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Chapter Text

It was convenient that the minister of war and the commander of the rangers had a free night at the same time. They met in the commander’s quarters and spoke in low voices over cups of Courser Bee mead about the king and his increasingly radical tactics regarding the Calamity. The minister's opinion of the king had been dubious since the day the king had promoted him from commander of the King’s Guard to minister of war nearly six years ago. The time spent in the King’s Guard had granted him access to sides of the king few others got to see, and he had not left his post with particularly complimentary opinions.  

Not that the minister had ever let those opinions get in the way of his duty. His personal opinion of the king and his majesty's choices and tactics – and how he treated the princess, the king's own flesh and blood daughter – did not change the fact that the minister's life had been pledged to defend that of the king. The only reason he had not refused the role of minister of war when the king gave it to him (as if he could refuse) was because of his opinions. As minister, he might be able to exercise some influence over the king, guide him to more reasonable plans. Less extreme tactics to bolster their defences.  

And that had worked. Mostly. At least once: when the minister had worked with the headmaster at the Knights' Academy to stop the king from stripping away the minimum age limit for knights-in-training to begin service. It should not have been so difficult to convince the king that boys who could not ascend to the summit of Mount Lanayru should not be forfeiting their lives for the crown. That was not something the king should be asking of children.  

There were several at court who had agreed with the king. They didn’t see the trouble in lowering the service age a year or two. Had those boys not already pledged themselves when they entered the Academy for training? Those that made a career out of wholeheartedly agreeing with every thought the king had accused the newly-appointed (at the time) minister of war of having a conflict of interest; his son was training at the Academy then, and it was said the minister was looking out for himself rather than for the kingdom as a whole. They accused the minister of sabotaging the kingdom when they felt all drastic measures should be taken in the face of the re-emerging Calamity.

Some thought the minister was merely stupid. Ill-suited for such a high ranking office. The minister was neither of royal blood nor was he nobility. True, he had come up from his humble village to knighthood. That alone would have been something to be proud of, the end of a great underdog story. But from mere knighthood, he earned himself a place in the Royal Guard, then a position on the Queen's Guard. Once the queen had passed, the king, knowing of his late wife’s fondness for the guard, named him commander of his own King’s Guard. And that position? So many people would say it was far beyond what the now-minister deserved and was capable of doing. Even among the other Royal Guards, they thought the role was beyond his capabilities. They were insulted that they weren't offered it instead.

For all of the sour personal opinions the minister of war had of his king, the king did not bow to the court’s criticisms of his choice for minister. When the minister disagreed with the king during council meetings, he was not immediately dismissed. He was not stripped of his title and replaced for his dissent by a new yes-man. It was plain that the king grew frustrated with him at times, that he resented the fight over his tactics. But some part of the king found value in it. Perhaps he thought they were somehow friendly despite frequently being at odds over decisions. Perhaps keeping him around was a welcome reminder of his late wife (it was no secret among the Royal Guards that the king and queen used to have spirited discussions on matters which they didn't agree). It might have been that the arguing was a welcome change from all of the other offices that agreed with every word out of the king's mouth; maybe it was a game to him.

Or perhaps the king tolerated it because he knew what he had taken from the minister of war when he’d named the minister’s only surviving child the princess’s appointed knight.   

(Hylia, why did it have to be his son that turned up with that damned sword at scarcely twelve years old? The minister of war had been overcome with rage and denial, demanded answers from the goddess the night after it happened. Why was his son the prodigy that accelerated through the Academy? Why was his son to be called Champion and then appointed knight?)

(There were more people than ever at court and amongst the knighthood who'd been outraged by the appointment – for varying reasons. Though the outrage had been expected, and it was not the first time they had been outraged over something involving the minister's son, it still weighed heavily and guiltily on him.)

So, that night in the commander of the rangers' personal quarters, the minister couldn't help himself from letting out more than a few of his frustrations. None of his words were new. The sentiments hadn't budged in six years. If anything, they had become more critical. There was no sense in beating that dead horse, but it could not be helped. If left unchecked, the minister might be liable to start harping on the treatment that king extended to the princess as well. She was still just a child. What was said about her was inexcusable and unwarranted, and the minister felt that the king should have done something to put an end to the talk openly happening in the castle. 

The minister had known the princess since birth, since he was a member of the queen's personal guard at the time. He'd served the queen through her pregnancy, stood outside the door of her rooms while she laboured to birth the princess. He'd watched the princess grow up. Been there when she'd babbled her first words, took her first wobbly steps. He had accepted a fistful of limp wildflowers from her while she and her mother walked leisurely in the fields around the castle. A protective instinct over the princess was inevitable after spending so much time around her for so long. The minister came to find that it was painful in an aching way, as every first he witnessed of hers was a reminder that he hadn't been there when his own son had done them.

(All this time later and he still wasn't sure if it was worse that he hadn't realised the firsts he'd missed with his son until he saw the princess do them, or, when the minister's wife gave birth to their daughter, he knew in advance what he'd be missing for a second time. The minister's pleas for his wife to move into one of the houses the crown provided for the families of the Royal Guards fell time and time again on deaf ears. His wife said she felt like a caged animal in Castle Town. She didn’t understand how people could live that way, piled on top of each other, constantly brushing shoulders. She didn't want it for herself, and she dug in her heels harder once their son was born. His wife had craved space.

Hylia knew why they ever bought that house when they'd first gotten married. They'd known he would be on duty at the castle for most of the year, and his wife would sooner sleep under an open sky of stars. The minister had supposed that the house would at least be somewhere for her to go when it rained.

But maybe if the minister had tried just one more time, or found a better way to present his reasons, maybe she would have agreed to move to Castle Town. Maybe she and their daughter wouldn't have died.)

The king put enough pressure on the princess as it was. It had only gotten worse since the queen died. Without her to rein him in, the king devoted himself to nothing but averting the Calamity. Maybe it was the only way the king knew to cope with his grief? Was it any wonder the princess's powers hadn't been revealed? A person was not a diamond, to be turned into something shiny and precious if only enough pressure could be forced upon it.  

If the minister's fondness for the princess lingered long after he no longer served as a Royal Guard, it could not be helped. The situation had been complicated after his son's presence was forced on the princess. But the minister did not hold the obvious resentment the princess had against her. Her hostility toward his son wasn't personal. There was nothing complicated between them. Not in the minister's eyes. Surely, they understood that themselves and would work it out.

Nearly every complaint the minister of war had was shared by the commander of the rangers. They were brothers after all. The minister drew in a breath to tell his brother these things that he had already said hundreds of times before, but he stopped himself when he heard stumbling steps and a sharp inhalation outside the doorway.  

Both of them jumped to their feet – the commander gripping the hilt of his sword and just barley loosening the blade from its scabbard – and approached the door. The minister whipped it opened when the commander indicated that he was ready.  

"Link!" the commander breathed. His hands dropped his sword at once and were filled with his nephew when the youth pitched forward past the threshold.  

The dark hood of Link's cloak fell back; both minister and commander were familiar enough with the stench of blood and festering to know Link bore a poorly treated wound. (Was that also the scent of damp mushrooms?) The commander gathered up Link's weight more securely in his arms and backpedalled away from the door. 

The minister shut the door behind them and hastily followed. "Link?" 

No answer. Just a noise like teeth clenching around a groan.

They both heard the laboured breathing and noted the way Link curled over his right side. The commander sat him down on the bed shoved off to a darkened corner of the room and then helped him lie on his unwounded side. The minister brought the lamp nestled on the table between the two tankards of mead.

"Let us see now, lad." The commander's voice was calm but he firmly pried Link's arm away from the dark stain it was covering. There was a tear in the Champion's Tunic, blood staining it violet instead of the blue of the Royal Family.

(It had been such a shock the first time the minister saw his son in that blue tunic. Even his earrings had been changed from the jade studs of a newly minted ranger to the small hoops coloured just the same as the Royal Family's blue. The minister had been so accustomed to seeing his son in the uniform of a knight-in-training or, more often than that, the dark greens of his hunting clothes. He'd looked like a stranger to the minister. Back then.)

The minister inched forward to press his fingertips to his son's face and confirm the fever that he'd suspected from across the room. "What happened? The princess…?" 

His son pinched his eyes closed and shook his head.

By now, both the minister and the commander could read deeply into a small irritated gesture.

So the minister was happy to hear that the princess was unharmed and that his son was well enough to be annoyed. "She's guarded?" 

Tension left from around his son's eyes and his chin bounced a few degrees. A distressed sound vibrated in his throat as the commander poked around at the swollen wound. The minister's son didn't let a sound pass his lips though.  

"Maybe two days old?" the commander asked. 

Another nod.  

"Something attacked you on the way back from Gerudo Town then?" 

His nod told them it was more than just one attack.  

"Pursued," the commander amended with a little smile.  

A cheek twitched in response. 

"Festering. There's something stuck in there. It's quite deep. Arrowhead?" 

A small shake of Link's head told them that he didn't know. Didn't care to know. 

The commander said, "I can't get it out here. We'll have to take you to the infirmary. Give you a tranquilizing tincture, pull it out. Clean it up. Good as new." 

No, Link mouthed, eyes still closed. No, no, no. 

"Don't be a fool. Come on. Up." The commander's time as Master of Swords at the Academy gave him a wealth of experience with this sort of thing. He did not ask his students to come with for treatment, because there was no questioning instruction when in his class.

The minister put his hand out to stop the commander. "I'll take him. You find the Commander of the Royal Guard and tell him what's happened. He'll need to arrange an alternate guard for the princess until…" He made a vague gesture.

"Alright then."  

Endura carrots fell from Link's cloak when they got him back to his feet. The minister longed to pick his son up and carry him, but he knew that would not be an option when they'd have to walk in the open to reach the infirmary. The master of the sword that seals the darkness could not be seen being carried by his father. They'd had that conversation before. The minister had grudgingly agreed to his son's request that they not draw any attention to their familial relationship in the eyes of the public. A foolish part of the minister thought that it might spare his son some exposure to the minister's harshest critics.

It hadn't. While they could make no negative comment about Link's skills and abilities they found plenty of other things to critique. Like his height. Too short, they said. (The minister was not particularly gifted vertically, but he had been forgiven since he was otherwise built like an ox. At his current age, Link was…not.) Then there was way he wore his hair or his accent — and those comments persisted even after he stopped talking.

Slowly, with Link setting the pace, the three of them went off in the direction of the castle. The commander walked with them, chatting easily to fill the air, all the way up to the Guards' entrance to the castle. There their paths diverged. The minister didn't know what to say once his brother had gone. The trembling under the hand he had on his son's back was too distracting. That old fear was clouding up the back of his mind. A faint and unnecessary reminder of the blind panic that had overcome him when he'd received word that his wife and daughter's bodies had been found on the road out of the village and that his son was missing.

The queen had granted him immediate leave. It had taken an entire week to find his son: Weak with malnourishment and grief, smacking at the bones of a Stalkoblin over and over with a tree branch. Link had fought him at first. Ran away and thrashed when the minister had finally gotten his arms around him. The minister held tight and kept up a stream of apologies and any comfort he could think of while his son screamed and bruised his hands smacking at anything he could reach. The objective seemed to be to hurt himself rather that whatever he could reach. At some point, the minister soothed him enough to stop the hitting, and Link took a shaking, white-knuckled grip on the minister's doublet and refused to let go. Not that the minister would have wanted him to. No, he had crushed his son to his chest as hard as he could without hurting him further. The minister tried to take his heart and press it back into his chest, where he could protect it.

Together they had wept.

Limping along the stairs up to the castle with his feverish son leaning more and more weight into him was both a blessing and a cruse for the minister. He wished he'd never let his son out of reach after that night in the woods. He should have found a way to leave his post, be relinquished from his duty. The queen would have granted it. She had offered exactly that once he had returned to the castle, and the unreserved and lively son the queen had often asked the minister about was now flighty and withdrawn. But the minister's late wife's friends in Zora's Domain persuaded him to let Link return for his summer visits.

It was probably for the best that Link went, too. He had friends among the Zora. A sense of normalcy in the familiar people that could surround him more often than the minister could arrange when he had a duty to the crown to fulfil. It was better. It was. To this day, the minister told himself that that had been the right choice to send his son to the Zora all those years ago. As much as he wished to keep his son within his sights at all time — they were all either of them had left — the minister tried to look beyond his own desires. To look at it and decide what would serve his son best. It didn't take a genius to realise that Castle Town suffocated and bored Link just as much as it had his mother. And when Link grew bored, danger was imminent.

For Link's safety, and those of Castle Town, it would be best to let him be somewhere he could breathe.

And the minister's brother had piled on at the end of the summer when he convinced the minister to register Link at the Academy. It wasn't fair of him to remind the minister of how often Link used to tell them that he wanted to be a knight just like his father and uncle as soon as he'd learned to say the words as a small child. That much was true. The minister used to encourage it. Used to flush with pride when he'd read his wife's letters telling him just that. Used to tell anyone who would listen that his son was left handed and, therefore, destined to be a legendary swordsman.  

And he'd been right. Prodigy, they used to call Link, even before the Academy.

It wasn't unheard of to admit boys that young to be squires and shadows, learning from the knights-in-training as they themselves learned. They were orphans, usually; the Academy was safer than being alone in the vastness of the kingdom. He hadn't liked it. Even when the minister was a knight-in-training at the Academy, those boys that were registered didn't fit right. They were there out of desperation. They were there trading a lifetime of service for a safe place to sleep and an assured source of food. Not a fair exchange, he'd thought. Not right. The kingdom ought to have looked out for children like that without expecting the service in return.

In the end, the minister has agreed to the early Academy registration after his son had assured him thrice over that it was what he wanted.

(Did Link want it still? Even now?)

Despite their agreement, the minister held his son tighter to his side for the time it took to reach the top of the staircase. It was night and any guard who wasn't on duty would be asleep. There was no one to see, and he knew both of them needed it. Knights had a certain reputation to maintain, but never be fooled: There was no group of people more tactile or physically affectionate with each other than knights. The minister's son had been denying this nature due to his very visible position beside the princess. But it was still there. He knew it by the way his son leaned into the pressure.

The knights' infirmary was dark and quiet when they arrived. The physician on duty perked up when the minister eased his son through the door.

"Evening, Minister," she called. "Hello again, Champion."

There were some that said the title with an air of condescension. Champion. But not the physician. Her tone carried nothing but friendliness. Like most of the staff in the infirmary, she was familiar with the minister's son. They found the stories about how he'd landed himself there entertaining enough to keep putting up with the frequency of the visits.

"Hello, Kalaya," the minister said.

Link lifted a hand briefly before letting it drop.

"Right over to this bed." She pointed and was already gathering her hair into a top knot. "Be right over to take a look."

There was no protest when the minister tipped his son until he got a firm enough grip to gently lift him off the ground and carry him the rest of the way. Once they got there, it was a slow effort to get the tunic completely off. The fabric stuck to the wounds and pulled up fresh, damp scabs when it was eased away. The minister took care not to probe the hot, swollen slashes, against his better instincts. They were by no means life-threatening at this point. Not to someone who was otherwise in peak physical condition like his son. But the wounds were still painful and hindering. They still required treatment to stop the festering and heal properly.

No matter how used to combat and taking the requisite damage a knight became, the wounds always, always still hurt.  

Even this I miss, the minister thought grimly as he patted at the edges of the torn flesh with a damp cloth. Rivulets of bloody water raced down his son's chest to be absorbed by the sheets.  

Things were simpler when he was a mere knight. Battles and holding vigils through the night at his wounded brothers-in-arms' bedsides were long in his past, but he was not surprised to find that he missed it. Longed for it even. Perhaps the critics had been right all of these years and the minister truly didn't belong in his position. But he remembered the brothers-in-arms that died for purposeless attacks. Remembered the orphans that surrendered their lives to serve a kingdom that didn't look out for them without expecting payment. And the minister remembered why he'd taken his current position. The change and influence that went along with it.

But he still missed what he used to have as a regular soldier.

The minister helped his son ease into a more comfortable position against the pillows, noting but otherwise ignoring the fever sweat and gritted teeth.

Kalaya did her cleaning and examination with few questions. The physicians were good in that way. They expected a good story most of the time, but they understood that their service must be rendered and pain assuaged before the teller would be well enough to share their stories with the justice they deserved.

"Definitely something in there," the physician said. She wiped her hands on a clean, damp cloth to scrub off the blood. "Gonna need to do a little slicing and dicing to get it out. It'll take a few minutes to set up the room." She reached to a wooden tray with wheels and plucked a small vial from it. Removing the cork, she handed it to the minister. To his son, she said with a smile, "Have a little draught of living death while you wait. Finish that and you should be totally out by the time we're ready to go ripping that prize out of you."

She smiled wider and left them to prepare.

The minister made a resigned face at his son and sat forward to offer the draught. "Just a sip at a time."

He knew that his son knew that. It wasn't his first time taking this particular brew; they both knew from experience what a procedure like this one would have felt like without it. Not even the Hero needed to be a hero about things like this.

Link took the vial and began taking small sips of it at regular intervals, handing it off to the minister to hold in the downtime. Much quicker than usual, Link went soft and relaxed at the shoulders. He let out an uneven albeit relieved breath.

"Working?" the minister asked.

Link nodded and closed his eyes.

"What happened? You and the princess were late returning from Gerudo Town. Was this what kept you?"

The question made Link's face crease for a moment and then smooth out when he shrugged.

Yes. And no.

The minister of war offered the draught again.

After another sip, Link sighed out, "Yiga."

Every one of them ought to be flayed alive and salted, the minister thought reflexively. The vicious intensity of thoughts like this no longer surprised him.  

It had been so long since he'd heard his own son's voice — and they lived and worked in the same castle most of the time! His heart wobbled at the sound, grateful.

"They followed. Kept trying to separate me from her." Another sip. "It was working. At first."

"How far did they follow you?"

He shook his head. "Days. Until we rode past... Gatepost Town?"

No time to stop and tend to the wound then. Only to eat what he could in the saddle so he'd stay in the saddle. The minister already knew it would have been out of the question for his son to request the help of his only other travelling companion, the princess. He could have hardly asked royalty to tend his wound. Or request royalty to stop for his sake so he could tend it himself.

"Elixirs?"

A shake of the head.

"Son."

"Don't like the way they make me feel after. Didn't seem that bad anyway. It's not that bad."

Plenty of people didn't like the effects of elixirs. The minister knew that his son didn't like them either. The toll of some of them — the hearty elixirs especially — could be worse than simply suffering through. Take too many hearty ones and you might think you had downed a cask of wildberry wine instead the next day.

The minister teased his son, asking him what would be that bad, until the draught got to working and took him gently into unconsciousness. The commander of the rangers turned up then, pulling a seat alongside the minister at Link's bedside.

"What's the word then?"

The minister gestured with the empty draught bottle. "Just got him down. Kalaya's gonna dig out the debris. How'd it go for you?"

The commander waved a dismissive hand. "All taken care of. The princess has the usual Royal Guards stationed at her door. Commander of the Royal Guard assured me that she'd be covered all of tomorrow. Should be plenty of time for us to know how long he'll need to recover and have him update the staff."

His son's schedule had been one of the minister's biggest concerns when the king had claimed him to guard the princess. Link was only one person. He could not be responsible for the princess day and night, indefinitely. He would need his own time to rest and recover. To train. More than that, he needed personal time to…do whatever he wanted. In the end, the commander of the rangers, who had been tapped to act as the Hero's superior officer long before Link had come of age, had fought for the reasonable schedule. Hero, Champion, and Princess Zelda's appointed knight he may be, but he was also Link. More than his titles. A person just like the rest of them. Even the knights of the Royal Guard were allowed time off to have families and time away from their posts.

Regardless of the reasons why, the minister had been grateful that at least the princess had been supportive of Link having time off from his duty to guard her on a regular schedule.

Kalaya returned to inform them that she was ready. After checking that Link was well and truly unconscious, she allowed the minister to carry him to the room. Goddess above, he hated that the draught of living death really did make it feel as though his son were dead in his arms. His worst nightmare, the thing that kept him up later and later every night: Link, dead. Decades of practice made it marginally easier for the minister to set his son down and leave him alone with the physician, her two attendants, and a panoply of delicate and finely sharpened knives.

"Shouldn't take too long," Kalaya chirped once the minister finally stepped back. "I'll have him back in a jiffy!"

He trusted her. He did.

"Thank you." And then he went back to sit with his brother and wait.

The commander was calmer. Had no ounce of worry or trepidation. He told the minister, "Take a breath. This is nothing compared to so many other hairy spots Link's gotten himself into."

Which was true. They took turns naming off the instances that stood out most in their memories. The commander, having been at the Academy at the same time that Link was training, had most of them. The two of them laughed now, but the minister remembered receiving those letters informing him of what new wound his son had taken. They hadn't been funny at the time. They'd been maddening: broken limbs from sliding down hilltops on training shields filched from the armoury after hours; wild horses kicking and cracking his ribs after trying to mount one as his friends blew horns to startle the beasts; frostbite and hypothermia from when Link and another knight-in-training stood on the thin layer of ice over a lake while a third threw increasingly larger rocks toward them to see if they could escape the cracking ice (they didn't); cracked skull and shattered pelvis from facing off against a Lynel after a handful of older, scorned knights that had lost to him during sparring got him drunk off of wildberry wine — that one had required the use of a fairy; burns up his calf after messing about with bomb-tipped arrows. Twisted ankles, busted noses, torn ligaments in shoulders from those foolish, foolish kids carrying the heaviest boulders they could lift up slick mountain trails in the rain — for no reason other than to see how far they could go!

The minister couldn't decide if his son was more reckless when left to his own devices or when surrounded by like-minded companions. Might be that it was better not to know.

(Didn't make the stoic, controlled version his son presented to the public when at the princess's side any more bearable. It was worse than the minister being sick with worry over Link acting like himself. Was there no happy compromise in the middle?)

"All done!" Kalaya's voice interrupted their reminiscing. "C'mon back."

They made haste. The minister's son still looked dead, but the physician had already bandaged the wounds and disposed of all the dressings and used instruments. She held up a triangular piece of metal and tossed it to the minister.

He caught it and held it up between thumb and index finger. "Vicious sickle."

The physician nodded. "Looks like the point."

The commander leaned over to look at the shard. "Lousy smith."

Kalaya picked up a another vial and gave them a warning look. Pulling out the cork, she wafted the smelling salts strong enough to wake the dead under Link's nose. A sharp inhalation, and they were looking into groggy blue eyes.

"All done, Champion. You had a bit of sickle in you pretty deep. How do you feel?"

The minister's son hummed before deciding, "Better."

As if it were a question with a correct answer, and he was just trying not to be wrong.

"Nothing hurt? Nothing particularly bad?" the physician asked.

His son lolled his head back and forth just once.

Kalaya smiled and said, "OK then. You're free to sleep off the draught. We'll talk again when you wake up."

"Hmm."

"It's my turn," the commander declared. He didn't wait for anyone to agree before he gathered the minister's son in his arms and straightened up.

Link groaned low in his throat from the movement but nestled his face into the space between the commander's neck and shoulder. Naturally, the commander pressed his cheek into the top of Link's head.

Knights. Honestly.

The minister heard his brother whispering into Link's hair, "Don't get too comfortable, nephew. We're not going far."

"Let me know when he wakes up," the physician said to them both. She already knew neither was likely to leave until then anyway. It was a habit all knights had when one of their own was down. "We'll talk pain management and elixirs then."

"Will do," the commander murmured. He was already walking back toward the bed.

"Thank you, Kalaya," the minister said.

"My duty, Minister." She grinned. (She did it so easily, all the time. The goddess knew how, after all that she must have seen). "Link's one of my favourite patients. Even if it weren't my duty, I'd take care of 'em."

He didn't miss how she said his name that time. Not Champion. Not Hero. Not any of the other titles and ridiculous honorifics they piled on his son.

"I'm grateful all the same." And then he went after his son and brother, not wanting to be left behind.

Chapter Text

"Move the sheets, will you?" the commander said when they were no more than three paces from the bed they'd started at. "He's going cold." 

Chill was another of the side effects which earned the draught of living death its name.  

"Of course," the minister grumbled. He went around to pull all of the bedding aside, clearing a place for the commander to set down Link. When their combined shadow fell over the minister and then paused too long, the minister looked up. His brother's posture was drawing taut. Eyes fixed over the minister's shoulder.  

"Princess," the commander said. The surprise was just barley veiled in his voice. Tension drew in his hands where they gripped Link.  

Deeply ingrained muscle memory swung the minister around, matching his brother's posture. Bowing his head, he began, "Princess—" 

There had been no warning. Kalaya – none of the others – the princess's arrival in the infirmary hadn't been announced. Unusual. The Royal Family typically could not go anywhere without their imminent arrival being announced.  

"There's no need for that now," the princess said hastily. Her eyes darted around the infirmary as if half of her wanted stare at the minister's son lying ostensibly dead in the commander's arms, and the other half did not think it was appropriate to look upon him in his current state.  

Neither the minister nor the commander moved from their positions, heads still bowed.  

"Please. Uh, at ease."  

The spell was broken and the two of them resumed their efforts to get the minister's son settled and positively swaddled by the bedding before the chill of the draught got to be too strong. Under the right circumstances, the draught's side effects could become complications all on their own.  

"What happened?" the princess asked uneasily once the two of them were straightening up again. "I was told he'd been relieved from his post, and I was wor—wondering why."  

When the minister chanced a glance out the window, he saw that it was still dark. Dawn was near but not yet upon them. He didn't know if it was usual for the princess to awaken at this hour these days. Could something else have roused her? Prompted her to seek out her guard and discover that it was not the person she'd been expecting? And whichever guard was fulfilling the minister's son's role now – where was he? Had the princess slipped his attention? Had she sent him away? Surely if something had happened, then the whole castle would be aware of it by now? On alert? The corridors swarming with armed knights? 

That can't have been it, then. Something else had drawn the princess here unaccompanied. She has changed so much, the minister thought. The princess was no longer the naïve little girl who let every one of her thoughts show on her face. No longer the girl that he'd known when he'd last accompanied her and her mother on their afternoon walks in the gardens. The minister could no longer read her so easily.  

The commander, however, seemed to know something that the minister didn't. He caught the minister's gaze, and the amused twinkle in his eye made no sense. It dropped the moment that commander knew that the minister had seen it.  

Facing the princess, the commander said, "Your knight had taken a wound and sought us out for aid, Your Royal Highness. The Minister of War brought him here for treatment while I informed the Commander of the Royal Guard in the matter of staff. I was assured that you were at no point unguarded."    

But she was already shaking her head. "No, I know I wasn't." She took half a tentative step toward them. Toward the bed. "What happened? W-what wound?"  

"In his side, Your Royal Highness," came the physician's voice from behind them. She inclined her head and shoulders in the princess's direction. When she straightened up, she continued, "The tip of a Yiga sickle had broken off in the wound. It has been removed, and treatment for the infection has begun. I'm afraid the effects of the draught of living death, which was administered by my recommendation, are not likely to wear off until late in the morning. He will not be fit to give a report on how the wound was obtained until this afternoon, at the earliest."  

"He—he didn't say—" The princess cut herself off.  

The minister knew that, from the princess's perspective, his son didn't say anything. She might not know that other people didn't always get that same treatment. Admittedly, most did. She'd have no way of knowing. But Link was quite capable of speech.  

"Would you like a seat, Your Highness?" the physician offered.  

That had the commander leaping to his feet and offering his own. The physician indicated where he could find another for himself. So it was up to the minister and the physician to wrangle the princess into the seat. Hesitance drenched her every step, but it was clear that she did not want to leave yet.  

Once she was settled, the commander had brought a new seat for himself, and the physician smoothly excused herself, the minister said, "He mentioned the Yiga Clan pursued you from Gerudo Town until at least Gatepost Town. And that they frequently attempted to separate the two of you, Princess."  

To their horror, moisture began to gather in the princess's eyes. She managed to hold them in and say, "They did. I am ashamed to admit that they were able to do it so easily because of me."  

It took considerable effort for the minister to keep his face from dropping entirely. The commander was making no such effort. Instead, he slowly eased himself to his feet and inclined his head to the princess. Then, turning to the minister, he said, "It has just occurred to me. I'm going to sleep an hour or two and then be up to clear both of our schedules for tomorrow. I expect to be back before he wakes. You're alright to stay?" 

"Of course." And belatedly, "Thank you." 

"Don't mention it." Another bow in the princess's direction. "Your Highness."  

"Thank you, Sir."  

Neither minister nor princess looked at one another until the commander was gone and the infirmary door closed behind him. The princess shrunk into her seat with a weary breath the minister was sure she hadn't meant to let out quite so audibly.  

"Please excuse my brother, Your Highness," a sentimental, nostalgic part of the minister said.  

"Your brother? The Commander of the Rangers is…" the princess said and then trailed off.  

"My brother, yes. And Link's uncle."  

"Of course," she muttered mostly to herself. Then louder: "Of course he would go to you when he needed aid." 

Now did not seem to be the time to share with the princess that the minister thought Link only went to those quarters because he had expected them to be empty. The minister's son had wanted a place to lick his wounds in private. The damned carrots and mushrooms! It was dumb luck that the minister and the commander had been there at all.  

"Knights tend to be rather protective of each other." He hoped that was enough to explain it.  

The princess was allowing herself to watch the minister's son's face. "What we do out of love transcends even that which we do out of duty."  

Unsure panic shivered through the minister.  

Tearing her eyes away from the minister's son, the princess made an apologetic face. "I do not mean to make any accusations or question anyone's vows. I was merely thinking out loud. Forgive me."  

"Yes, Princess." It was not his place to tell her that there was nothing to apologise for.  

Eyes still damp, she said, "I have been so frustrated lately. I cannot deny that what they say about me is true and that it gets the better of me. Unfairly, I've taken out my frustration on Link. He still expends every effort to fulfil the duty my father has burdened him with without complaint." The princess pressed her eyes closed. "I just wanted to be free from the weight and expectations, but he was a constant reminder of them, always just a few steps away. I ran from him."  

When she opened her eyes again, she looked every bit like the little girl she had been the day her mother, the queen, had passed. The heir to the throne, the princess of Hyrule, she who had the blood of the goddess flowing in her veins – she was not this person now. It was just Zelda that looked at him then.  

"I was the one that gave the Yiga Clan the opening they needed to separate us. I made Link vulnerable, having to pursue and defend me even while I fled from him. I did not see him take the wound, but I am sure that it would not have happened if I had simply stayed put and let him defend us. Minister, please believe me when I say that I would have stopped travelling immediately and sought treatment for his wounds, if I had known."  

"Of that I have no doubt, Princess." The minister gave his best attempt at a comforting smile. "This wound – ah, do not trouble yourself. Link's had much, much worse than this. I'm sure it hardly registered to him at all. Typical soreness and pain that follows any battle. It would not have occurred to him to notify those travelling in his party of such a seemingly small discomfort. Simply bad luck that the sickle had broken off in there."  

The princess did not look as comforted as the minister had hoped. She worried her bottom lip just slightly. Perhaps she could tell that his words were not entirely truthful, evasive. Link wouldn't have notified any other knight of the wound, but any other knight would have insisted on checking him over for themselves immediately following the end of combat. Any other knight would have known that his fellows are prone to that: Underreporting their hurts and pains. It was almost a game to see who could hide it the best. Who was best at seeing past the subterfuge.  

Lamely, the minister added, "If he did take a wound that would compromise his ability to fulfil his duty, Princess, I have no doubt that Link would notify you immediately. He can be stubborn at times, but he knows very well that his hubris cannot be allowed to be a liability to your safety."  

"It is not my safety that I am so troubled by," she said softly, almost as if she weren't really addressing the minister at all. The princess looked so small in her seat just then. "It's his."  

"Princess—" 

"Please. Won't you just call me Zelda?" 

It seemed wrong even to consider. Disregard the honorific? Suggest in any way that the Minister of War had a personal relationship with any member of the Royal Family so close as to allow the use of given names? It struck him as disrespectful. Against every bit of training that had been drilled into his head for more than two decades.  

But would it be worse to ignore a request coming directly from the princess herself?  

The minister bowed his head. "As you wish, Your H—Zelda."  

She gave a watery smile of thanks and then let her gaze settle on the minister's son. Her eyes were steady now. They didn't dart between things to rest on, scared to be caught somewhere they ought not to be. "I had wanted to talk to him about what happened in the desert. Apologise to him. Even if he won't accept it. I didn't know what to think when he wasn't in his usual position outside the door."   

The minister wasn't sure what to make of that. He knew that his son would accept her apology whether he thought there was anything to be forgiven or not. They were father and son: Both of them knew it wasn't their place to tell any member of the Royal Family which reactions were called for in any given circumstance. The Royal Family's knowledge was supreme. If the two of them felt nothing need be forgiven but the king or princess said otherwise? Then minister and Hero must have been mistaken. They would defer to their sovereign.  

Not that the minister could remember any of them apologising for anything before the princess had mentioned it just now.  

She wasn't looking at the minister, but she must have been able to sense his thoughts. "I don't want to be forgiven because he is a subject of my father's." Her features darked suddenly and were slow to clear off. "I want to apologise for being a person that was rude and unfair to another person. We are on the same team besides. I should not have done and said the things that I have to him. Urbosa has told me this in so many different ways already. It is well past time that I listen to those that have my best interest in mind."  

"As you say." He hardly stopped himself from added princess to the end of it.  

A sardonic smile pulled at one side of her face. "Revali gives him enough grief without me piling on, too."   

That wasn't exactly new or surprising information to the minister. But he felt his face become brittle nevertheless. No matter how many times he heard that people took an issue with Link's many positions and titles, the minister's hands clenched into fists and he longed to hit something again.  

"I would not blame Revali," the minister said diplomatically. "He's hardly any more grown than either of you two are, for his species. It was not his decision to send literal children to fight battles with the entire kingdom's survival weighing on their shoulders." His voice was harder than he intended it to be when he kept going, "This land has suffered enough for that fool's delusions." Then the minister blinked, his own words echoing in his head. He remembered who it was that he was sitting with. "Please forgive—" 

"There is nothing to forgive, Minister. You are merely expressing what any father would, given what his child has been subject to." The careful poise of court was thick on her face. "It cannot have been easy for you all this time." 

He shook his head. In agreement? Denial? The minister admitted, "No. It hasn't been. But it has been worse for him. The moment he drew that thrice-damned sword, he ceased to be Link, my son. He was the Hero, a tool to be honed and used as the kingdom sees fit."  

No matter how casual she requested that they interact, the minister would not say to the princess that she was being mistreated by her own father. It was beyond what would ever be appropriate. He would not make claims about how the Royal Family behaved personally to each other. He would think it and complain about it with his brother in the privacy of their own quarters. But he did not have the nerve to say it to the princess's face in her own castle.  

It looked like she had read his thoughts. As if they had been stamped across his face as they scrolled through his head. There was something that definitely was not offense etched on her expression. Something much more tender and … fond? The minister could not parse it. If the commander were here, he would know what it was. The minister's brother was much better at reading the subtlest expressions and body language. It had been incredibly annoying how much better he was when Link had stopped speaking so much.   

(Brotherly competitiveness did not weaken with age, it seemed.)  

The princess was turning that soft, unreadable look on the minister's son. "Does he feel he is no more than the blade he carries, too?" 

The minister hesitated until the princess's gaze cut to him.  

Taking too long. 

He bowed his head in confirmation. It allowed the reaction on the princess's face to play out in private.  

The minister found that he suddenly had a lot that he wanted to tell his son's bedding, "Most of the knights that he fought and trained with were not idiots. They understood that he didn't have any say against the king's … misguided decisions. They were reasonable enough to understand that a child was training, not because he had an outrageous ego and took pleasure in besting them, but because someone greater demanded it. The vast majority of them did not hold Link's circumstances against him.  

"I meant it when I said that knights are protective of each other. The youngest amongst the knights' ranks always become a stand-in for the little siblings, the nephews and nieces, the children that we have to leave behind to fulfil our duty. There has never been a knight-in-training as young as Link when he first started. The reaction that evoked from the others, in the words of my brother, was more possessive than protective." 

The princess's gaze on him was tangible, but the minister kept his focus on the sheets.  

"Warriors were brought by the king to train and test the Hero in all types of disciplines. Once they sparred three-on-one for as long as the sun stayed up. None of the knights were able to do a damned thing about it since it was the king's direct order that the training sessions take place."  

This had been an incident that the minister had seen the end of for himself. His endless council meetings had ended, and the king wanted to walk the training field to see the tactics he'd ordered the soldiers to learn in action. 

"The three warriors continually cycled out so that they stayed fresh. Unfatigued. When Link collapsed seconds after sunset, it was his fellow knights that went to his aid. They removed his armour. They uncurled his fingers one at a time until they could get the sword out of his grip. They dripped water into his mouth and roused him. Carried him back the barracks. No one but another knight was allowed within a league of his bunk until they decided he was well again." 

The princess was watching the minister carefully. Her face was soft but not quite open. She said, “It must have been difficult for him then. To leave them. Become the Hylian Champion. And my knight. They must have felt like lonely positions by comparison.”  

The minister did not tell her that it would not have been difficult at all. It was the king’s word. It had to be done, so Link wouldn’t have bothered thinking about whether or not he felt anything about it at all. It was another order. Orders had to be carried out. There was no sense in agonising about it. Link had started work as a ranger by the time the king had claimed him. He was often travelling in small groups by then, tracking and reporting the movements of the monster camps, sabotaging them where they could, carrying out commando operations.  

Despite having never gotten to know the men that Link worked with the most, the minister knew that they would have taken the separation from Link incredibly hard. Like their own son leaving the family home. The minister had never stopped feeling that way since the day his first child was born. Maybe even before that, when he had to leave his wife to return to the castle to work.  

(Why couldn’t she have come to Castle Town and lived there? Why didn’t he take the first offer to be relieved of his service?

Because he loved his fellow knights, and that was a love that was unlike any other. He couldn’t give them up any more than he could his son. He loved this kingdom, despite its king. He loved all the people in it, even the ones he hated.) 

The princess was correct on at least one account, though: Link was never meant to work alone. He was not an island. Isolated, he would never thrive.  

The minister offered her the most honest thing he could: “I do think he misses it sometimes.” 

The princess looked so, so sad. But then a resolve came over her. “My father would never go back on his word, but perhaps, between myself and the other Champions, we can create something with him like what he had with the knights.”  

“I’ve no doubt you will, Zelda.”  

"It's obvious that he and Princess Mipha are already familiar with each other. And I known Daruk is fond of him." A spark of life was growing in the princess's voice.

The minister failed to hold in a chuckle. "Yes, my brother and I have spoken with Daruk. A good one, he is. Maybe the best. I have every confidence in him."

The princess looked thoughtful. "It had occurred to me, when I was researching history and legends of the past incarnations of the goddess and her heroes, that we have no records of the people who, for lack of a better word, saved the hero. After their battles and travels, there must have been people to look after them. Family, friends, allies. Obviously the linage of the Royal Family is well-documented. We know who led each supporting office and council, everything down to assistant physicians and magical healers, when Hylians still possessed that ability. So we know who surrounded the princess. Confronting the King of Evil must not come without wounds that will take time to heal and fully recover from. Wounds that are more than just the physical. If the Hero looks after the Princess until she completes the sealing, at which point all the others step in, who looks after the Hero?"

In every version of every legend that the minister had ever heard, the Hero had never needed looking after. They just win. Goddess blood and courage triumph Evil, and the stories end until the cycle starts anew. He hadn't thought about the thing that the princess was asking until the day his son pulled the Sword that Seals the Darkness. Seeing his twelve-year old son carrying a sword as big as he was tall had made the answer clear enough: He would. The minister would. It was still his son.

And the minister's brother would. He was Link's uncle, after all.

And Daruk, because he had sworn an oath to the minster and his brother that he would.

And Princess Mipha. Because she already was. She already had been, since the day four-year old Link first went to Zora's Domain.

And Chieftain Urbosa. She hadn't been made to swear it to the minister, but he could read it in her every move. In the way she spoke about and spoke to Princess Zelda.

(The minister did not want to think about Revali, lest his mind think thoughts over-emotional and unfair to the Rito.)

And the physicians like Kalaya, cheerfully trading funny  stories for their services.

And all the knights and knights-in-training that Link fought beside; they'd look after him, too.

And the smiths that would allow him in their armoury even after he made a wreck of their tools and messed with the bellows when he was bored.  

And the stable masters and grooms, always entertained rather than annoyed when he'd turn up bareback on a wild horse.

And the kitchen staff in the castle that had tolerated Link's endless questions since the day the minister brought him to Castle Town.

(They had liked Link, the cooks. The kitchen allowed the minister's son to be nearby – something both father and son had desperately needed then, just finding their legs in a family that was now half the size that it should have been – but not out in the open where anyone with business at the castle could see him. The kitchen staff hardly got to spend time with any visitors. They found Link's questions endearing. A novelty. They were delighted to have someone interested in what they did, to be able to speak to him about the craft that they both loved and loathed, depending on the day.

Sometimes, the minister would receive his midday meal from the kitchens with something new on it. Something that was not a typical offering from the castle kitchens to the visitors or advisors. Something none of the others had on their plates. So he would know that someone had indulged Link at a cooking pot, and his son had had a hand in making something especially for him.  

"Sad eyes," the pastry chef had told the minister when he came to collect his son late one afternoon.

Link had fallen asleep on the next day's sacks of flour in the back of the kitchen, away from the bustle of people preparing the king's evening meal. When the minister hefted his son up into his arms – the boy not rousing in the slightest – he noticed the fingers stained red and violet, and the stickiness.

The pastry chef explained to the minister, "I was testing out a berry tart with chopped nuts on top to serve His Majesty and the guests next week. The boy and I agreed it was tasty, but I think it's still out of season to serve just yet."

The minister was not fooled and he let his face show it.

"I couldn't very well just let a whole tart go to waste," the chef defended himself.)

"The people will," the minister suddenly told the princess with confidence. "You will, Zelda."  

"I will," she agreed. Her eyes returned to the minister's sleeping son. "I will look out for your son, Minister. We shall look after each other."

She might have smiled.

The minister might have returned it. He thought he might have felt a sense of comfort concerning his son's duties that had been missing for some time now.

The princess shook her head, every bit a 16-year old girl. "I don't even know where to begin explaining myself to him."

"I recommend that you have that conversation over a meal," the minister smiled. "Give yourselves something to be distracted by if you need a moment to think. I know my son finds things easier to say when half of his mind is occupied with food."

"A meal, then. Thank you. I'll think on it and see what I can arrange."

They exchanged a few more words after that. The princess was beginning to flag; it was apparently not usual for her to be up at this hour. She excused herself as dawn broke and the birds began to sing and squawk. Everyone in the infirmary (who was conscious) stood and bowed her out even though the princess tried to wave away the formalities.

The sun had just barely fully cleared the horizon when the commander returned. He announced himself by dropping an apple and a warm hand pie into the minister's lap.

"You look a wreck," was his greeting.

"Thanks."

"Didn't wake up yet, did he?" The commander nodded to the minister's son.

He shook his head. "Nothing yet."

"Good. I didn't want to miss it." The commander dragged a chair right up beside Link's bunk and plopped down in it. His boots rested on the bedframe, and he bit into his own apple. "How long did the princess stay?"

The minister shrugged. "A bit."

"And did you give Her Royal Highness that serious and stern look you always give me when Link turns up banged up? Which version did she get? The Minister or the father?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you mean," the minister shot back. "I acted appropriately given the circumstances and the audience."

The commander's guffaw echoed through the infirmary. "Oh, my dear, dear brother! Why don't you catch a little shut eye? I'll wake you at the first sign of stirring."

Despite the minister's refusals, he found himself blinking his eyes open after an apple seed was flicked at his cheek again. The sun had certainly moved from the last time he'd looked. The minister frowned hard at the commander, but the look didn't last: Link was awake.

"We tried waking you," the commander said with a smile full of lies. "But you just sleep so heavily."

Jerking to his feet, the minister crowded his son on the bed. "How do you feel? All right?"

Link's eyelids were still heavy with the draught, but he had the slightest smile when he nodded his head. "'m OK."

The commander easily answered the questions that hadn't yet been verbalised but were obvious on the minister's face, "Someone's already been by to take a report and deliver the update to the king. He hasn't asked for further audience, so looks like old Rhoam is satisfied with what information he got. Physician's already been by. Wound looks good. Dressing was changed out for some new ones soaked in the healing elixir. We're free to go this afternoon." The commander put his sights solely on Link when he said, "Another day after that strictly on light duty. Don't even think about picking up a sword. Or a bow. Or any weapon, for that matter."

A sly expression snuck over the minister's son's face.

"I know. You can use anything as a weapon if you hit someone with it." The commander rolled his eyes. "But, no. No fighting, no hunting, no sparring. In other words, no fun until tomorrow afternoon. Got it?"

Link closed his eyes in a slow blink and inclined his head. The mischievous tilt of his lips didn't leave. "Sir."

The commander rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated groan. "Don't you sir me, you little shit. Keep laughing while your dad tells you about the conversation he had with Princess Zelda at your bedside all night."

The tips of Link's ears went immediately pink. "Wha?"

"That's right," the minister said. "She came to see you."

"Looked really worried, she did," the commander said. "Askin' what happened and if you'd be alright. You shouldn't be hidin' wounds from your princess like that, you know. I know she can't do anything about it like Mipha can, but you still need to speak up when something like that happens."

The flush deepened, spread to Link's cheeks.  

The minister's brother kept up his teasing of Link in the matter of princesses all the way up until they were allowed to leave the infirmary. They were sent away with two more sets of bandages that hopefully wouldn't be needed. Knowing the trouble that the minister's son could get up to, though, they just wanted to make sure he'd be covered in the event of a…mishap.

The three of them returned to the commander of the rangers's quarters and ate stew until they were nearly bursting with it. The commander poured out two cups of Courser Bee mead from the same jug he'd been sharing with the minister the night before, and he laughed at the hopeful face Link was making.

"Yeah, right, nephew! Not under my roof!"

"Not in front of Father, you mean," Link grumbled.

The minister was so happy to hear the words that he didn't even care to look into the implications. A cup of warmed milk was put into his son's hand instead.

"Ask again in a year," the commander laughed.

Tomorrow they'd each return to their roles in whatever capacity they were able. Back to duty and oaths and destiny. But tonight, they were just father, uncle, and son under a single roof having drinks. The minister found himself looking forward to a year from now.