Chapter Text
“Your Majesty, would you like to begin preparing the funeral invitations?”
“Your Majesty, might I suggest the yellow roses with white—”
“Your Majesty! you must change into a black gown!”
“Your Majesty, the ambassador of Holodrum sends his regards, and would like to know if—”
“Enough!” Impa commands, and the sound of her booming voice alone is enough to make Zelda sway on her feet.
Your Majesty. It is not so different from “Your Highness,” and yet here she is, despising the title formerly belonging to her very own parents. She feels dirty, a thief. The King and Queen have been dead for not yet twenty-four hours and she has not even had time to grieve. The throne room has already been laden with their portraits and there have been she-doesn’t-know-how-many commoners and nobility alike that have stopped by to offer their sincerest condolences. Or, really, to see what the new Queen is made of. But the word itself is so, so foul; she has not even been crowned yet.
The marble beneath her seems to spin as Zelda snags her gaze on it and holds it there, desperate for any reprieve from the empty gazes of servants and messengers. She has not had sleep since the day prior, she has not had the time. They don’t tell you just how much there is to be done once the King and Queen die—once they are murdered.
“You are crowding her—she’s still in mourning,” Impa continues, placing a hand on the small of Zelda’s back. “Come, dearest,” she says softly. “You need your rest.”
Zelda shakes her head, and moves away from the warm touch of her nursemaid’s hand, turning to face her. “I want him found.”
“I know you do,” Impa says tightly. “And we are doing our best to find the culprit, but right now there is nothing you can do but to relax before tonight’s ceremony.” The coronation. “In the meantime, we are doing all we can. Malon—” the red-haired girl stands at attention, hands clasped tightly in front of her. “—see to it that the Queen makes it safely back to her chambers. We don’t need any more accidents occurring. And…” Her gaze passes over each of the guards, assessing. “Take Sir Evander and Sir Darragh along with you.”
That would change nothing, Zelda wants to say. Mother and Father were surrounded by guards and they still…
“Understood!” Malon chirps, so unlike the rest of the somber voices plaguing the hall. It’s something Zelda has always loved about her handmaiden—a bright light in the darkest of times. “C’mon, Majesty!”
There is a line just outside of the throne room full of Hylians with damp handkerchiefs and bloodshot eyes and as she passes each of them, their individual voices ring out, “You are so brave, Your Queenliness. Your parents would have been so proud of you. Congratulations. We are all watching your next move.”
Her breath hitches, but she only bundles her skirts in white-knuckled fists and plasters a smile on her face. “Thank you all very much. I look forward to meeting you again at tonight’s crowning.”
Malon says in a low voice, “I know this must be a difficult time for you, Your Majesty, but there’s something I must warn you about…” Zelda cringes even before she finishes; she’s just turned eighteen not forty-eight hours before, she knows exactly what is coming. “Lady Hilda has already written up a long list of suitors for you to meet, since you’re expected to continue the royal line…”
“I’m aware,” Zelda grits out. Hilda is the baron’s daughter, and one of Zelda’s best friends since birth. She supposes that tonight she should make Hilda her official lady-in-waiting. “But I decline.”
Malon links arms with her and pulls her almost imperceptibly closer at the older gentleman in line leering at her. “You must marry. These have quickly become uncertain times.”
The splash of her father’s blood on her mother’s white gown.
“I will marry a man of my own choosing.”
Malon chuckles sheepishly—and loudly, at that. “Oh, of course it’s your choice, it’s just…” She clears her throat, a smile on her pretty face. “The court have their own opinions, and you do not quite have the time to search for a love match. And, anyway… they’re very rare indeed.” At Zelda’s sharp glare, she adds, “Not that it isn’t possible!”
“I am worth much more than breeding,” Zelda says. “Impa will soon find my parents’ murderer and all will be well, Malon, I assure you.”
Malon’s jaw pops—an anxious habit, Zelda has learned—but she just nods. “In that case… what would you like to be done, Your Majesty?”
“What would you like to be done, Your Majesty?”
She can’t help the way her attention zeroes in on the shock still splayed on her mother’s face, her body slumped over the King.
“Do not ask her such questions!” Impa snaps. “I will handle it all.”
“A ball,” Zelda says abruptly, the memory of the previous night sending a chill down her spine. “Allow the people a month to mourn after tonight, and come October we will have the first ball of the social season.”
“Your Majesty,” Malon says hesitantly, “the men will be tripping over themselves like dogs to get your attention; the young ladies will all despise you. Are you sure you do not want to begin now? You are the most eligible lady either way, but…”
Refusing to keep her eyes closed, to relive the downpour of her father’s blood spilled under her ruby-red shoes, she holds her chin high and says, “I am sure, Malon. This will be a season to remember.”
Anything— anything— to distract both herself and the people of Hyrule from the murders. Impa’s reassuring voice rings out in her head— He will be found. And executed for treason against the Crown, Zelda will make sure of it.
“And when will you want the ball to be announced?”
“Tomorrow morning, as early as the nobility will be up and about. And, please, Malon—I want anyone and everyone to come. This is not to be an exclusive ball. It’s a starter to the season! Let the commoners themselves come.”
Now approaching her bedroom doors, thrown open by Hilda, Malon throws a wary glance her way. “If you say so.”
Hilda’s foot impatiently taps, hairbrush already in hand. “Your Majesty, we must get you into a new gown and dolled up for tonight’s events. You are Queen now. These are exciting times!”
“You will be Queen someday,” her mother tells her, kissing the top of her head. “And you never know when. Tonight, tomorrow, a year from now, a decade. But you must remain prepared, Zelda.”
“But Mother—”
“I know. I will miss you, as well. But you cannot show weakness when I am gone. That is when things will go awry. You know who you are, beloved. Stay true to it.”
“Exciting,” Zelda repeats blandly, swallowing around the bump in her throat. “Yes, I suppose that is one way to put it.”
Hilda winces at her own words, but sits Zelda in the vanity chair. “Malon, if you would, the modiste will be arriving shortly with new silks for Her Majesty. If they are not black, send them away. It would be an insult to pretend the Queen is not grieving. Now—” She turns back to the mirror. “—let’s talk about suitors.”
Plain, at first, but shining in the candlelight. Hilda has always had exquisite taste in dresses.
Applying rouge to Zelda’s cheekbones, she pauses and leans back onto the vanity, blocking Zelda’s view of the mirror. “I lost my mother not long ago. My father is old. I am expected to marry this season and bear a son, but my parents did not have one of their own. The line ends with me. And there are…” Her breath catches and she readjusts an invisible wrinkle on her similarly-colored dress. “There are so many expectations that come with not just being the only child, but the Queen.”
Zelda stands, her dress gliding over the cushioned seat as she does so. Her long, curled hair feels heavy and weighed-down by the product used to hold it in place. She steps to the window, looking out at the gathered Hylians in the courtyard. On any other royal occasion, they’d be smiling—laughing. But they all stand with unlit candles, their formal black attire creating a vast sea of darkness below her. Soon they will be gathered in the throne room, their candles lit, their words—
“The King is dead! Long live the Queen!”
They say it like it’s a good thing. Like it is welcome.
The people of Hyrule loved their King and Queen. They do not know Zelda, not at all. This will be her first year in society, her first year as Queen. And they will all be judging, watching, waiting for her to slip-up.
“Do you think I do not know that?” she softly asks Hilda. “I will never live up to my mother or father. And they know it, too. They will simply be waiting for me to make a mistake, so that they may publish it in their scandal sheets.”
Hilda gingerly sets a hair pin down and joins her at the window. “If you do not wish to be spoken about, then I suggest you do not marry below nobility. The Prince of Holodrum—”
“ I do not want a prince,” Zelda snaps, the breath leaving her form. “I do not want underhanded royalty or backstabbing nobility.”
“Perhaps someone easy to control, then,” Hilda offers desperately, wrapping her hands around Zelda’s own. “Please, Zelda, this kingdom needs you to be strong. The King and Queen had all the guards in the world, were in the middle of a knighting ceremony, and they were not spared! You need to be strong—”
“I wish to be strong with someone I love or no one at all,” Zelda seethes, pulling her gloved hands away. “Were anything to happen to me, my husband needs to be a good leader.” She spins away, beginning to pace the length of her room. “He needs to be handsome and charming, a good diplomat. A statesman. He should have good teeth and a strong jaw; good genetics for children. He needs to read, he should be on par with my own knowledge.”
Hilda scoffs, placing hands on her hips. “You list impossible requirements, My Lady.”
Zelda continues, as if she hadn’t heard her, “He should be good with a bow. His swordsmanship must be refined. And he must be constantly improving, both in character and intelligence. He should be a family man—”
“I hate to break this to you,” Hilda says dryly, “but this man that you are looking for does not exist.”
A muscle feathers in Zelda’s jaw, and she turns a scrutinizing gaze back to the window. “Ensure all Hylian men attend my ball. He is out there.”
“Papa,” she says, pulling a rose from its green stem. “Why do gentlemen only give ladies roses?”
He wipes the sweat from his brow, a smile lighting up his bright face. “It’s the flower of love, dearest.”
She examines the dark red flower, twirling and assessing. “But that’s so simple.”
He laughs then, reaching into his flower basket and picking out a blue-and-white flower. “Come here.” He tucks the silent princess into her hair. “This is what you want, is it not? For a gentleman to remember what you love. Not what they think love is.”
She glumly looks up at him and nods. “But there’s no one out there like that, is there? Except for you.”
He pulls her to him and smacks a kiss on her cheek. “Hylia told me Herself that he’s handpicked for you, but you have to put in the work to meet him.”
“He’s out there,” Zelda tells Hilda confidently. “I know it.”
Hilda tilts her head but links arms with her. “You’ve said so much about finding a husband.”
“I’m serious about it.”
“But you have hardly said a word about your parents.” She frowns just as a knock sounds on the door. “It’s only been a day, Zelda. You haven’t even slept. You cannot simply forget.”
The blond knight—almost too pretty to be a man—steps to the side, and Zelda finds it fascinating and strange how his expression betrays no emotion. Being knighted by the King is, under normal circumstances, a remarkable thing—and yet here he is. He must be very serious about his job.
Her mother and father stand with one another beside her, beaming with pride. The King declares, “Knights of Hyrule, your oaths of obedience and loyalty have been heard. From this day onward, you directly serve the Crown—” He pauses then, like there’s been a disturbance only he can hear.
“DAPHNES!” her mother cries out, lunging for him at the same time a cloaked figure, equipped with a dagger, does.
The scraping of swords in their sheaths are all Zelda hears as she’s lurched away by one of the new knights—the blond one. A guard—she can’t tell which one—begins shouting orders: Get the Queen and Princess away, go after him, fight back, save the King—
Her father’s blood splatters at her feet—there is one jeweled dagger embedded in his throat, the other through his abdomen. And she has never hated a sound more than when the thick liquid begins to gurgle out of his mouth and down his royal clothes as he falls to the floor—
And her mother screams before anyone can move, her throat slit from ear to ear.
The throne room is clean an hour later.
“I know,” Zelda breathes. “I know I cannot forget. But I can try.”
The door swings open, revealing her father’s former Captain of the Guard. She’ll have to decide whether or not to keep him, but—that is a decision for another time.
“Your Majesty,” he murmurs. “The people are waiting.”
The throne room is silent even before she walks in and down the spiraling staircase, crossing the marble floor in even steps. The room would have been completely dark were it not for the light of the moon and the candles the Gorons, Zora, Hylians, and Gerudo carry with them. She steadily approaches Ghirahim, her father’s royal advisor. She’s known him since she was a baby—she’ll keep him on, yes.
When she turns to face the crowd, they bow deeply, their candles held high above their heads.
“The King and Queen are dead,” Ghirahim announces. “She who stands before you now is the sole heir and current reigning monarch, the new Queen Zelda of Hyrule. Is Her Majesty willing to pledge allegiance to the Crown and Kingdom of Hyrule?”
She swallows, but her voice is steady when she says, “I am.”
“Captain Ravio, if you would place the Master Sword in the Queen’s hands. Your Majesty, if you would remove your gloves.”
Zelda doesn’t know how, exactly, the Master Sword allows itself to be wielded in these circumstances, and she doesn’t expect she’ll ever know. It’s to be returned to its pedestal by her after the coronation.
She places her gloves on the pillow Hilda holds out to her, palms facing up as Ravio places the Sword in her hands.
“Queen of Hyrule, do you swear to act only in Hyrule’s best interest without regard for your own self, and to cast even judgment out on each and every individual in this Kingdom?”
“I do.”
“Do you vow to abide by the law and to serve in Hyrule’s honor?”
“I do.”
He motions for her to kneel. “Rise, people of Hyrule.” When she sinks down so close to where her father’s blood was just hours before, he places the ruby-encrusted crown on her head, the weight bearing down on her. “May Hylia bless you, Queen of Hyrule, Goddess-blessed. Go forth with your Sword and walk amongst your people.” She rises. “Long live the Queen!”
“Long live the Queen!” resonates throughout the room, a drumbeat in her ears, but nothing compared to the pounding of her heart as she turns and walks down the aisle, the people parting like a sea.
On one side, the nobility reach out to touch her, like they might also be blessed with Hylia’s gifts from their Queen. Closer to the doors are the knights, some she recalls seeing just the day before. The pretty blond one had saved her—pulled her away from her parents. If he had not—
He bows deeply when she locks eyes with him, and she only stiffens, the weight of the crown suddenly too much. Hilda gently touches her arm, but Zelda turns her head away, back to the doors.
Foolish boy. You should have let me die.