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There is a beetle on his boot.
It has been there for the better part of an hour, occasionally lifting two green half shells to flutter paper thin wings. Link is balanced against the massive cathedral on the Great Plateau with his arms crossed, waiting for the doors next to him to peel open with a groan. She disappeared into the Temple with an audience of priests shortly before sunrise.
The shade has started to thin under the glare of direct sunlight. He is overdue for another perimeter survey. No one told him how long this would take, just that, as with all of the sacraments meant to awaken her Power, his attendance is forbidden.
He startles the beetle into flight by shaking out his legs and moves in a slow circle about himself, adjusting the Sword on his back. Zelda won’t tell him what happens during these ceremonies. She tries when he asks but her voice kind of catches in her throat and dies whenever she starts to talk about it. He used to wonder if it was because she thought he was too ignorant to understand but as her resentment toward him wanes, Link realizes her silence is a blend of superstition and crippling shame.
Ever since she was a young girl, she's gone through rigorous daily routines to show her dedication.
The Royal Episcopate has always regarded him suspiciously despite the King’s enthusiasm. He told Link they initially counseled against his appointment for fear he might pose a distraction to Zelda’s training. King Rhoam reiterated his confidence in Link’s loyalty to the protection of the Realm but much like anything the King said to him, it felt like a warning wrapped carefully in a bow.
The truth is they have every reason to worry. But it isn’t Zelda who risks distraction. No matter how fervidly she throws herself into research from the moment she opens her eyes, her hands always end the day in devotion. She has never once declined a recommendation of liturgy.
It is him. Despite his reticence since his appointment, from the moment he saw her at the garrison the day he was called to service, Link has slowly been giving into temptation.
Granted, this is not new behavior, not the first time he’s consciously danced around the rules. He was strictly prohibited from participating in the Mikau Eisteddfod during his time with the Zora. He ended up dancing with Mipha his second year and won the sapphire earrings he still wears today.
He knowingly trespassed in the Lost Woods shortly after; a crime punishable by death. Korok Forest hadn’t even been his original destination. He was trying to reach the Typhlo Ruins on a dare. Mipha refused to speak to him for a week when she heard what he’d done.
The fog swallowed him up and spit him back out until nightfall. It was only when he took up a torch and noticed the flames that he found the Path. Burning embers in the wind and the tiny spirit they led to changed his life forever.
So much of who he is comes from when he has chosen to ignore the rules.
Only now does he even try. Link tries to keep his distance. He tries to honor his duty, first. He tries to resist the gravity he feels whenever she gets too near.
But the more he learns about her, the stronger the pull.
Deep chanting permeates the stone behind him. A drum beats slow and flat. He rolls his jaw, turning to retreat into the forest before pivoting on his heel and scaling the side of the Temple like a ladder. The remainder of the Royal Guard is with the Sheikah at the dig site. No one can climb like him. If by some chance he’s spotted, he can easily justify his actions with a lie about scouting vantage points in case of a Yiga raid.
He maneuvers himself under a gothic buttress and hides behind the busy geometric tracery of the southernmost window. Through the gleam of crimson stained glass, it is a scene out of the Old World. She’s on her knees in front of the Goddess statue surrounded by hooded figures. Their faces are hidden but he can tell they are the ones chanting, their arms outstretched in a circle. Incense burns from three glowing points around her, flooding the room with smoke. Zelda’s hands are clasped over her head, fixed at an unnatural angle from the wrist. He can see her shaking from where he is perched, her entire body trembling with effort. A web of glowing sans script webs over her from beneath the smoke. It pulses bright against her skin; a deep breath on hot coals. Through the monotone song and drumbeat, he makes out a curious and faint hissing. He thinks of raw meat sizzling on a pan and bile coats his tongue.
The spell is burning her.
Link grits his teeth, fist white-knuckled against stone. Zelda arches back with a gasp, causing the magic to flash golden amber. He pictures her gagging on her words when he asks her, invisible pain searing hot across her skin at the mere memory of it.
He will never ask her about this again.
She opens her eyes and immediately finds him. Whatever they are trying to unlock in her vibrates inside him. He sees the lidless eye of Death Mountain shut, Roila Spring’s knife edge fray, the doorway to the Lost Woods clicks shut, the spiral of Rist Peninsula cracks like a whip, a thousand underground tombs with cubes of incandescent technology blink to life.
Zelda’s gaze takes him to places far across Time in a single instant. The fatigue behind her eyes evaporates, eyebrows furrowing with resolve. She snaps her head down and cries out with a hundred voices. The spell shatters into a thousand tiny slivers of light. It creates a shockwave that blows out the glass of every window in the Temple. He jerks back and loses his grip, skidding down the side of the Temple to the earth. He’s lost fingernails but he doesn’t pause, instead, he sprints back to the entrance, swatting glass and debris out of his hair.
He will not be the reason she is punished further.
Link is able to calm his breathing by the time the doors open. The priests disappear in the direction of camp nonchalantly. Like they did not just witness the Hand of the Goddess make a fist. Maybe they could not see. He moves to follow them, assuming she is lost somewhere in the crowd when fingers just barely catch his.
Turmeric and oil stain her cheeks. She smells like the sage and smoke and whatever else is needed for the Temple’s auspicious ritual. She’s paler than snow on Hebra Peak.
He hates it. He hates what they do to her.
He hates that he can’t save her from this.
Dust plumes up from a cliff in the distance. They must have found a new Shrine. The King recently sanctioned excavations on The Great Plateau in hopes it might unearth anything to bring her closer to unlocking her Sacred Power.
But Link’s not looking at that at all.
He’s looking at their hands. They know better than to do this and yet, he still sweeps his hand up to her face and feathers her cheek. She leans into the touch. He is the distraction and the distracted.
He knows he can be devastating to her but he can’t help himself.
Behind her, a figure sinks back into shadow. Long white hair knotted out of her strict face. An unblinking painted eye grants them a moment longer before breaking the spell, alerting them to her approach with heavier than necessary footsteps. Link snaps away from Zelda and folds his arms behind his back. Zelda begins working at the paste on her skin with the slack in her gown.
Impa steps forward to cradle her. “Hopefully they’ve found something useful this time. Let’s get you into a bath, hm?”
A vow passes wordlessly between them.
She will never step foot in the Temple again.