serious and tended toward sentimentality, but she was quick to smile and could be terribly funny in that way only small children can be. Yes, Zelda’s mother looked forward to the coming years and to the sublime pleasure of watching her little girl become a woman.
Of course, she didn’t know what was to come.
Zelda had unclasped her hands and brought one hand to her mouth to suck her thumb while the other floated toward the pendant laying against her mother’s clavicle. Zelda noticed the words that rimmed the likeness of the Goddess at the pendant’s center, and attempted, with little success, to use her newfound reading skills to decipher their meaning.
After a moment, Zelda’s mother pulled the girl closer to her, breathing deep from the sweet, sticky scent of childhood, her nose nestled behind Zelda’s ear. The girl giggled and attempted to writhe free as she resisted the tickling sensation of her mother’s breath on her skin. But the Queen held tight to the little girl, kissing her twice behind the ear before letting Zelda free.
The Queen’s own hand went up to the pendant, fingering the place where the chain and pendant met. Zelda had settled down, wriggling back against her mother and closing her eyes as she lay her head down again. “What does the necklace say, Mama?” she asked, her thumb returning to her mouth as sleep began to beckon.
“That the Goddess will provide, sweet one,” she answered, settling in as she waited for Zelda to drift off and she could extricate herself from the princess’ embrace. “And provide she has. Everyday while you were growing inside me, I prayed that you would be healthy, happy, and whole. And then, you came, and you were better than I could have ever imagined. Better than my wildest dreams.”
“The Goddess provides,” Zelda murmured around the tiny obstruction of her thumb. It was a habit the Queen had meant to break, but discipline had never been her strong suit and she pushed the thought off, refusing to spoil the evening. And then suddenly, the little girl popped up, swiveling to take her mother’s face between the palms of her small hands. “The Goddess gave me you, Mama! And papa, too.”
The Queen laughed. “Now you’re getting it, little bird.” And just like that, the girl returned to burrow again against her mother’s side. “All of this, everything you and I have, is ours by the grace of the Goddess.” Zelda’s breathing began to even and the Queen took the opportunity to place one last kiss to the crown of Zelda’s head. “She provides, and provides, and provides. All we can do is thank her, and pray she sees fit to remain so generous.”
--
On the morning of the Queen’s funeral, Zelda was nearing eight, but she felt much older. Years later when she reflected on that day, she recognized that morning as the day she lost her innocence. She could pinpoint the very moment: she sat in the front pew at the Temple of Time, her head bowed but her eyes dry, as was expected of a princess. Her father beside her looked down at her with something akin to approval, but it was hard to be sure with so much grief warring behind his eyes. She swallowed the thickness in her throat and clutched at the pendant her mother had gifted her on their final evening together. She felt the edges of it dig into the meat of her palm and welcomed the steadying pain as the high priestess began to speak.
“The Goddess provides, but she also takes,” the priestess began with somber certainty. “And it is with unbearable grief that she has taken our beloved Queen in what feels much too early to us mortals, lacking as we do the divine knowledge of the Goddess. All we know is that the Goddess had her reasons. She only gives what she knows we can handle. And she only takes what she needs, and what she knows we can do without.”
The eulogy went on, but Zelda was unmoved by the anecdotes of a beautiful princess turned queen who ruled her country with unparalleled grace and kindness. She did not doubt their veracity, but they spoke of a woman that Zelda had only seen from a distance and had little interest in remembering. It was, of course, a loss to the nation to bury a queen so young. But the loss did not compare—could not compare—to the loss felt by Zelda in that moment and all moments that followed. There was a hole in her heart, ragged and bleeding and painful, that would never heal quite right.
That evening, Impa brought her fruit cake. When Zelda begged, Impa joined her in her bed, cradling the girl as Zelda found the courage to look into the gaping hole of her heart and sob and sob and sob. Impa, twice the age of Zelda and to the little girl infinitely older and wiser, had no explanation that could soothe the agony of a motherless daughter. So Impa did all that was left to her: she listened and wept and lamented the cruelty of the world alongside the princess until the sun began to rise and Zelda fell into a restless, fitful sleep.
When Impa returned to her rooms that morning after leaving sleeping, trembling Zelda to her bed, she found her grandmother, Sheikah Elder and Senior Counsellor to the Crown, sitting on the edge of her bed leafing through a packet of counsel notes. When Impa entered and apologized for worrying her grandmother, the woman waved her hand and told her that she had known exactly where she was before pulling the girl into a tight hug. “You did well to take care of the Princess, dear. She needs you now. Hyrule will need her, and use her, soon enough.”
Impa sagged into her grandmother’s embrace, tears threatening at her lids. She squeezed her grandmother until she was sure they would not fall, and then sat down heavily beside her.
“The king is inconsolable,” the older woman offered after a few moments. “I imagine he won’t leave his room for days, and even when he does, I do not think he will visit the Princess for some time.” Neither woman spoke the reason, but both knew: the Princess was becoming the spitting image of her mother, but for the verdant green eyes that matched her father’s in color if not in disposition. Zelda’s eyes were kinder, sweeter, this too attributable to the Queen’s bloodline.
Impa’s grandmother sat thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again. “Impa, introduce Zelda to your sister, and any of her friends you think might be able to inject some joy into the girl’s life. She will need distraction and she will need friends.”
At Impa’s nod, her grandmother stood, allowing Impa to flop down on the bed and surrender to the physical and emotional fatigue of the previous evening. Impa considered how best to distract the Princess until she drifted off. She dreamed of giant robots on spindle legs controlled by a little girl with twinkling laughter that served as a balm for the soul.
--
Zelda spent the afternoon of her twelfth birthday with Purah and Robbie, her head stuck deep inside the chassis of a Guardian. Both Sheikah were talking to Zelda, neither paying any mind to the stream of words coming from the other. But Zelda wasn’t listening anyway. Her mind was working overdrive as she considered the circuitry before her. Plus, a small corner of her brain was sitting in absolute awe over the simple beauty of the machinery (someone built this!). She was trying to brush past it, to get to the problem at hand (that both Purah and Robbie were continuing to explain though the Princess had not responded to either for the last ten minutes), but after a moment she relented and let the splendor of the Guardian properly entrance her. In another life, in another world, there was a Zelda who spent her days configuring tiny parts into something whole and useful and greater than its sum.
Later that afternoon, Impa brought a fruit cake, and the four of them sat down and devoured the whole thing in under five minutes. The Princess laughed openly, and Impa smiled. Zelda was reserved, slow to smile and slow to tease, but she was making progress, emerging from her grief damaged but still whole. Impa said a prayer to the Goddess in thanks for giving the Princess—and, thought Impa in a rush of affection for the girl—giving Impa, Purah, and Robbie this moment of peace.
--
Zelda spent the day before her fourteenth birthday at the Temple of Time, attempting to commune with the Goddess. The Sheikah were getting more insistent, sure that the Calamity’s arrival was close, closer than they had once thought, and so Zelda’s need to unlock her Goddess-given sealing powers became her primary, if not only, concern.
But Zelda had learned early on that her task, simple as it might seem, remained firmly out of grasp. Indeed, she was not even certain she was on the right track or if she was even close to gaining a sealing power that was supposedly her birthright but for which she could not describe let alone locate. She had no idea what she was looking for, what feeling she should be chasing, what offerings the Goddess wanted before she’d bless Zelda with the means to bury Calamity for 10,000 years. If only the task bore resemblance to fixing a broken Guardian or building a slate; she would be able to solve such a problem before most of the researchers at the lab could have pulled out their notepads.
But she was a princess, duty-bound and obedient to a fault, and so she sat prostrated before the impossibly large statue of Hylia and prayed until her knees were numb and then prayed more still, begging the Goddess for a sign, any sign. But, as ever, the Goddess remained silent, and so Zelda left the Great Plateau that evening with sore knees, simmering resentment (at whom or what she was not sure), and a sinking, shameful feeling that the Goddess had heard her pleas and found her unworthy.
It was no surprise, then, that the evening ended badly. Indeed, Zelda finished the night crying into her pillow long after midnight came and went. She realized bitterly that she was now fourteen, but she felt ten years younger as she recalled standing before her father earlier that night, alternating between screams and pleas as they argued. But if he was to treat her like a four-year-old, incapable of making her own decisions and unable to shoulder responsibility without insistent and obtrusive oversight, then she considered it well within her rights to act like a four-year-old.
He had told her that she would no longer be accompanying him the following morning to Rito Village to investigate the newly uncovered Divine Beast. He had the wisdom to look abashed, but he insisted that this decision would incentivize her to do that which had so far eluded her. She had sputtered at his words, tripping over her rage in her attempts to disabuse him of such a ridiculous theory, but he had been unmoved. And so she had cried and screamed, which she recognized did little to demonstrate how seriously she was taking her duty, but in the moment she could not have cared less. He had succumbed to screaming too and had likewise debased himself as he shouted insults back at his daughter and only remaining family. Perhaps her conduct was unbefitting a princess, but his conduct was unbefitting a king. And worse, was unbefitting a father.
Zelda awoke the following morning to a pillow still wet with tears. The clock struck six in the morning, and she thought of her father, Purah, and Robbie setting off to the Tabantha Highlands in the brisk morning light. She was fourteen now, beginning to fill out into the curves of a woman. She shielded her eyes from the sun with the still damp pillow and realized grimly that her father had not wished her a happy birthday, not last night or this morning. She pulled the coverlet over her head and allowed herself to rocked to sleep in the gentle arms of self-pity and self-loathing.
--
It just so happened that the morning of her sixteenth birthday was the very same day the Hero of Hyrule arrived at the castle. He brought with him the fabled sword and the terrible certainty that the Calamity was close, very close. Zelda was worried—how had so many years passed without a single glimmer of success?—but, if she let it, the fear would consume her, so she shunted it aside and gave into the resentment, frustration, and despair that were at least manageable, if only barely.
Even before he had come forward with the sword, when all members of the Court assumed the morning would be like any other day of audience with the kingdom’s subjects, Zelda had been tightly wound. She worried her temper might escape her, having to stare at the back of her father’s head all morning. But she was a princess and had spent years refining her features to pull into soft eyes and sanguine smiles as necessary. She called it her royal armor, and she pulled it out in force that morning.
But then he walked in, solemn and confident, preceded by whispers that warned of something imminent and ominous. Alone, clad in knight’s armor that had to have been quite recently earned, he knelt before the King and laid the sword at his feet, his head bowed low. Zelda stared. First, her eyes were drawn to the gleaming blade that radiated the divine blue light of Hylia and the Triforce, bright and pulsing, inlaid upon the winged cross guard. But quickly her eyes turned to the man before her, shockingly young with a boyish face that could not possibly belong to a warrior, let alone the chosen Knight of Hylia herself. He did not boast about his triumph nor regale the hall with the tale of the sword’s retrieval. He did not speak at all, in fact, and kept his eyes glued to the feet of his liege until the King, recovering himself after a moment of shock, bid him to stand.
“Our Hyrule Champion has appeared at last,” the King proclaimed to those gathered in the hall, his voice betraying none of the turmoil that the sword’s appearance foretold. “Today we rejoice because we now have a Hero to deliver us from Calamity. The Hero and the Princess will save Hyrule and save us all.” The crowd cheered, roused by the optimism of their King. Zelda, though, was sure she was going to vomit. She felt the veneer of her royal armor begin to crack and looked desperately to identify an exit point that would allow her an innocuous escape.
In her desperation, her eyes skimmed past the Hero, and she felt herself stuck in place by the intensity of his stare. In that moment, she knew, somehow, with a certainty she could not explain, that he was looking into her very soul. And so it was that he was to learn of her failures, her pitiful and futile attempts to meet her destiny. She wrenched her eyes from his, burying her disgrace under layers and layers of disdain and resentment. She slipped out of the hall shortly thereafter as the Court converged on the golden Hero of Legend.
Once safely in her rooms, she thought she might cry or scream into the void, but she merely sat on the edge of her bed staring off into empty space as the sun moved lazily across the sky, indifferent to her distress.
This was it then; the Calamity was coming, and the Goddess had yet to provide as promised. She considered an evening so many years ago, one full of a joy that Zelda had not known since. She reached into her jewelry box and fished out her mother’s necklace, reading the words that her younger self had been unable to decipher without her mother’s help. The Goddess will provide. So why hadn’t she?
She had stopped wearing the necklace a few years after her mother’s funeral. Her father, in a rare moment of vulnerability, had asked her to stop wearing it. He had not been able to look her in the eye during the request, and yet Zelda had never felt closer to her father as she had in that moment. They both carried a shared grief. Yes, it was one he refused to talk about, and consequently she often felt desperately alone when she considered the gaping, if slightly mended, hole that still haunted her heart. But she was not alone, not in that fleeting moment where he had admitted, if only by implication, the pain of her mother’s passing. And so, feeling brave and reaching out to squeeze his hand, she agreed.
But perhaps the Goddess had felt abandoned, relegated to her jewelry box to collect dust. Or perhaps Zelda had not proven herself just yet, and that a breakthrough was waiting just around the corner. Or perhaps it was simply that Hylia had judged the Princess and found her unworthy of her gifts.
Whatever the reason, she was sure that the Hero of Hyrule knew of her failure and she was equally sure that he would judge her for her deficiency. After all, the Hero had proven his worth; he had earned the right to regard her with contempt.
She steeled her heart. Fine, so another person would know her shame and judge her accordingly. She would work harder, pray longer, fast or forego sleep if that’s what it took. She fastened her mother’s necklace around her neck, hid it beneath her blouse, and pressed the pendant to her clavicle until she was sure the inscription had been etched into her skin. The Goddess will provide, she thought fiercely, so long as I can earn it.
Impa came that evening with such a decadent fruit cake that Zelda knew that word had gotten around about her disgraceful reaction to the presentation of the Hero. She buried her face in her hands to hide her shame, but Impa pulled at her arms with gentle insistence until Zelda allowed her to wrap her into a hug.
Impa cut them each an unreasonably large slice and hooked her arm through Zelda’s as she began to dig in. Zelda leaned her head against the woman’s shoulder and thanked the Goddess that she had, at the very least, provided her with this.
After a long, companionable silence, Zelda spoke. “What’s his name?”
“Link.”
“A knight, I presume?”
“Newly minted just this year, though he can’t be older than eighteen. His father is a member of the King’s Guard.”
Zelda closed her eyes, feeling a headache coming on. “I imagine he is a good swordsman, then?”
Impa looked down at Zelda with something akin to pity and squeezed the girl’s hand. “According to the Captain of the Guard, he’s the best swordsman they’ve seen in a century, if not more. And his skill with the bow can allegedly rival Revali’s.”
Zelda groaned, but she was not surprised; Hylia had chosen this hero whereas she was saddled with Zelda by virtue of blood. But Impa was not done. “There’s something more, Princess,” she said, with uncharacteristic hesitance. “After you left the hall, your father promoted him.” Zelda wondered for a moment at Impa’s apprehension before understanding struck her like a bolt of lightning. She clutched at Impa, willing it not to be so.
“The highest honor: Appointed Knight to the Princess.”
Zelda nearly laughed at her own misfortune, but she knew tears would soon follow if she allowed herself the outburst. So she just clenched at the pendant around her neck until she felt the sting of metal pierce her palm and draw blood. The Goddess had provided the very last thing Zelda had wanted, and, what’s more, had sentenced her to daily interaction with him. It was no use, the tears slipped out and Zelda, ashamed but unable to stop herself, cursed the Goddess herself.
--
On the morning of her seventeenth birthday, Link and Zelda set out early on the road to Mount Lanayru. They rode hard, Zelda uncharacteristically quiet as the trees streaked past them in blurs of greens and browns. Since Link and Zelda had become friendly, Link could not remember a time Zelda had been less forthcoming with her thoughts. Zelda seemed to carry the very weight of Mount Lanayru on her shoulders, the burden only growing the closer they got.
That evening as Link set up camp at the foot of the mountain, Zelda sat in silence, praying to the Goddess for guidance and strength, praying she was worthy enough. Zelda teetered on the precipice of outright dejection. What was she to do if she made her way up the mountain and the Goddess continued to offer Zelda nothing but silence?
They ate dinner without conversation, despite Link’s feeble attempts. She smiled at him, thankful for his kindness, but hardly responded. She was at the completely at the mercy of her anxiety as it refused to relinquish her in the face of this last and final test that she felt certain she was going to fail.
Link cleared their plates and rummaged in his pack until he pulled out a package. He sat across from Zelda and waited until she looked into his eyes before he handed it over.
She smiled and laughed because in the throes of her angst she had forgotten her own birthday. Link told her to be gentle, so she used careful hands to unwrap what turned out to be a slightly misshapen but unquestionably homemade fruit cake.
Link had baked her a cake for her birthday.
Shock did not adequately convey how she felt. Neither did grateful, nor blessed, nor totally unworthy of this kindness, though she felt all of these things. She looked into Link’s eyes, always startlingly blue, and could have wept at the sweetness of his tentative gaze.
“Happy birthday, Princess.”
He must have remembered their conversation, many months ago about her favorite desserts. Or perhaps Impa had tipped him off, knowing the two of them would be on the road together. Regardless, he had baked her a cake, and he had iced it with the (now slightly smushed) likenesses of little Silent Princess blooms. She was overcome.
And just like that, she was sobbing, cake in her lap, Link as distraught as she had ever seen him, feeling such adoration for the man sitting across from her that she was totally, totally at a loss. As quickly as she could, she conveyed through unintelligible words and hand squeezes that these were happy tears, grateful tears. His relief was palpable, followed quickly by embarrassment as she continued to thank him profusely and he begged her to stop. He rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging and downplaying the effort he’d went to, but she could tell he was near to bursting with the triumph of his gift.
After an embarrassingly long while, Zelda was able to steady herself enough to cut the cake into two. She watched as Link took his piece and laughed as he consumed half of it in a single bite. That had him laughing too, until he nearly chocked on his mouthful, which only served to make Zelda laugh harder. Link went to knock his elbow against hers for finding such amusement from his near-death experience, but she took his hand, whispered thank you, and squeezed. And then Link forgot what it was he had been doing, or really anything that wasn’t the feel of Zelda’s hand in his own.
When Zelda finished her piece, much more slowly and primly than Link had, she lay their bedrolls side by side and sank into hers, gesturing to him to do the same. When they were both settled in—she on her side and him on his back—she took his hand in her own once more and sighed with something that sounded like contentment but couldn’t possibly be that because Link was sure he’d have burst into flames at such an occurrence. They lay like that for a while, neither of them daring to move, until Zelda broke the silence.
“I’m sorry I was so distant today.” He went to catch her gaze, but she was looking at where their fingers had interlaced, avoiding eye contact. “There’s just… a whole lot riding on this.”
Link turned to his side so that he and Zelda were face to face, only a foot of space between them. “Princess, you have no reason to apologize to me. I understand the weight of this must feel so heavy.”
She knew him well enough now that she could tell he had left something unsaid. “But…?”
Link sighed. “I just wish you wouldn’t put so much pressure on yourself. It feels…unproductive?”
Zelda pulled her hand back from Link’s as if she had been scalded and cast her eyes down at her feet. Link felt the loss of her hand acutely. “How could I possibly be more productive, Link?” she asked in a whisper.
This was why he was a swordsman and not a wordsmith. For half a second, he cursed himself for dropping his guise of silence around her, before banishing the thought. He grabbed her hand again, relacing their fingers, desperate for the contact. “Words are hard for me, Zelda. What I mean and what I say are often irritatingly divergent. If what I said suggested that I think your conduct has been unproductive or inefficient, I take it all back. Goddess, Zelda, you are the very picture of pious devotion. I am consistently and unfailingly impressed by how committed you are to your duty.”
That seemed to land better. Her eyes ticked up and her cheeks pinkened at the compliments. He felt her fingers relax again in his own hand and nearly sighed in relief. “You called me, Zelda, Ser Knight. I could have your head.”
He laughed though he was partially embarrassed at the slip up. Even so, he didn’t regret it. “Sometimes I like to say your name,” he offered, somewhat lamely.
At that, her face went from pink to deep red, though she smiled wider than Link had seen all day. “Ok, then, Link,” she began, teasing the emphasis on his name, “now that you’ve successfully explained what you didn’t mean, please explain what you did.”
He was silent for a few moments, cognizant of the import of his next few words. Zelda was patient, smiling encouragingly at him as she began to rub her thumb on the back of his own. He wanted to sink headfirst into the feeling, but it was making it hard for him to concentrate so he tried to block it out until he had properly gathered his thoughts. “What I meant to say is that your power will come when it’s meant to. Perhaps that will be tomorrow, but perhaps not.”
She considered this, nodding slowly, looking down at their hands again. “But Link,” she asked, all hint of teasing gone from her voice, “if Hylia does not see fit to grant me her power when I am prostrated before her in the freezing snow in the spring dedicated to the very piece of the Triforce I am meant to wield, why would she wait to grant it at any other moment?”
Link shrugged. Zelda laughed, but her face looked closer to tears than mirth. “Not the answer I expected, Hero.”
He shrugged again, smiling. “Who am I to question the workings of the Goddess.”
She thought on that for a while, and Link was content to watch her brain whir until morning light, but after a few moments she looked into Link’s eyes with something so lost and helpless that Link felt a surge of adrenaline as if she were in danger, though he could identify no enemy, no foe. “What is it, Zel?” he asked, trying to keep the desperate worry out of his voice.
Her voice trembled, but she pressed forward. “The Goddess provides, right, Link? She provides to those who are worthy. Perhaps she has judged me and found me… lacking.”
Link would have thought she was joking if her face hadn’t been so openly raw. “Dearest Zelda, you are one of the smartest women I have ever met, but what you just said may be the silliest thing I’ve heard in this lifetime.”
“Be serious, Link.”
“I am being serious! The idea that the Goddess might find you unworthy is, to put it mildly, ludicrous. I have never met a person who has exhibited the kind of dedication you do on a daily basis. You are kind, thoughtful, whip-smart, and devoted beyond reproach, whatever your father or anyone else might say. And if in all that the Goddess finds you unworthy, I vow to you as your Appointed Knight that I will return the Master Sword to where I found it without a moment’s hesitation.”
She was lapping up his words even as she refused to believe him. She snaked her fingers into the collar of her shirt and pulled out a golden pendant. “This necklace is inscribed with the promise that the Goddess will provide. But she has not provided, Link! Why not unless she has deemed me unfit?”
Link looked at her as she blinked up at him, so hopeful for him to prove her wrong, so sure it was impossible. In that moment he wanted more than anything to wrap her up in his arms and never let go, but that’s not what she needed, not now. She was breathless, waiting on his words as if they could provide her salvation.
“Zelda, the Goddess will provide, but she will only do so at her leisure and convenience. It’s not that you are unworthy, because, as we’ve established, that is impossible. It’s because she is indifferent. She is a goddess, the Goddess, and she holds herself accountable to her interests and hers alone. When the stars align, the Goddess’ interest match our own, and when they do not, we bear the pain of that divergence.” He stared into Zelda’s eyes, willing her to see reason. “Here’s what I know: Hylia would not and will not allow evil to win. I’d hazard she hates the Calamity more than we do, which is saying something. So that means, by necessity, that she will grant you the power to seal the darkness. In that, her interests and yours and all of ours are aligned. But the Calamity has not yet arrived, so she need not rush. She will bestow her power at her convenience and hers alone, your turmoil and frustration be damned.”
Zelda was silent, lips partially parted and eyes shut tight as she processed this. He watched her face as she wrestled between distrust and belief. After a moment, she blinked her eyes open and found his own. “But what if I have to practice? How will I seal the Calamity if I don’t know what to do?”
He nearly rolled his eyes but stopped himself just in time. “And how exactly does one go about practicing their sealing powers? Are there practice Calamities in the armory?”
She narrowed her eyes at his impertinence but considered his words. He watched the battle rage on behind her eyes, one explanation versus another, neither entirely convincing but both impossible to disregard.
And then, before he could detect which, if any, explanation had won out, she stood abruptly, freeing her hand gently from Link’s. Link made to sit up, but by the time he’d gathered what was happening she was already returning to the ground having moved her bedroll to be flush against Link’s. She slipped herself back into her blankets with cheeks as red as wildberries, and then buried her face into the crook of Link’s arm, nestling at the point where his arm met his shoulder.
To say he was surprised would be an understatement. To say he was elated would be an understatement. To say he hadn’t dreamt of this moment for months would be a bald-faced lie.
Gently, as if she were a skittish horse who might flee at any sudden movement, he slowly, tentatively, soundlessly, levered his arm until he had wrapped it around her fully, his hand resting on the curve of her hip. At his touch, she nosed in deeper and Link thought he could die right there, Calamity be damned.
The moon made its trek across the sky, and neither the Princess nor her Appointed Knight dared move for risk of breaking the spell. It was only when Zelda’s neck was beginning to cramp painfully that she swiveled her head so that her face was only inches from Link’s, still folded neatly between his arm and his torso. He was awake, because of course he was awake, how could he possibly have slept with the Princess of Hyrule huddled against his chest? He could only hope he would be granted enough practice to learn.
She brought her palm to his face, her touch tender and feather light. “Thank you,” she breathed. It was not enough. How could it be, with everything he had done for her over the course of the evening, for everything he had done for her in the last year? But, for now, it would have to suffice. He leaned into her hand, and she thought she might faint if she didn’t somehow slow down her racing heart.
“I’m not sure what I believe right now. Perhaps things will work out on Mount Lanayru or perhaps not.” Her lips quirked up to smile at him. “But I feel better.”
He nodded into her hand and for the first time in years she felt something she couldn’t quite place, something so unfamiliar that it seemed she had forgotten the feeling itself. Hope? Anticipation? Self-worth? She couldn’t say, but—with Link’s help—she was determined to get to the bottom of it.
But for now, this was enough. She closed her eyes and breathed him in, relishing in the unmistakable Link-ness of him. He squeezed her hip where his hand lay and burrowed his nose into her hair. “Happy birthday, Zel,” he whispered, certain he would never—not in this life or any that followed—get enough of this girl.