Chapter Text
"Prince Sidon!" A sharp voice rings out, jerking the mighty Prince of the Zora out from his reverie.
Sidon blinks gingerly, as his eyes refocus on a rather rattled Muzu. The old ray scoffs at his apparent inattention, the same beady eyes still able to send a nervous shiver down his fin after all these decades.
"Yes, Muzu, you were saying?" The prince puts on his best smile, trying not to falter at the elder's penetrating gaze as he awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to another. "Apologies. The celebration has been on my mind."
Muzu lets out a small, indignant huff. "If it bothers you so, then it may do you good to hear this old fish out. I learned from Laflat that you rejected many of the festivities she compiled—a great deal of which are, may I add, customary and even vital to such a celebration. May I hear your reasoning behind wanting such an…unembellished birthday?"
Sidon's dorsal fin twitches. The celebration had not been on his mind; had been, in fact, doggedly banished from it. It wasn't that he particularly opposed any of the ideas that Laflat, the royal secretary, had put forward: the truth was she'd come to ask for his opinion before he even got the chance—the motivation—to scrutinise the long-winded list she'd compiled. And so he'd hurriedly said no to the ball, no to the ceremonial sparring, no to the ridiculously large cake that used to excite him as a pup. "I will discuss the details of the ceremony with Laflat later," he says, hopefully with enough nonchalance. "I'll ask her for the records of Zoran royal birthdays as reference—before I finalise the celebration plans."
The old ray doesn't seem fooled by the charade. To Sidon's relief, however, he merely puts his hands behind his back, keeping the usual biting comments to himself. "Your birthday is in but three weeks, my prince. Invitations will have to be sent out. What about the guest list? Surely you do not have too many objections there?”
There it lies. The heart of the problem. It did arrive on his desk along with the ceremonial plans; but after giving it a quick scan through, the words Princess and Lady keep jumping out at him, among the long list of political allies they must maintain. It was the rude wake-up call of adulthood: he’d known it would happen any time now, his next big birthday after a hundred, but it was another thing to run his eyes over the name of every woman on the list and think, it could be her.
King Dorephan has been tacking on the phrase “when the throne is yours” to the end of his sentences more and more often. The prospect doesn’t unnerve him as much now; his whole life has been leading up to it. But of course, with it comes certain implications. No Zora ruler had ascended the throne without marrying since—well, his history lessons are getting rusty, but it’s been a long, long time.
So when Muzu repeats the question, his tone harsh enough to make sashimi out of any Zora, Sidon breathes in sharply, and gives a shake of his head.
“I am under the impression they are all valuable connections to the domain.” He responds. “If Laflat thinks it suitable to invite them, then no, I do not have particular objections to any of them.”
His old teacher makes a sound of begrudging approval. “In that case, do try and familiarise yourself with the guests. And leave enough time for Laflat to make preparations. Now if you’ll excuse me." He bows stiffly, and stalks off.
Sidon lets out a long sigh as he watches the older Zora leave. Oh well, it could've been worse. At least Muzu never brought up his sister again, after he'd lost his temper at him, some three or four decades ago.
"Well I'm sorry I can't be her!" He had yelled, fists clenched and chin trembling, after one too many variations of why can't you be more patient more considerate more gentle you don't think Princess Mipha would act like this would she? He doesn’t even remember what he was being reprimanded about. Some lesson in royal etiquette, most likely. Muzu's face had gone stony, but the roaring feeling of inadequacy, joined with that near-habitual grief, had ultimately overpowered the young shark's lifelong lesson of obedience and grace. "I'm sorry I can't be her I'm sorry I'll never be her I'm sorry she died and not me, okay?"
He had run off promptly, already regretting the outburst, fearing the worst—during those days a harsh look from his father was all it took to make him shrink, and if King Dorephan actually used words to express his dismay, there was a big chance Sidon would burst into tears right in the throne room. But everyone had left him alone, had allowed him to hide and brood in his room, and when he eventually emerged way past lunchtime, nobody gave him another word. He didn't even have to apologize to Muzu.
But gone were the days where his behaviour could be excused by his youth. Sidon sighs as he contemplates the inevitable ceremony, adjusting the metal bands on his wrists. The royal regalia did that sometimes, rubbed against your scales just enough to call you to its presence. These days he accepts his duties with (hopefully, he thinks) the grace of a future ruler, a mature prince. His adolescent years were long behind him.
That said, the thought of a stuffy royal birthday party where he would be more performer than celebrant isn't exactly something to look forward to. The amount of political gifts from people that probably don't even know his favourite colour (Hyrulean blue), and the sheer effort he will have to put in to pretend he's enamoured by every single present: fancy brooches, ornate paperweights, the most intricate set of wine glasses that probably hold a thimble of alcohol. The mere idea makes him want to yawn.
"Si?" A voice pulls him back to the present from somewhere around his chest. He looks down to see the piercing gaze of Bazz. "Yes, Bazz?"
"Wanna spar?" Bazz raises his spear. At Sidon's confused expression, his mouth twitches. "Thought you might need a distraction. I could hear Muzu all the way from the statue."
Ah, yes. The statue. The newly carved luminous blue that now sits where his sister used to watch over the domain. "You could, huh," he tries to laugh. "Well, sparring it is, captain."
The clanging of spear against trident helped to drown out the gnawing dread, the imaginary yet no less stern council in Sidon's mind that watches his every move, judges all his decisions. Right now they're pushed aside by every one of Bazz's swift attacks, who seems to be playing up his fancy moves more than usual, trying to take the prince by surprise.
Sure enough, there comes a time where size advantage can only go so far, and Bazz isn’t captain of the royal guard for nothing. In a split moment of distraction, Sidon's trident is twisted out of his hands, flying to the side. For a moment they both breathe heavily, Bazz's eyes flitting across Sidon's face, concerned. Then he stretches out a hand to help Sidon up. "You should've gone around me, not against. Easy for me to outbalance you that way."
Sidon retrieves his trident. "Yes, I should've." He pauses for a while. "Say, Bazz. You heard what Muzu was saying. Am I really being that unreasonable? To not want a party too extravagant? It's not like a hundred and twenty is that special."
Bazz's fin twitches. "Well. Cycles of sixty are still special, right? And hey," he elbows Sidon as the two head back to the palace. "I'm sure they'd make a big deal out of, I don't know, a hundred and seventy eight years and two months and five days or whatever. If you wanted."
"You're not helping," Sidon snorts, smoothing out the ruffles around his neck. "If we aim to outdo ourselves every year, what will we do by the time I turn three hundred? Build another Vah Ruta?"
"Heh. Don't let them hear you saying that lest they take it seriously."
Sidon grimaces. "I am truly concerned. I mean, I understand the importance of upholding the royal image. But surely there are years we can afford to rein in the grandiosity?"
"Maybe when you're a hundred and twenty one?" The captain offers a lopsided grin, only half-joking.
Sidon sighs, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as well. "...I suppose that would have to do, wouldn't it?"
The conversation shifts to something less consequential, Bazz grumbling about some of the newly sworn guards. Not for the first time, Sidon is glad Bazz is his friend and not his superior; the captain's dry comments could shrivel you up faster than a trip to the Gerudo. They're about to part ways in front of the statue when—
"Link!" They both exclaim, as the carvings on Ne'ez Yohma glow blue, beams of light weaving together before materialising into the slightly disoriented, but very much real, hero of Hyrule.
"And just when I'm going back to my post too," Bazz raises a hand at him. "See you around, Link. Keep him busy." He gestures Sidon, who bristles a little at the remark. Link gives a thumbs-up, before looking quizzically at Sidon.
"Just went sparring," Sidon says, at Link's arched eyebrows. He briefly places a hand on the Hylian's shoulder, careful not to be too forceful. "How are you, my friend? It has been a while since your last visit. I trust everything is running smoothly in the castle?"
Link nods, stepping down from the shrine. Errands for Zelda.
"I see, I see." Sidon nods, peering at what else Link has brought. He's learned to not be too trusting when Link offers some idyllic reason for being here. But his friend's quiver doesn't seem to be bursting with arrows today, and he isn't dressed in one of his armours for battle, so it seems safe to believe that Link is indeed here for non-violent reasons, Hylia have mercy.
Link notices him looking, and cracks a grin. No fighting.
"No fighting," Sidon echoes. "How are your wounds from last time? The ones acquired near the reservoir."
They’re fine. Link flexes his shoulder. Been through worse.
"Now—just because you have borne more serious injuries—" Sidon starts, but bumps into Link as the smaller man abruptly stops in his tracks, his eyes widening as he looks up.
Sidon follows his gaze. Ah. He hasn't had the chance to give Link a heads-up about the statue yet.
Link's silence unnerves Sidon. It isn’t the comfortable type, one where his breathing is slow and steady, posture at ease. "Ah, you see," he starts, trying to break the tension. "The council came up with the idea. Something to commemorate our joined effort to free Vah Ruta."
Hyrulean blue eyes on him. Where is she? His fingers falter slightly.
Sidon swallows. "I had her moved to Ploymus Mountain. It's called Mipha's court now. We can go see it, if you like—the builders did a pretty good job—" The words die in his throat as Link's gaze turns back towards the statue. A stone likeness of them, slotted together. Faces set in determination.
"Uhm. So. What do you think?" Sidon is very aware of his fin perked up in nervousness. The reasons why he enjoys Link's presence are very much the same ones he's at times intimidated by him: the silent knight who never cottons up to him, a bluntness in his actions and sparse words. Truth be told, that hint of admiration from a hundred years ago never really went away, and Sidon has had to come to terms with the fact that he cares, perhaps a little excessively, about what Link thinks. A crease of the eyebrows, a twitch of hands. He always has to watch Link carefully, to sketch out the entirety of his emotions like a game of clue.
It doesn't help that Link is so much smaller, all the minute expressions taking place at somewhere around Sidon's waist. "Look," he starts again, scales prickling with awkwardness. "I know you're not a fan of the whole hero title—I did try to tell them that, but they wouldn't have it, said it's only fitting—"
But then Link lets out a rare laugh, a short, rusty chortle as he prods Sidon. “Am I really this small?” He croaks.
Sidon blinks down in confusion, before a smile spreads over his face as well. "Haha! I suppose they did pick the rather unconventional pose. But you must admit the likeness is impressive!" He gives a toothy grin, apprehension melting away like snow in the spring.
Link comes closer to inspect the statue. “Si. This is insane.”
"Wasn't my idea!" Sidon protests. "You think I would request to have a statue of myself erected in the town square?"
Link’s eyebrows shoot up again. “So if it were up to you, there’d be just me?”
Sidon opens his mouth to say something, but Link's chuckling wipes away any snark he could’ve come back with. "Well, in any case, it was our respected council that came up with the idea. A symbol of our joined effort, if you may. Of Zoran and Hylian collaboration."
Link only hums, eyes still filled with mirth at the absurdity of it all. He circles the statue, gaze lingering, as if remembering that day. "Okay, Mipha next," he finally says, gesturing at Ploymus Mountain. "And then I need to ask something of Ledo or Fronk. About luminous stone."
"Of course," Sidon quickly says. "Come. We'll ride up the waterfall, it’s faster."
Link points a thumb back at the statue. "You gonna fling me up this time too?"
"Pfft...." A chuckle makes its way out even as Sidon tries to stifle himself. "No promises, my friend."
As Link expressed his further approval regarding Mipha's court, remarking how nice it is to overlook Lanayru from the vantage point, Sidon's fin slowly starts to relax again, wagging slowly. He marks the warmth in his friend's tone, the soft Hyrulean blue that meets his gaze occasionally.
It’s nice, Link signs. Quiet. Glad we got rid of the lynel.
"You got rid of the lynel," Sidon immediately corrects. Link only gives a dismissive wave, and again he's struck by an odd mix of exasperation and reverence. Leave it to the hero of Hyrule to brush off a feat as admirable as that. But he'll correct Link until Death Mountain freezes over.
His friend leaves a small bunch of blue nightshade at the base of Mipha’s statue, as he always does. Sometimes Sidon wonders just how much Link remembers. No doubt a hundred years felt longer to a Hylian than to a Zora, but then again, Link hadn’t exactly been conscious for the process. It might very well feel like just a decade ago. Whatever the truth, Sidon isn't about to ruin the tacit understanding between them by digging up old wounds. So he just talks about the water ducts that flow southwards, converging with the waterfalls and reaching the domain. Link, as always, listens.
It isn't until much later, long after Link had made his inquiries to the younger Zora blacksmiths and returned via Ne'ez Yohma, does Sidon suddenly smack his crest in exasperation. "Fishsticks!" He grumbles under his breath. In all his excitement, he'd forgotten to invite Link to the damn birthday party.