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Link is already awake when Zelda opens her eyes.
It's not a natural occurrence—usually he sleeps in much later than her, only roused by the smell of the slightly-burnt crépes she makes for breakfast. (She swears she's getting the hang of it. With just a bit more practice she's sure she'll make a whole batch of perfect ones.) But then again, today isn't just any other day, either.
She slowly gets out of bed to grab a change of clothes and freshen up. The sound of her feet padding down the stairs echoes loudly through the silent house, and Link turns to look at her.
She pauses on the steps. The air is laden with something stilted and strange, something that had only taken root a week ago, and it renders everything she wants to say stagnant in the back of her mouth. He's been up for a while, for sure—the candles are lit and he seems to be fiddling with something at the table—but traces of sleep are still visible in his skewed hair and the drowsy way he blinks up at her.
"Good morning," he says, voice raspy from disuse, and she feels fondness build up in her throat like a clogged pipe. How many more times will she be able to see him like this?
"Good morning," she replies, offering up a light smile. His expression begins to morph into something more familiar, something more genuine, but then he falters. The resulting smile doesn't meet his eyes.
Zelda's stomach churns with guilt. Shoving her head down, she bustles out to the bathroom.
After all, no matter how hard she tries to put it out of her mind, the truth remains: this isn't a normal day at all. Because today, Zelda leaves for Kakariko. Today, Zelda leaves for Kakariko alone. Today, Zelda leaves for Kakariko, and doesn't come back.
It's still dark out when she's done with her morning routine. Link only spares her a glance when she reenters the house before returning to furtively working on whatever he's up to. Zelda goes upstairs, retrieves her cloak, then comes back down and makes for the door.
Link watches her come down the stairs a second time, an unreadable look on his face. "Aren't you—" His voice is strung tight in a way she's never heard before. Almost as if he's afraid of something. "Aren't you leaving later? It's still early."
She nods. "Yeah. I just wanted to walk around for a bit. See the town one last time before…" Talking with him usually feels natural; effortless. Yet now, with her imminent leave looming over them both, pushing words out of her mouth is one of the hardest things she's ever done. "You know."
"No- yeah." He blinks, shaking his head. His fingers drag through his hair, messing it up even more as he looks away from her. "Of course. Have… fun."
She nods again, more awkwardly, and shuffles past him before she can do something stupid like reach out and fix his hair. He's hunched over his little project again when her fingers touch the door handle, his back to her, and as she stares at him she feels something dangerous well up in her chest.
This is exactly why you need to go, she chatises, recollecting herself. She doesn't see Link turn back to look at her as she pushes through the door.
Hateno is still in the darkness. Life still hums beneath it, of course, knit together by the languid breaths of its sleeping residents, but it's barely a fraction of what it is during the day. Zelda rarely gets to see it like this—peaceful, tranquil. The Hateno she's familiar with buzzes with loud energy and laughter, an orderly chaos in the way people scramble to get on with their daily lives. She must say, she's grown quite fond of it here—of talking to everyone, of losing track of time at Purah's lab, of indulging the children crowding at her feet to ask if they can braid her hair. Life in Hateno has been simple yet fulfilling—something she had never thought she would have.
A draught catches on her skin, and she wraps her cloak tighter around herself in response. Casting her eyes briefly to the dim sky, she wonders if she'd be able to catch the sunrise at the lab. Might as well, she thinks. It's the last time she can even try.
With that purpose in mind, she sets off. The wooden bridge creaks in all the ways she remembers as she crosses it, and she spends some time admiring the infrastructure of Bolson's houses just beyond—they are quite unique and innovative. When she arrives outside The East Wind, her footsteps slow to a stop.
Ivee isn't awake yet, of course, so she's not sweeping around outside the shop like she always does. However, a faint light is on in the window. Undoubtedly, Pruce is in there, dutifully manning the counter. (Zelda hopes he's getting enough rest—he never seems to be asleep, no matter how late she or Link come in.)
She'd already said her goodbyes yesterday, but looking at the store now, alone, causes an entirely different feeling to wash over her. If she were to put a name on it, she'd call it nostalgia. How many times had she gone into the store, buying out Pruce's wares? How many times had she stopped right here to have a chat with Ivee?
She thinks about the conversation she had with Ivee yesterday, right here at this very spot. The last conversation.
"You know," Ivee said, humming thoughtfully. "You've changed a lot since we first met." Their gazes locked, and they both broke into little smiles. "Since you ambled in here on that big white horse, with Link riding along right beside you. Nobody paid you much attention at first—we all thought you were just some lost girl he'd picked up from the side of the road."
Zelda remembered that. She remembered being fresh out of the Calamity, feeling terrified of being questioned as she trotted into this unfamiliar town with its unfamiliar people, only to have them barely glance her way. She remembered looking over at Link, who was already grinning at her.
"See?" He'd murmured, "It's okay."
"But then," Ivee paused, her eyes turning softer, "you stayed." A laugh. "More surprisingly, he stayed. The two of you settled down together. It was the talk of the town! Everyone wanted to know who was the mystery girl that made Link of Firly Pond settle down." She shook her head a little. "Sometimes I still can't believe it myself. He was always running around, you know? Would disappear for days on end, sometimes even weeks, then pop into The East Wind, buy out all our arrows, and disappear again. He always seemed to have somewhere to be."
Zelda's heart clenched. He used to be so free. What had she done? "Yeah, I know. I've really held him back, huh?"
Ivee looked at her, confused. "No! No—you misunderstand. Before you, Link always looked tired. Exhausted. My dad used to say that he'd come in looking like a dead man walking. But ever since you came…" Ivee reached out and placed a hand on Zelda's shoulder. Her gaze was sweet; kind. "Ever since you came, he's looked happy. It always seemed to me like he was looking for something, in the past. But I think he found it when he met you."
Birdsong jolts her back to the present. Shaking her head to clear it, she moves on through the town.
She sees Link everywhere she looks: the clothing boutique where he'd bought her the first fresh set of clothes she'd gotten in a hundred years; the dye shop where he'd dyed a full set of clothes yellow because she'd laughed and called him a banana; the stoves he'd used to feed the whole town during the summer festival; the dock where she'd fed ducks with bread she made by herself, and he fell into the water laughing when the ducks swam away from her breadcrumbs rather than towards them.
An ache blossoms from her chest all the way to the tips of her fingers, and she thinks she feels him there, too. He's become a part of her already—he's always been a part of her.
She starts the trek up the hill to Purah's lab, and finds herself wishing he had come with her on this last walk. Maybe then she'd feel a little less alone. He always does seem to make everything feel better—more comfortable, more easy. Stupid, she scolds herself. She's missing him already and she hasn't even gone yet.
The sky's much lighter than when she'd first woken up, but there's still no sign of the sun; she has to largely rely on the blue flames from the lamps to illuminate her way up the hill. When she tosses a glance back down, the little blobs of blue cause an enchanting veil to fall upon the town. She remembers when she and Link had made it their mission to light all the lamps with the azure fire, carefully carrying torches all around Hateno while leading a little procession of children who'd been drawn by the flame's magical glow.
She'll never forget the way he'd looked then, face awash with a blue that wasn't quite the same shade as his eyes, lips turned upwards as he waved his torch around in the air, posture slackened and relaxed like he knew they were safe—like he had finally accepted that the monster growing beneath their bed was gone. That was really what had solidified it for her—the end of the Calamity. It was a mindless moment, but the significance it held had left her reeling for days: they could afford that now. They could afford all the mindless moments they wanted.
Then Link had turned to her, looking at her as if he'd been doing it every day of his life, and as that light, floaty feeling she was quickly becoming accustomed to spread through her flesh, she realised she wouldn't mind it; a life like this. Not at all. Not if it was with him.
And therein lies the problem. The Problem. See, Zelda has kept a secret for a hundred years. Now that a hundred years are up—now that she’s out, now that she’s free—she’s in danger of revealing it to the one person who can never know. Because that life she’s thought about—the one where she wakes up to make burnt crépes and plays with little children and watches Link smile? She likes it a little too much. She likes Link a little too much. And if she’s being honest with herself, “like” is an understatement.
But how can she ever tell him that, when all he’s ever done is give, give, give, and all she’s ever done is take, take, take? How can she burden him with something as unimportant as her feelings? How can she ask more from him? More than what he’s already given? More than what he should give?
She can’t. She’s done enough. She’s imposed on him for long enough.
Hence: Kakariko.
She reaches the top of the hill, coming face-to-face with the blue furnace just outside the lab's doors. Instead of sliding the door open and getting comfortable in the lab like she usually does, she heads around the lab and begins climbing up the stairs to Purah's room. Purah's not in there, by the looks of it—she rarely is; most times she just falls asleep in the lab while doing an experiment—but that's alright. There'll be time for Purah later. For now, Zelda sits down on the edge of the platform by Purah's doorstep, taking off her shoes and dangling her bare feet in the sky. In the distance, the sun slowly peeks over the horizon.
It's for the best, she thinks. All this. He shouldn't still have to carry her like a weight on his back after everything he's sacrificed for her. There shouldn't be an obligation. She doesn't want to be just another duty. She wants more than that, which is horrible and selfish of her, because she can't stop herself. It's only right that she leaves; releases him from this prison she's created for him; lets him go. It's only right.
That old ache from before—from earlier this morning, from a hundred years ago—flares up again. This time, instead of just pulsing through her skin, it cuts through her bones, sawing her into neat little pieces and stringing her up together. Zelda stares at the lightening sky, and feels the space around her begin to grow.
Then, she feels it: the vibrations made from feet going softly up the stairs. It’s either Purah or Symin—probably the latter, since Purah is always bullying him into doing her bidding. But then that person rounds the corner, and Zelda’s heart stops.
Link’s hair is still a mess. He’s holding the slate with one hand and clutching something else in his other palm, and he looks like he's been running.
"Hi," Zelda says. She finally recognises the expression he has on. It's the one coming to life in her own chest, the one sinking into her muscles and melting her. Relief.
Her greeting shakes him out of his daze. He climbs the remaining stairs up. "Hi," his voice is normal now, carrying an undercurrent of something that sounds like determination. "Mind if I join you?"
"Of course not." She carefully shifts over to make room for him.
They watch the sunrise in a heavy silence. To her right, Link is restless. He keeps fiddling with the thing in his hands, and when her gaze darts over to identify it, he shoves it into his pocket.
She pins him with a look. "Is there something you want to say?"
"Huh-? Oh. Oh," he's looking at anywhere but her, "well, um, yeah. I- It's just- I'm-" his shoulders slump. "You're really gonna leave, huh?"
She exhales, leaning back with her palms against the platform. The insides of her wrists are bared to the sunlight. "Yeah."
"I checked the weather today, on the slate. It said that it'll rain later. Maybe you should wait a little."
"I mean," she smiles, "a little rain never hurt anyone. And Tsuki is fast. We'll be able to make it pretty quickly, I imagine." If she knows herself, and she does, if she stays any longer she'll never leave. And what'll become of Link then?
"Right. Tsuki." Link looks down at his hands, then back towards the sky. "Epona's really gonna miss her."
Zelda hums wistfully. "They've grown really close ater all this time, huh?"
It's a little while before Link speaks again. His voice is lighter this time. "With a bond like theirs—don't you think it'd be a shame to tear them apart?"
Her heart twists painfully. Reality hits her all at once, and the urge to cry crashes down at full force. They're not talking about the horses anymore; they never were. She doesn't know how to answer him without falling apart at the seams, so she keeps her mouth shut.
He sighs. It disappears in a cloud of vapour.
"I…" He reaches into his pocket and retrieves something. "I wanted you to have this."
He places it in her palm slowly. His hand lingers a split second longer than it should, hovering millimeters over her skin, and for a second she thinks, she wonders-
He withdraws his hand. Zelda tamps down the emotions raging against her ribcage, imagines locking them up and throwing away the key, and looks at his gift.
It's a wooden carving of a korok. She recognises the wood as the one from sakura trees, and the leaf mask it wears is heart-shaped. It's beautiful and intricate; clearly a lot of time and effort had gone into it, and she feels the rush of something filling up her soul. Something she doesn't dare name.
"Hey," she says gently, trying her damnedest to keep her words from shaking, "I'll come back to visit, you know? This isn't goodbye forever. I still have those perfect crépes to make you, don't I?"
He whips his head up to meet her eyes, startling her with the intensity of his gaze. "It's not about that." He blinks, and everything about him seems to soften. "It's not just about that."
He struggles with himself for a while, brows pinched with conflict and shoulders tight with tension. She watches how his fingers come to grip the edge of the platform, his knuckles whitening, and worries that the wood might crack. Eventually, he comes to a decision—she can see it in the set of his shoulders. He refuses to meet her eyes, but his lips part to take in a breath.
"I know…" He swallows and continues, "I know you want to see the world. I know you have dreams for Hyrule, dreams bigger than this town and this house and—me. I know you deserve more than I can give you. But I just—" At this, he finally looks up, a certain frenzy lining the blue of his eyes. Heartbeat thundering, she searches his gaze, only to find nothing but honesty. Pure, sunlit, golden honesty. "I want to be with you," he breathes. "Anywhere you want- I don't care where you go as long as I can follow you."
Her breath sticks. Her heart thumps wildly in her ears, and she can feel her pulse in her throat. She wracks her mind for words, but all she comes up with is the image of him—glinting in the dawn, breathing in the morning wind, pulling his soul out through his teeth and laying it in her hands.
He mistakes her silence for something else. "Is that… a lot? Is that too much?"
"No," she says finally. Her voice is weaker than she's ever heard it. "I just- I don't understand. Why?"
He doesn't reply immediately; just stares at her almost incredulously. When he realises she's being serious, his eyes fill with tenderness.
"Zelda," he says quietly. "You know why."
And she feels something in her break.
To hell with it, she thinks. In a swift movement, she reaches for his cheek, angles his mouth towards hers, and surges up to kiss him.
He responds more eagerly than she could have ever hoped for, kissing her back as if he was the one touch-starved for a century. Everything about it is perfect—the fit of her palm against his jaw, the heat of his lips on hers, the beat of his heart echoing in her own. The ache previously residing in her has bloomed into a white-hot warmth, one that fills her with that same dangerous, unnameable thing that always seems to rise around him. She presses into him deeper, if only to make him feel it, to let him know, and he gasps deliciously into her mouth before returning to kissing her sweetly, as if to say I understand.
When they separate, his eyes are a little glazed, and she's sure hers are, too. Her cheeks feel hot; her hands are trembling.
Link opens his stupid, beautiful mouth and goes, "Well, you can't just kiss a guy like that and leave."
She can't help it—she laughs. She falls into his side and leans into his body heat, basking in the easy intimacy. The brightness of the sun hurts her eyes a little.
He turns his head and buries a kiss in her hair. Zelda doesn't care about the Goddess, not anymore, but if she did, she'd say he's the only blessing Hylia has ever granted her. With him around, she feels a little stronger. A little braver.
She inhales before she can lose her nerve. "I'm not—I'm not being a burden on you? I'm not holding you back?"
Link pulls away from her abruptly. "What? No." He takes her by the shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eye. The warmth in his gaze bleeds through his fingers and into the roots of her heart. "Of course not. Never." When he reaches to take her hand, pressing his lips to the back of her palm reverently, she's shaking all over. "Never."
An unstoppable grin tugs at the corners of her mouth. Something fizzy and blinding bursts in her chest, and it’s the lightest she’s felt in weeks.
“Okay.”
His eyes widen with hope. “You’ll stay?”
Not trusting herself to speak, she nods.
Later, she’ll make crépes for them both and he’ll distract her until she burns every single one. Later, Link will inhale all of said burnt crépes and she will kiss him so hard he sees stars. Later, they will walk into town hand-in-hand and everyone will give them knowing smiles.
But for now, as Link ducks down to kiss her again, she laughs against his lips, holding on to the korok carving so tightly she’s sure it’ll leave a mark.
It seemed to me like he was always looking for something, in the past. But I think he found it when he met you.
He did. She knows now. They both did.