Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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As soon as he finished packing, Link shoved his belongings back under the bed and decided to stay.

The castle was quiet around him. Anyone with sense was out in the open air, seeking relief from the sweltering heat that crawled under his skin with the memory of carnivals and ticking clocks and full moons. Summer was best spent on the road. But when he glimpsed her in the courtyard below his window—the brightest flower in a garden blooming with them—the restlessness quieted, and he knew he had to keep trying.

When he made his way downstairs, Zelda waited on the stairs of the stone dais where they’d first met. She’d cut her hair short as an act of rebellion against veils and petticoats and all the other rules that boxed her in, and now she flounced around the castle in trousers as often as skirts, a beloved nuisance to her father and a scandal to his court. Link had never been prouder.

She gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Fourteen years old, and already learning to put herself last. A map lay across her legs, its loose corners fluttering in the breeze; when she trailed her hand over its surface, Link could see the stripe of archer’s calluses that marked her fingers.

“You’ve been through the northern forest and to the sea beyond,” Zelda said thoughtfully. “Gerudo Desert swallows up the northwest. You tried the mountains near Lake Hylia last time.”

He sat down beside her with a sigh. Those trips had all been useless, just months of trudging through Hyrule’s wild outskirts in search of a familiar blue glow until he hit some natural barrier and returned to the castle empty-handed.

“So, that leaves south,” she concluded carefully. “Is that where you’re heading?”

South had been Link’s first brilliant idea, and Termina his reward. He hadn’t risked the Lost Woods since—hadn’t even visited his old home now that he was too old to pass as a Kokiri. Maybe that was why Navi had left. She’d never been a real guardian fairy; only an old tree’s dying request tethered them together, and with that fulfilled, there was nothing to stop her from flying free.

If that was true, he was searching for someone who had no desire to be found. And right in front of him was Zelda, her mouth pressed into a thin line—she didn’t want him to go, but would never ask him to stay. Link remembered the blue sky, remembered the slow notes of her melody sending him back to reclaim what he’d lost, what he was still looking for, while she picked up the pieces of her broken kingdom alone.

He was tired of leaving her behind.

“Maybe…” Link swallowed hard, looking into Zelda’s blue, blue eyes. “Maybe I’ll wait a while longer.”

Her answering smile was worth the entire world.

So Link tried. He always did. By now, they were experts at sneaking past the guards to explore Castle Town or go riding across Hyrule Field. On his favorite days, the heat drove them down to a calm riverbend where he’d taught her to swim years ago, back when it was still hard to look at her without longing for some sign of the person he’d lost.

This Zelda had won him over so quickly—not by being the Sheikah warrior who remembered the same things he did, but by being someone new. She loved the world instead of distrusting it. She wanted to understand every merchant in the marketplace, every Octorok they saw along the river, every flower that grew on its banks. She even wanted to understand Link, which had frightened him at first, because she was a child and he was only inhabiting the body of one.

Zelda was patient, though. She could coax him out of his shell when he wanted it, and when he didn’t, she seemed content to float beside him in the river, watching clouds roll across the endless sky while the water quieted every other sound. On those days, Link couldn’t imagine leaving.

When her duties kept her occupied, Link roamed the wild or filled his hands with ranch chores that Malon and her father insisted on paying him for. The restlessness didn’t fade—nor did his nightmares—but it wasn’t a bad life. It was certainly more than he’d ever expected to carve out of the fate the Goddesses had dealt him.

Nothing escaped Impa’s attention, but he and Zelda kept their adventures secret from everyone else until a summer storm caught them by surprise in the marketplace. They returned to the castle dripping a trail of rainwater; Zelda was in her plain peasant disguise, laughing as she pulled Link down a hallway—until she stopped short at the sight of the king’s retinue.

Every conversation halted in its tracks. A lady snapped her fan shut. A lord smothered his amusement with a cough. The king adjusted his spectacles, releasing a sigh that traveled all the way down the hall to his daughter’s frozen form.

“Shouldn’t you be with your tutors?” he asked mildly.

Zelda released Link’s hand. He closed his fingers around the absence of warmth. Those shrewd noble gazes weren’t just appraising the princess; they were wondering if Link posed a threat to the sons they wanted to place beside her someday, like a pair of painted dolls arranged on the cold throne.

“I broke the high score at the Bombchu bowling alley,” Zelda told her father primly, raising her chin. “You can’t say I didn’t learn anything.”

The king pinched the bridge of his nose. Every person in the hall held their breath. Link had witnessed his famous temper only once—the day they dragged Ganondorf away in chains—and would never forget it. But the king gave in with a chuckle and said, “Do bring an umbrella next time, dear.”

His companions laughed. The tension drained from Zelda’s body. Her father nodded at Link and swept past them, his retinue trailing behind.

Link smiled down at his sodden boots. In the Other Hyrule, the king’s dismissal of Zelda’s prophetic dreams had brought about so much calamity. In this kingdom, he was trying to make up for his mistakes. Zelda grinned too—her wet hair plastered to her face, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners—and Link wondered if his experiment might work this time. If he could build some sort of life in the peaceful kingdom he’d bled for.

The feeling only grew later that evening, when she slipped into his bedroom and placed something in his waiting hand: a pair of blue hoop earrings. Zelda quirked an eyebrow at his expression. “You were admiring them in the market earlier. They match your eyes.”

Link’s lips parted wordlessly. Give yourself a distraction, Sheik said in his memory, bandaged hands cleaning blood away from some wound on Link’s shoulder; he no longer remembered the battle, only the aftermath. Tell me where you got those earrings.

Struggling to keep his voice level—less from the pain, more from the rare proximity, the breathtaking glimpse of Sheik’s cowl slipping down enough to show the sharp jut of a cheekbone—Link had answered, I dunno. Maybe Rauru got bored while I was asleep.

Sheik had huffed out a quiet laugh that made Link feel all kinds of strange and giddy and lonely, and said gruffly, They match your eyes.

He’d thought that version of Zelda completely lost to him, but she was still here, right in front of him—just younger and happier and growing up the way she deserved. “Thank you,” Link said in a trembling voice.

She pierced his ears with steady hands and dabbed away the blood. All over again, he got that fluttering feeling in his stomach that came from being close to her, from being seen—not as some strange wandering child, not as a swordsman come to solve every problem, not as a Deku Scrub or a Goron or a Zora. Just as Link.

He went to sleep so vividly happy that he didn’t even notice the full moon.

And then came the nightmare.

His usual visitors were deafeningly horrible. This dream started out so quiet by comparison. But Link would have taken storms or screams or even the slow drumbeat of the Shadow Temple—anything but this.

He opened his eyes at the base of the Clock Tower. The last stars were fading from the sky. A Cucco greeted the sunrise. Faceless people drifted through the streets, resuming their routines beneath the moon’s baleful smile.

Dawn of the first day, whispered a voice in his ear, and the clock began to count down, outpaced by the frantic beat of Link’s heart. The Gorons were freezing again; the Deku Scrubs were condemning an innocent; Lulu waited mutely on the shore for her lost family. He saw a flash of purple hair—Kafei, spiraling hopelessly around the woman he loved.

No one looked up at their impending doom. No one noticed Link, standing in the same place where he always started. There was blood drying under his fingernails. His legs trembled under the crushing pressure of the sky. He was drowning on dry land, and nothing had mattered; nothing he did ever mattered.

He woke to silver light flooding the castle bedroom. The full moon grinned down at him, bright and terrible, and through the window he could see it growing, could feel the world bending beneath its power, could hear the clock ticking. Link clamped his hands over his eyes and could still see that garish smile staining his closed lids.

He wanted Navi. He wanted Sheik. He wanted to be back in a Hyrule that remembered him. Better yet, he wanted to stay right here and forget like Zelda had forgotten.

Only one of those paths lay open to him.

The door creaked open, which meant he’d been screaming bloody murder. Link trembled with shame as the mattress jostled with Zelda’s weight. She pulled his wrists away, pried his clenched fingers apart, and pressed them to his heart.

“Do you feel that?” she asked softly. “You survived. You’re still here.”

His hammering pulse began to slow. The clock fell silent; the moon returned to its rightful place. Maybe this was love—not a cure, but a balm to ease the unbearable. And Link was about to give it up.

But he didn’t know what else to do.

Clutching her hands in his, he whispered, “I can’t stay.”

“Link. There are doctors. Impa says—”

“No, I—” Doctors would not believe what he’d lived through. They would not understand that whatever meager happiness he had here was going to fall apart again, and he couldn’t just stand still and watch it happen. He tried to make her understand, but his words kept tangling up in his throat. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t—"

“I know,” Zelda murmured, gathering him into her arms. “It’s okay. You’ll find Navi, and you’ll come home, and everything will be okay.”

Fourteen years old, and already learning to lie.

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The next morning, they waited bleakly for the drawbridge to creak down, unveiling the pale sky and the wide green plain. Impa gave him a new bow and shield to replace the ones he’d outgrown, then frowned down at him for a moment.

“I could help you,” she said quietly, her eyes crimson with the sorrow of a lost tribe.

Link looked at his feet. Impa sighed and ruffled his hair before turning away.

Zelda had gifts too. First, a beautiful compass on a string, emblazoned with her family crest. Link let her tie it around his neck, though he silently doubted it would be much use where he was going. Next, the Ocarina of Time, which she held out to him for a long moment while he stared down at it with his hands frozen at his sides.

“It could keep you safe,” Zelda tried.

He shook his head, taking a step back.

“Link…”

There was enough pleading in her voice to make him waver. But then he remembered the Door of Time unleashing Hyrule’s demise. He remembered the Song of Healing taking everyone else’s sorrow away only to shove it down his throat. And Mikau, Mikau, the only person Link had a chance to save before the end—but when he went back in time, that fishbone guitar was already standing vigil on the dawn of the first day. He’d stood on the beach, watching the Great Bay shift and seethe, and he’d wanted to pitch the Ocarina into its depths for unraveling all his good work while leaving that failure intact.

Link shook his head again. He’d given it back to Zelda for a reason.

“What if you get hurt?” she insisted. He turned towards Epona, but she grabbed his arm. “What if you’re close to death with no way to—”

“You can’t fix death,” he snapped, shoving the Ocarina away like it burned and hurling his bitterness in her direction for the first time ever. “I’ve tried. Don’t make me try again.”

Link turned his back on her stricken expression and made it five steps towards Epona before he broke, whirling around to choke out apologies that Zelda accepted by throwing her arms around him. They clung together under the morning sunlight. Link never wanted to let go, but he had no choice—because if he was hurting Zelda, then it was time to leave.

She stepped back, looking so young, so heartsick. He remembered another parting in the boundless blue, remembered that first, last, desperate kiss with the Ocarina passing between their hands. That Zelda was made up of guilt and grief and secrets. This one would walk in the light, and Link had shadowed her long enough.

“Don’t be alone, Link,” she said unsteadily, stepping back from him. “Wherever you go, don’t be alone.”

He wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep. But there was one thing he knew beyond any doubt: “I’ll be back. We’ll see each other again.”

Zelda gave a short, sharp nod. One last look to memorize her stubborn chin, her tearful blue eyes, her nervous hands with their archer’s calluses. Then he mounted Epona, feeling what he always felt: the golden thread stretching out between them, protesting every step, trying to recall him with all its might. Sometimes Link feared the strain would choke the life from him. Sometimes he feared that if he pulled too hard, the thread would snap, and he would fall.

Or—worse than anything—she would fall with him.

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For six long years, they only saw each other in dreams.

Zelda lowers her daughter into the crib, sighing in relief when she doesn’t wake. The rest of Hyrule slumbers beneath a blanket of week-old snow. It’s usually at these times that she feels the yawning silence of her chambers most acutely, after the day’s work is done and the castle goes quiet.

But not tonight. Zelda can’t wrap her mind around the reality of Link, leaning against her sofa with his long legs stretched out before him. There’s grief in his gaze when he watches her with the baby, but softness too.

At least that part is familiar. Age has sharpened his face into something lean and hungry and intensely handsome, despite the bandage shrouding his right eye and the shadows under the left. He’s grown his hair long enough to wear it in a ponytail. His shirt is plain and patchwork, hanging off him in a way that means he’s thin underneath.

Zelda wonders if she looks as changed. She’s just finished telling him of the first few years after his departure—good, peaceful years spent training with Impa and tackling whatever responsibilities her father entrusted her with. Everything seemed possible back then. She’s not ready to speak of what came next.

So she feeds another log to the fire and reclaims her spot on the floor beside him. “I suppose it’s your turn.”

Link’s shoulders stiffen. “Oh. Right.”

“Was it like the first time you went looking for Navi? Did the Lost Woods bring you to a different world?”

He nods reluctantly. Zelda still knows nothing about that journey, except that he came back with a collection of new scars and never wanted to use the Ocarina of Time again. She feels that young again, watching her questions send him to places so distant and so sad that she stopped asking.

Back then, they stood on opposite sides of a gulf: Zelda resenting the confines of her childhood, Link trying to pick up the shattered pieces of his. Bridging the gap now means building upon grief and unfamiliarity. But she’s spent so long missing him—she’s sick to death of wasted time.

“I’m right here,” she says, sliding her fingers through his. “Will you tell me what happened?”

Fireplace shadows flicker over his bandaged face. Maybe he’ll refuse. Zelda remembers Epona’s hooves kicking up dust, his proud green tunic disappearing behind the crest of a hill. Maybe all hope for their future died that day—or maybe time and tragedy only helped it grow.

Link’s answer comes slowly, like drawing venom from a wound. “Well,” he murmurs, tightening his grip on her hand, “I got lost.”

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Chapter Text

Part I: The Broken Compass

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The beast breathed its last at the edge of the forest. Link stood amidst the clouds of steam that rose from its corpse, watching the circle of blood and melted snow creep towards his boots. A fire boar: cataclysmic for the farmers, an hour’s work for him. He’d spent the whole hunt thinking of jokes he could tell Zelda about how he’d fought a miniature Ganon.

Sheathing the Gilded Sword, he scooped up a bit of snow to clean the beast’s blood from his hands, then whistled for Epona. Movement flickered in the pale forest—she was coming towards him along the trail of trampled trees and charred earth. The girl who had led them here followed behind, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“That was amazing!” she called. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Link lifted his ponytail to show her its singed ends.

She giggled. “I can’t begin to thank you.”

He shrugged. Her village had replenished his supplies; that was the most he ever asked of anyone.

“Everyone will want to buy you a drink. What do you say? Can I be the first?”

Something about her expression—innocent, hopeful, expectant—opened a cavernous feeling inside Link’s chest. “Thanks, but I have to move on.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “Well…mind your compass. If you go too far west, the Forest of Teeth will snatch you up and never let you go!”

That was his exact destination, though he called it something else. Link swung himself into the saddle and nodded farewell, sorry for her disappointment, sorry that he’d never bothered to learn her name.

He could always tell where the natural forest ended and the Lost Woods began. There was a shift in the air, a sudden quieting of the world. Long fingers of fog reached through the dark branches. Link paused at the border, glancing back at the snowy land he was about to leave behind.

Saria’s song would not reach him so far from Hyrule. And though he still wore Zelda’s compass around his neck, whatever cruel curse governed this place had frozen the needle in place long ago. The endless fog wouldn’t let him navigate by starlight, as Sheik had taught him. Mido used to say that moss always grew on a tree’s northern face, but that hadn’t helped so far, probably because moss seemed to grow everywhere and Mido was a compulsive liar.

“What do you think?” Link asked Epona. “Can we make it this time?”

She twitched an ear towards him but made no comment. With a sigh, he urged her forward, allowing the Lost Woods to swallow them whole.

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Dear Zelda,

The first world was an ocean. Magicians rule over an island empire of pyramids and moving statues. Some of them see the future, just like you (but of course you’re way better). Plenty of monsters to fight and people to help. I thought Navi might be there, because she’s a helper, but…nope.

The queen of the second world was building a big tall tower to help the sailor she loves find his way home. Navi wasn’t there either. And I want to come home too.

But I fell into another world when I tried. Rocky and cold and not many people. It wasn’t a bad place. It just wasn’t Hyrule.

Three’s a lucky number. Maybe that was the last world, and the Woods will let me go now. I’ll keep trying. I’m always trying.

I miss you.

Link

He stared down at the letter, trying to guess how much time had passed since he’d written it. There was no point in burdening Epona with unnecessary weight. Before he could hesitate, he tossed the whole stack into the flames, watching an orange chasm chew through the parchment and spread outwards to devour his words.

He rarely bothered with a fire, but today he’d been lucky enough to find a pond of pale fish. Thanks to the day he’d watched Sheik stand ankle-deep in the Zora River, patient as a predator, Link knew how to catch them without a rod.

Fish were a rare luxury. The Lost Woods he’d played in as a child contained their fair share of eerie magic, but they were natural enough for birds, insects, and mammals to call them home. He and Epona seemed to be the only breathing creatures this deep into the forest. With their supplies long gone, he was growing thin on berries and mushrooms, while she had to survive on scraggly grass.

It wasn’t just the hunger or homesickness that made this place awful—it was a sense of wrongness that made Link acutely aware of his bones jutting out beneath his skin. He rubbed at his collarbones, trying not to think of the young man from Kakariko who had disappeared into the Woods and never returned. But it was hard to think of anything else in the deafening silence that dulled Link’s days and filled his nights with horror.

A slim crescent moon leered down at him through the canopy. He dreamed of its smile stretching across the sky until it devoured the horizon. He dreamed of his flesh withering away and leaving him with only a sword he could never put down. He dreamed of waking up to see Sheik keeping vigil across the campfire and Navi dozing inside his hat.

Then he really woke up in the soft rosy dawn, his only companions Epona and the boundless Woods, and he missed Zelda more than anything. She always had such a beautiful way of making sure the nightmares didn’t linger for long.

Did I thank her for that? Link wondered as he broke camp. Did I thank Saria for always being my friend? Did I thank Navi for…for any of it?

He couldn’t even remember. Maybe Navi had good reason for leaving him behind.

Epona plodded along, faithful and uncomplaining. Link did his best to pay attention, but time—always his enemy—eroded beneath the monotonous flow of one day into another. Towering trees stretched as far as he could see, which wasn’t very far, thanks to the dense fog. For all he could tell, they were traveling in circles.

When he could get a grip on himself, an immense urgency to escape drove him forward. The festering rot seemed to creep closer to his heart by the day. He dismounted at a streambank one evening, peering into the water while Epona drank.

His reflection still looked Hylian. How long did he have? Was there a point in fighting it? Maybe this would be a gentler end than wandering between worlds until one of them killed him. Maybe it was an excuse to finally stop trying.

No—that was the magic tempting him to succumb. Epona deserved better than wasting away in this place. And Link had promised to come home.

The snap of a twig made him whirl around, the sword ringing forth from its scabbard. All he saw was fog and trees and falling light until Epona’s pricked ears drew his attention downstream.

A Skull Kid stood at the water’s edge, clutching a basket of acorns in his raggedy stick arms. He looked from Link to Epona with wide orange eyes. Link stared back and tried to remember how to talk to anyone besides his beleaguered horse.

“Are you lost?” Skull Kid wondered.

“Are—” Link’s voice cracked from disuse. “Are you real?”

The child released a wavery giggle. The sound threw Link back to the twisting agony of his first transformation, to a tower beneath the plummeting moon, and—most importantly—to the most beautiful dawn he’d ever seen.

“It’s you,” he whispered in disbelief.

“That’s right. We’re friends. You should follow me.”

“Where? To—” He took an involuntary step backwards, pressing his hand to Epona’s warm neck. “No. Not there.”

“You’re going to turn soon,” Skull Kid told him solemnly.

Link knew that. It was harder and harder to ignore the sickness in his marrow and the weak throbbing of his heart. He sheathed his sword, exhausted in a way that surpassed a poor night’s sleep.

Death had terrified him as a child—first when it claimed the Great Deku Tree, then later, when he learned he was no immortal Kokiri but a Hylian with an inevitable end scratched into the Goddesses’ ledger. That fear was gone now. Maybe death was eternal rest; maybe it was a reunion with everyone he’d lost; maybe it was just emptiness. Regardless, it was final. He’d seen enough to know that wandering in endless circles between the before and the after was a far worse fate.

And no one was coming to play the Song of Healing for Link.

“Is there anywhere else?” he asked, his thoughts wheeling desperately until they latched onto a wild hope. “Like—like the forest where we first met? I taught you a song, remember? Do you know how to get there?”

“Sorry. I found that place by accident. Termina’s home.”

The name alone made Link shiver. Wherever he went, whatever fear or hunger or pain he experienced, he could always comfort himself with the knowledge that at least it wasn’t Termina. Link pressed his fingers to his jaw, unnaturally sharp beneath the skin, but still his—not warped into some other form by one of the masks that still weighed down his pack. He could still feel the terror of that little Deku Scrub, lost in the dark; he could still feel Darmani’s guilt and Mikau’s regret.

Skull Kid shambled over and reached for his hand, his fingers skinny and rough as tree bark. No one had touched Link in a long time—it made him feel suddenly, shockingly human, and certain that he wanted to live through this. Swallowing hard, he looked down at the child’s guileless face and whispered, “Okay.”

“Tatl will be happy to see you,” Skull Kid said, tugging on his hand. Link put one foot in front of the other, time slipping through his grasp; he barely noticed when the trees began to thin and the fog receded from his peripheral vision.

It wasn’t until he felt wind tugging through his hair that he realized he was free of the Lost Woods. Stars shone above, clear and beautiful. A wide, grassy plain sprawled out before him, but the darkness let him pretend he was anywhere—pretend he was home, even—until Skull Kid led him over the crest of a hill.

The black silhouette of Clock Town loomed across the moonlit field.

Link tore his eyes away, but it was too late. He was already caught between the churning gears of the tower, his head spinning from the latest reset, Tatl wilting with exhaustion on his shoulder.

Only this wasn’t a dream. He was back. He’d never left. That was why he still carried the masks: because he could never leave any of it behind. He would be falling through time forever while everyone else got to forget, got to repeat their petty mistakes and ignore the weight that was crushing him to the ground. A soundless scream bubbled up from the center of his being.

Epona nosed at his chest. Skull was saying loudly, “—the moon, look at the moon, that’s what Tatl does.”

The moon was the entire fucking root of it all. But when Link glanced upwards, he could understand why Tatl would find reassurance in that ordinary, distant shape, so different from the grinning monstrosity they’d labored under.

He released Skull Kid’s hand to wrap his fingers around the broken compass, feeling his heart’s wild rhythm underneath. Epona stood there patiently while he buried his face in her mane and inhaled her warm smell, finding a better place inside himself—a memory of Zelda tackling him in a hug after she won some Castle Town game, laughing with a freedom her counterpart had never experienced.

“Termina’s okay now,” Skull Kid promised. “I’m sorry I made it scary.”

Link lifted his head. “No, it—it wasn’t your fault. It was the mask.”

Skull Kid shivered and led him onward. Everything in Link rebelled at the idea of taking one step closer to Clock Town, but there was no other choice.

Ten minutes later, they reached a fallen tree he remembered well: huge and hollow, with moss creeping up its sides. Now each end had a makeshift door of nailed-together planks, propped open to let the warm air in. Skull Kid slipped inside with his basket of acorns and murmured something too quiet for Link to hear.

The resulting screech was unmistakably familiar. She burst out of the shelter, a little spot of sun in the night, her wings fluttering as quickly as a hummingbird’s. Link clung to Epona, his knees weak.

“It’s really you,” Tatl breathed.

He couldn’t find his words; he just held out a trembling hand. She wasn’t Navi. They’d been more cellmates than friends. But Tatl landed in his palm without hesitation, touching her tiny fingers to his thumb. He could see her shaking her head in disbelief through the yellow light.

“I never thought you’d come back,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to. But I’m…I’m happy to see you.” That was the truth. She’d been there during the worst three days of his life—which was saying something, considering what had come before—and she’d stayed, over and over, each time the Ocarina brought them back to the maddening start. Neither Link nor Termina would be alive without her.

“Same here. You look terrible, though.”

He chuckled shakily, surprised by the sound, by the relief it brought him. 

“I’m serious, you’re skin and bones.” Tatl glanced back at the hollow tree. “You two! Do we have any human food?”

Tael slipped out, his purple glow difficult to spot in the darkness. “Is that really him, sis? He looks so different.”

“He grew up, idiot. More importantly, he’s hungry. Link, maybe we should find you a place to stay in Clock T—”

Link shook his head emphatically.

“Okay,” Tatl said, to his surprise—she would have pestered him with questions once; now she just moved on. “Romani Ranch?”

That idea made him sick with memories too, but everything in this world would have that effect. Besides, the Ranch would be able to take care of Epona and sell him some supplies. He could be gone in a few days.

And then what?

He had no idea. He just knew he couldn’t stay here.

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Flickering light guided him across the pasture of whispering grass. It was late enough that the animals were tucked away in the barn, but Cremia always kept a torch burning outside the ranch house to help lost travelers—even strange boys drawn here by the sisters’ kindness and their resemblance to Malon.

“Things are good here,” Tatl said from her perch on his shoulder. She’d convinced her brother and Skull Kid to stay behind, for which Link was grateful; he had enough on his mind. “The Gorman Brothers don’t trouble Cremia’s deliveries anymore, so business is booming. I check in from time to time.”

“You do?”

“Well, yeah,” she muttered, her glow flickering and then coming back strong. “I guess your do-gooder attitude rubbed off on me a little.”

Before he could process that, Link spotted a figure in the torchlight. The bow in her hands kicked his old instincts to the surface, but she hadn’t noticed him, and she wasn’t facing the threat he expected. She was just practicing on a row of empty milk cartons. The old white terrier at her feet lifted his head at Link’s approach.

Romani turned, short red hair brushing the shoulders of her sleeveless tunic. Damn this strange mirror-world; the first thing he saw in her face was Malon, who had given him her horse, her friendship, and a place at her table whenever he wanted it. Homesickness was the last thing he needed right now.

“Hello,” Romani said a little cautiously. “Oh—Tatl? Is something wrong?”

“Not at all.” The fairy sprang off Link’s shoulder as he dismounted. “I was just hoping you could help my friend here.”

“Of course. I’m Romani.” She was studying him and Epona curiously, but it wasn’t like Link expected to be remembered—he’d passed through one night of her childhood, nothing more. Even still, he felt the rupture of a familiar, frightening pain he’d first experienced the day he looked into Zelda’s eyes and saw a confused child instead of a displaced adult.

The door to the ranch house opened, and Cremia poked her head out, a long ponytail swinging behind her back. She was older than Link had ever seen Malon, closer to thirty than twenty, her smile wider than he remembered. “Romani? Who’s this?”

“A traveler. Feed him, will you? I’ll take care of the horse.”

Romani was one of the few people Link trusted with Epona—but not with his saddlebags, which contained several things that would make a normal person worry. He slung them over his shoulder and handed her the reins gratefully.

Tatl, to his gratitude, did all the talking as Cremia led him inside. The last time Link had set foot in this house, it was marked with the signs of a life fraying at the seams: dirty dishes piled in the sink, dead flowers in the windowsill. Now it was neat and vibrant, smelling of the tea Cremia had been drinking while she did paperwork at the kitchen table. Crickets sang outside the open windows.

Cremia sat Link down at the table with a cup of tea and returned to the kitchen, humming while she cooked. She seemed…stable. At peace. Link sipped the tea, feeling warmth spread through his chest.

After a few minutes, she brought him a plate of scrambled eggs over toast, slathered with butter and melted cheese. “Go slowly,” she warned, chuckling as he tore into the food with ravenous abandon. “I’m Cremia, by the way.”

“Link,” he replied without thinking. His memories of that last cycle blurred together in a mad, desperate rush, but he probably hadn’t given out his name then. Too tired; too accustomed to being forgotten.

Romani came inside, dusting dirt off her hands. “Mercy, your horse is a handful, but I got her to listen. She’s in a stall with grain and hay.”

“Thank you,” Link said. “I have Rupees, I’ll pay whatever you—”

“Nonsense; you’re our guest,” Cremia interrupted gently.

She said it so casually, but he’d traveled enough to understand the rarity of kindness. Link’s gaze strayed to Romani as she unstrung her bow and left it by the door. A part of him had always worried about how she would face those night ghosts at the next Carnival and the one after that, with no one to believe or help her. He wanted to ask if that was why she’d been practicing under the stars, but—well, that would lead to a lot of questions he’d rather not answer.

“You’re both too polite to mention it,” Tatl said suddenly, “but this guy smells awful.”

“Tatl!” Cremia protested. Romani tried to turn her laugh into a cough.

“Sorry, but it’s true. You’d like a bath, wouldn’t you, Link?”

Link sent Tatl an exasperated look. It was so like her, helping him escape in the least tactful way imaginable; he’d missed her too much to be truly annoyed. “Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.”

It was no trouble at all—he’d forgotten how clever Termina’s technology was. One pull of a lever in the outdoor bathhouse sent blissfully hot water cascading down from a pipe. Tatl perched on the edge of the tub and watched it fill. “So, did you ever find that friend you were looking for?”

Link shook his head.

“Oh.” She folded her wings behind her back. “Wait…don’t tell me you’ve been in the Woods this whole time.”

“Not…the whole time.”

“And why didn’t you tell Cremia and Romani who you are? I’m sure they’d want to thank you.”

“They don’t remember me,” Link said flatly.

“They don’t recognize you—it’s been years. But we did help them in the last cycle, right?”

His fingers tightened around the tap. He didn’t want to think of the cycle; he already felt like he was sliding back into it. And he certainly didn’t want to hope for the impossible.

“Fine,” Tatl sighed, taking flight towards the door. “I’ll wait outside.”

“You don’t have to wait. Doesn’t Skull Kid need you?”

“Skull Kid’s not who he used to be. You look like a Dodongo chewed you up and spat you out, and you’re worried about him? That’s…” Tatl chuckled bitterly. “Just like old times, I guess. Fine. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Link shut the door behind her, simultaneously relieved to be alone and annoyed by her implication that Skull Kid had changed in ways he hadn’t. Of course he’d changed. He’d grown up, hadn’t he?

Shuffling over to the mirror, he lifted the candle to confront his reflection. Unkempt hair, gaunt cheeks, pale skin—none of those surprised him. What struck Link was how old he looked, older than he’d been upon waking up in the Sacred Realm with orders to save the world. The sight cut through him with the same violence today. Time was his oldest enemy, and it moved strangely between the Lost Woods and its interconnected worlds—but he’d clearly been away from Hyrule even longer than he’d feared.

Long gone was the hopeful young princess who had bid him goodbye that bright morning. Zelda would be considered an adult now, one with burdens nobody would protect her from, and she had probably given Link up for dead or forgotten him entirely. Maybe that was for the best. All he’d ever done was pass through her life to leech up her kindness and disappear without giving her anything in return.

And to the rest of Hyrule, he would be a stranger all over again. You didn’t even find Navi, Link thought venomously, glaring at the thin stranger in the mirror. You just ended up back here.

Tatl was right—he hadn’t changed in any way that mattered. He still clung to a rock in a rushing river, unable to stop the current from eroding him, while the world watched from banks he could never reach. He was ten years old, too late to save the Great Deku Tree. Seventeen years old, his fingers slipping from Zelda’s as she gave him a second chance she would never have. A thousand years old, standing at the base of the Clock Tower and swallowing down the ashes of another lost Termina.

The bath was threatening to overflow. Stumbling over to wrench the lever down, Link caught a flash of silver through the high window: the moon, full and bright, glaring down upon him.

He wished, sometimes, that he had let it fall.

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Chapter Text

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“Termina,” Zelda whispers into the quiet room.

Link shuts his eye. Her shoulder is warm against his, making up for the dying fire. He told her so little about his first visit to Termina—not even the land’s name—until today. It was easier to lock it all away. The door may have cracked open more often than he wanted it to, but he never walked through it willingly, even for Zelda.

“And three worlds before that,” she adds wistfully. “Oh, Link, we’d be here forever if I started asking questions.”

He chuckles. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Hmmm. Time and sleep lose all meaning when you have a baby, but…I do have meetings tomorrow.”

Link rises, gathering his sword and the tattered rucksack that contains nearly everything he owns. He glances over at baby Zelda, a heartbreak of tiny fingers and blond curls, then back at her mother. A pathetic part of him fears that this mirage will fade as soon as he walks out the door. He’s surprised to see similar hesitation on her face.

“There…is the sofa,” Zelda offers evenly.

He blinks in surprise. While Sheik reduced herself to a shadow for survival, he’s always been worried that this Zelda lives under too much light, too much pressure. She’s just lost her husband. People will talk if Link spends the night in her chambers; they’re probably talking already.

If the gossip doesn’t bother her, why does she look so wary? He used to be among the privileged few who got Zelda’s unvarnished thoughts, her hidden fears, her snorting laughter that the court considered unladylike. And then Link understands: she’s guarding herself from him. From the possibility that he’ll leave again.

Is he ever going to stop hurting her? First that awful pattern of reaching for her and pulling away, over and over, when she was too young to understand. Then his silent absence. He didn’t fade harmlessly from her memory, as he expected and dreaded; she didn’t forget him for an instant. There’s so much relief in that knowledge, but there’s guilt too—because it means he did the same thing to Zelda that Navi did to him.

Link drops the rucksack and pulls her into a clumsy embrace. After a moment of surprised hesitation, she slides her hand under the sword to rest between his shoulder blades. He tightens his grip around the warm truth of her, fighting tears, because this is safety. This is being seen with complete, devastating clarity. And maybe that’s why Link ran from her for so long.

Yet Zelda has never feared any part of him. He can feel it in the strength of her embrace. They grasped the edges of each other’s pain at ten years old. Trust can bear the weight of whatever lies between them now.

“Thank you for remembering me,” he breathes.

“How could you expect otherwise?” She shakes her head incredulously. “I thought of you every time I looked at the stars. Every time I walked by the flower garden. I kept your old room empty until we couldn’t spare it anymore.”

That room meant everything to him when he first returned to this timeline—a place to call his own, where he could rest and feel safe again—but that wasn’t what he’d been missing all these years. Tangling his fingers in Zelda’s long golden hair, he tells her solemnly, “That sofa looks like heaven to me. Prettier than a sunrise. Worth every Rupee in Hyrule.”

She breathes out a laugh. “Goddesses, Link, I missed you.”

“I missed you too. And I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

He falls asleep remembering the nights he spent sharing a campfire with Sheik—both keeping their distance, afraid of each other’s secrets, yet unconditionally safe inside that circle of warm light.

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Zelda tries to keep her daughter quiet the next morning, but it hardly matters: Link’s still dead to the world when she leaves her chambers. She almost feels like she’s still dreaming, too—like his presence is some fantasy, crueler in its potency than any that came before.

But the newest gossip reaches her by lunchtime: The queen’s taken a lover, with her husband only a month in the grave. It doesn’t worry her. She’s proven herself to this court on every front. No one could possibly question her daughter’s legitimacy after seeing how her curly hair and strong brow resemble the late king’s.

When the work wanes and the shadows grow long, she treks back to her quarters, buying herself time to think with slow, deliberate steps. What would her husband think of this? She told him about Link once, in brief terms that didn’t capture what they were to each other, and it felt like a betrayal—of whom, Zelda didn’t know. Though she and Owen married for politics and pragmatism, there was happiness too, especially after they had the baby. Until it all fell apart.

And now there’s Link, the one thing fate has brought back to her. I was trying to come home, he said yesterday, his eye bright with pain and hope. The whole time, I was trying to come home.

Sometimes, hope pays off. Zelda doesn’t know what comes next—but maybe that’s a good thing. The future is a glittering road, long and unknowable, and she’s had her fill of prophecies.

Back in her quarters, she finds a note on the sofa. Link’s handwriting is immediately recognizable, if barely legible. The only word she can easily decipher is Epona. With a smile, Zelda bundles up and sets off for Castle Town.

Impa would have a heart attack to see her strolling through the marketplace with only one guard, but Impa also trained her in the Sheikah arts, to say nothing of the Triforce of Wisdom. Zelda takes her time on the way to the stables, stopping to buy sweets at an outdoor stall, listen to a merchant’s request for more bridges along the Zora River, and kick a ball down the street with a gaggle of children.

She didn’t learn this part of leadership from her father or tutors. Maybe Link was only sneaking her out of the castle for fun, but his quiet way of listening for problems and solving them without seeking acclaim rubbed off her all the same. He’s the reason she knows how to meet her people where they are. The reason she’ll be able to pass that knowledge down to her daughter, so that when Hyrule’s next queen looks across a sea of faces who all know her name, she might know some of theirs in return.

Zelda will have to find a way to thank him for that, now that she finally has the chance.

She’s nearing the stables when the clatter of hoofbeats over the drawbridge catches her attention—a company of recruits, cold and weary but none the worse for wear. Zelda abandons her poor guard and weaves through the crowd that’s gathered to greet the recruits, reappearing beside the commander’s horse with a cheeky smile.

“Nice try,” Impa says dryly. “I saw you coming from down the street.”

“Give me some credit. The sun’s still bright.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Impa pulls her mount aside by the town stables, nodding to her second-in-command as the company continues on towards the castle. Zelda embraces her the moment she hits the ground, inhaling the smell of leather and horse and campfire smoke. Impa kisses her brow begrudgingly.

“How did the recruits fare against your infamous training?” Zelda wonders.

“As well as anyone could. I see you’ve grown reckless in my absence.”

“Perhaps, but Impa…Link is here.”

Impa’s not easy to surprise, but her silver eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. Zelda fills her in on the way down the stables’ long aisle, pausing at the sight of Epona’s familiar chestnut coat.

Link turns, lowering the brush in his hand. After all that sleep, he looks worlds better than yesterday—warmer, too, in the thick blue doublet she left out for him. He has a smile for Zelda, an easy one that feels like sunshine in winter, but it falters at the sight of Impa.

That’s puzzling. They always got along. She remembers something Impa told him once: You’re a lot like me. Mostly walls, but the Princess can knock them down in a heartbeat. Link laughed his shy little laugh and couldn’t look at Zelda without blushing for the next hour.

So why has he raised his walls now, in front of someone he has every reason to trust?

Impa takes it in stride, her keen gaze sweeping him up and down. “Welcome back, Link. You’ve grown up.”

Link’s shoulders relax, and suddenly, Zelda understands. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, he said yesterday, looking up at her through the dim light of the dungeons with guilt in his face. He was expecting Impa to forget him too—a ridiculous notion that makes Zelda want to hit someone and burst into tears all at once.

“It’s good to see you,” Link says as Epona sticks her nose over the stall’s half-door to greet Zelda.

“What kept you away for so long?” Impa asks.

Four different worlds and the magic forest that connects them, all conspiring to keep him away. Link touches Epona’s neck—poor, beloved Epona; at least she was always with him—and shrugs like he was on vacation.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back,” Impa says. “Especially because Zelda could use a new sparring partner. She beats me most days now.”                                                                                                                                                                                

Link raises his eyebrows; Impa’s praise is hard-won. Absurdly, Zelda feels heat rise to her cheeks. “You don’t have to do that,” she tells him. “There are countless other people I could spar with.”

“Most of whom won’t stand a chance, if I’ve done my job well,” Impa points out. “Link will actually teach you something. Anyway, I should go get my recruits settled.”

She sends Zelda a knowing smile and leads her horse away. Zelda steps inside the stall, reaching into her cloak pocket to produce sugar cubes for Epona and a sticky cheese bun for Link. He takes it from her gingerly, his eye going wide and round at the sight—then closing reverently when he takes his first bite.

“You introduced me to these, remember?” she asks, munching on her own pastry.

Link nods. There’s something vulnerable about his expression, though it’s a little hard to take seriously while he’s devouring the cheese bun. “Would you want to spar sometime? I…need practice defending my blind spot.”

“Your…” Cold horror sluices through her. “You mean your eye won’t heal?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it with a shake of his head.

“Are you in pain?”

“Not often,” he says with a shrug—a shrug, about a loss this severe—and Zelda can’t stop herself from stepping forward to hug him. Link stiffens in surprise, but in the next moment he’s melting around her. He’s always seemed uncertain of himself in everything but this. He holds her like he’s holding the world, precious and eternal, and Zelda realizes, I forgot what it’s like to feel this safe.

“I’m so sorry,” she says into his ear.

His answer rumbles through his chest. “It’s okay, Zelda.”

She bites back a retort and withdraws to see his face. He looks okay. He’s even smiling a little. But with Link, all the important things lie under the surface. “If it will help, of course I’ll spar with you. Though maybe we should ask for Impa’s help too. I’ve seen very little combat, except…”

She doesn’t need to say the name; Link is already wincing. “I dreamed of that, after I got to Termina. Of you, and…him.”

He mentioned that yesterday. It’s no surprise—before they ever met, Zelda was dreaming of a boy who carried Hyrule’s salvation, and Link was dreaming of a girl disappearing into the night on the back of a grey horse. But Ganondorf was there too: a gathering storm, a grinning interloper, looming over them and between them for all their lives.

“Do you want to hear about this?” Zelda asks. “It’s not the happiest story.”

“Neither is mine. But if you want to tell me, I want to hear.”

The rest of Hyrule already knows how she became queen. Explaining it to Link will be far different—in a good way, she thinks. Who else has faced anything remotely similar? Who else knows what it’s like to love the world enough to save it, even if doing so changes you forever?

“Well, I have plenty of cheese buns,” she decides.

Link chuckles, leading her out of the stall and finding them a stack of hay bales to sit on. The falling sunlight sends long shadows stretching down the aisle. The horses shift and sigh. A cold breeze stirs Zelda’s hair, and when she leans against Link, he drapes his arm across her shoulders.

“I’m glad you dreamed of me,” she admits quietly. “It means I wasn’t so alone.”

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Chapter Text

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The Shadow Temple reeked of death.

Bones crunched under Zelda’s boots. Creatures far worse than rats skittered through the dark. Chills prickled at her spine, warning her of knives and watchful eyes, yet the only people behind her were Impa and a beleaguered guard with the world’s worst assignment.

Ahead, the prisoner dragged in a deep breath and let it out, grinning beneath his blindfold. “This,” he drawled, “is my kind of place.”

Zelda watched the guards lead him into his new cell, bracing herself for one of his typical escape attempts, but he didn’t even struggle as they closed the iron door and reached through the bars to unshackle him. Her magic barrier snapped down from ceiling to floor as soon as the guards were clear, encapsulating the cell.

“So, Princess, may I ask what inspired the change in my accommodations?” Ganondorf sneered.

“You may not,” she replied, trying to bury her surprise in cool irreverence. She hadn’t spoken a word throughout the whole nail-biting journey from the castle dungeons; Impa would never have allowed her to come otherwise. Maybe Ganondorf had only sensed her presence just now, when she used the Triforce he so coveted—but something told her he’d known all along.

He untied the blindfold to reveal his acid-green eyes, burning in a hollow face framed by tangled masses of orange hair. As always, the sight of Zelda made him chuckle. “And Impa,” he greeted sardonically. “It doesn’t bother you to set foot in this temple? To keep serving those who used you for their dirtiest work?”

Impa gave him a steely glare and turned away to give orders to the guards.  Zelda stayed where she was, searching Ganondorf’s face. His witch-mothers Kotake and Koume had been spotted in Gerudo Desert for the first time in years. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Zelda was dreaming of black clouds gathering over Hyrule once again.

But she couldn’t see any devious plan in Ganondorf’s eyes. Only hatred so intense that it still frightened her, even with the bars between them, even though she wielded Wisdom while he lacked Power.

“I hope you sleep soundly tonight, Princess, knowing that you’ve left me to rot in a graveyard of your family’s sins,” he told her with a sharp smile.

“I make no excuses about what happened here, but you will not lecture me about justice,” Zelda retorted. “We showed you the mercy you would have denied to Hyrule, had Link not—”

“Ha! Where is that brat, by the way?” Ganondorf closed his hands around the bars as though he wished they were Link’s throat. “Haven’t seen him since he put me in your loving custody. Did someone kill him before I could?”

No—that can’t be. I would feel him go, wouldn’t I? But I can’t see his future anymore. And I can’t understand mine. Aloud, she said coldly, “I noticed you still have a limp. I hope you remember him each time that old wound aches in the damp.”

Ganondorf laughed again. The memory shuddered through Zelda: her father’s orders rolling through the chamber like thunder, Ganondorf’s mad charge towards the throne, Link intercepting his path before anyone else could react. After that, she could only recall plunging through the chaotic crowd to reach Link’s side, because even though she scarcely knew him, she couldn’t leave him standing there alone with his bloody sword and his glassy eyes.

That couldn’t have been for nothing. She could feel heat seething down her fingers, yearning to scorch the arrogance right off Ganondorf’s face. Instead, Zelda turned on her heel and left him to the hungry darkness, wondering if the word justice could ever be uttered within these halls.

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For a week, the dream did not return, and Zelda allowed herself to breathe again. The flower garden was in full bloom, Malon was busy tending to newborn foals and fluffy chicks, and Link had been gone for five and a half years. Not that anyone was counting.

Then it came roaring back one night: a tempest of fury and lightning. Unlike the visions she’d seen as a child, no hero came to solve Hyrule’s problems before they started. There was only the scent of blood and the shattering of everything Zelda knew. She woke to a brilliant morning, her legs twisted in the sheets, her mind screaming out Link, Link, Link until she silenced it.

She stormed out of her bedroom a few minutes later. Hyrule Castle was an airy place of high windows and outdoor walkways, as though its architects had built it to house the sun and the wind. Moss and weeds always sprouted up through the flagstones no matter how hard the staff tried to kill them. On a clear morning like this one, the white stone walls shone like a cloud in the heavens.

Zelda had loved it all her life, but right now, she could only see its fragility. Passing by a cluster of young noblemen who tripped over each other to wish her good morning, she barreled into the solar where her family always gathered for breakfast.

With one swift glance to confirm there were no servants in the room, she closed the door and announced, “I saw it again.”

“The same dream?” Impa asked.

“The same dream. Father, you must double your guard. And we must find Kotake and Koume.”

Her father, a grey mountain of a man with spectacles that constantly slipped down his nose, sighed into his tea. “Zelda, what was the first thing you did this morning?”

“Reinforced the spells guarding the Ocarina of Time,” she answered impatiently.

“And you, Impa?”

“Made sure the Shadow Temple guards reported in.”

“There you have it,” the king said, studying the dark circles under Zelda’s eyes as she slumped into a chair across from him. “The Ocarina is safe. Ganondorf is in a secure location known only to a handful of people.”

“Do you remember how things turned out the last time you didn’t believe my dreams?” Zelda demanded.

“All too well.” He sounded tired. She couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t sounded tired. “I am not ignoring the warning, only wondering if our efforts have been too focused on Ganondorf.”

Zelda’s instincts screamed that Hyrule was teetering on the exact same brink that Link had pulled them back from. But her father was right; the dream was ambiguous about the nature of the threat. She reached for a cheese bun irritably, waiting for someone to say something.

No one did for a long time. Her father brooded over his tea. Impa buttered a scone with far more concentration than the task required. Zelda knew this silence—the silence of two people who had fought a civil war together and were on the same side even when they snapped at each other’s throats. They were cataloging their enemies. Wondering who might strike. Nothing made her feel so much like an outsider, like a child in need of protection.

Legend claimed that Princess Zelda, the kingdom’s shining new hope, had taken her first steps the same day her father unfurled his banner over a united Hyrule. She’d never asked whether that was true. He had done unspeakable things to reach that point, and thousands had died in the process, including Zelda’s mother and Impa’s people. They were still trying to shield her from that legacy. It wasn’t her place to ask about the bloody past, but to symbolize a peaceful future.

“How are you and Owen getting along?” her father asked suddenly.

Zelda struggled to keep her face neutral. “Quite well.”

“I see.” He stared into his tea, weary guilt written all over his face.

“I have until I’m twenty. You promised.” A note of panic crept into her voice. “Father, you promised.”

“I’m not giving you any orders. But a simple betrothal—that would appease the southern lords. Mitigate a threat. It could still be broken off.”

They both knew he would never risk that offense, even for her sake. Hyrule demanded more of them both.

She rose from the table, ignoring Impa’s protest, and returned to her chambers. Folded up in the drawer of her nightstand was the worn piece of paper Link had given her before the first time he left Hyrule. She knew it by heart, but something about his atrocious, ten-year-old handwriting gave her comfort.  

Dear Zelda,

I don’t think you will need this, but just in case, these are the 6 sages who helped seal Ganondorf away. Waking them up will make them change. I don’t really get it, but they have to stay in the Sacred Realm and can’t come out for long.

You’re the leader. It won’t happen to you. But everything is fixed now anyway, so it shouldn’t happen to anyone.

She knew four of the six names that followed. Ruto, her fellow princess, had been a good friend since childhood. She’d visited Goron Chief Darunia as her father’s diplomat, as well as Nabooru, who went by no title but had stepped up to lead the Gerudo after Ganondorf’s downfall. And Impa would make this sacrifice in a heartbeat if Hyrule demanded it.

That was exactly what Zelda feared. Rauru, the Sage of Light, already dwelled in the Sacred Realm—but waking the others meant condemning them to the same half-life. She couldn’t imagine her life without Impa in it. She couldn’t imagine robbing the other tribes of their leaders.

And the last name gave her even more pause. My best friend Saria, Link’s note called her. Another child who had no place on the battlefield. But Zelda was worried about the forest for another reason—while she’d taken steps to secure the Goron’s Ruby and Zora’s Sapphire, she knew nothing of the Kokiri’s Emerald, except that Link had returned it to his people years ago. And if her dream represented Ganondorf or his witch-mothers, the Emerald could very well be their first target.

She was so preoccupied on her way to the stables that she turned the corner and collided with the person she least wanted to see right now—Lord Owen, whose stack of paperwork fell from his hands and scattered across the flagstones.

“My apologies,” Zelda mumbled, cursing her luck as she knelt to help him gather up the papers.

“No, Princess, you’re just the person I wanted to see.” He flashed her a disarming smile that never failed to make her blush. “Commander Impa just gave me the most fearsome glare when I passed her in the hall. Do you have any idea what I did to deserve that?”

Zelda winced. “You aren’t planning any coups, are you?”

He laughed. “I’m not my father.”

And thank Nayru for that. The first time they sat down for tea, she’d half-expected to find poison in her cup—but Owen hadn’t inherited the wartime grudges his late father nurtured against Zelda’s family. He had dark curls, ink-stained fingers, and a scar on his right thumb from his first and last attempt at swordplay. Zelda wished passionately that she could dislike him; it would make things easier.

She passed him the last paper, wondering if she should tell him what her father had said. Surely Owen would say yes; it was an excellent match by anyone’s measure, and he wanted a peaceful Hyrule as much as Zelda did. It didn’t matter what she wanted for herself. It didn’t matter that she could still feel Link’s heart beating under her hands as time slowed down around them.

“Is something wrong?” Owen wondered, genuine concern replacing the charm as he studied her face.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Zelda lied, remembering the storm in her dream and Ganondorf’s sharp smile. But everything feels like it is.

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She was supposed to bring an escort every time she left the castle, but she knew a thousand ways to slip through the guards’ net, and she would savor freedom while she had it. The moment she crossed the drawbridge, she urged her horse into a canter and let him race through the sweet-smelling grass that blanketed Hyrule Field. An hour’s journey south brought her to a huge, hollowed-out tree; beyond it, a suspension bridge swayed in the breeze.

Zelda tethered her horse and crossed the bridge. A long time ago, she’d asked to see the place where Link grew up. His face had done that thing—attempting to smile, preparing to say yes just to make her happy—and she’d retracted the question quickly. Still, she’d always been curious.

Kokiri Village unfolded before her, pretty as a painting. Spring foliage cast the whole place in dappled shade. Zelda nearly mistook the houses for part of the forest before she noticed the carved doorways and rope ladders. A stream gurgled through the clearing; insects teemed in the grass underfoot. Otherwise, silence surrounded her.

Yet Zelda’s Sheikah training told her she wasn’t alone. Of course the Kokiri were apprehensive—they weren’t used to strangers, let alone adults.

“I mean no harm,” she called, raising her empty hands. “I’ve only come to speak with Saria. I…am a friend of Link’s.”

Someone gasped indignantly. “You can’t know Link! You’re a big person. And he left the forest. Kokiri die when they leave the forest.”

She turned towards the sound of the voice. “But he came back to visit you here, didn’t he?”

“That’s impossible!” A freckled boy stepped out from behind a tree trunk, planting his hands on his hips authoritatively.

“It’s all right, Mido,” said a girl with hair as green as the forest, coming forward without fear. A fairy took flight from her shoulder and circled Zelda curiously, returning to whisper something in the girl’s ear. “I’m Saria. You know Link?”

“Yes. My name is Zelda.”

The girl smiled, long and sweet, her blue eyes filling with light. “Zelda. He spoke of you. Come on.”

Mido gaped in confusion as they started down the grassy path. Other children peered out from trees and doorways—not frightened, really, just cautious. What did they know of fear in the cradle of the forest? Strangers were a curiosity, not a threat. Zelda struggled to wrap her mind around the idea. She’d known the word enemy as long as friend.

Saria pointed to a lonely treehouse just off the path. “That one is Link’s.”

Zelda’s feet carried her downhill of their own accord, but she froze at the base of the ladder. She had no right to this place, not without him. Her gaze landed on a drawing carved into the tree bark: a boy with a sword, a misshapen blob that could only be a fairy, and a beast baring its fangs. “Link drew this?”

“Yes,” Saria answered quietly. “He was always…different. The rest of us never dream of such things.”

It would be funny in any other context, just a child’s imagination at work. But it tore Zelda’s heart to shreds to imagine Link picturing himself as a hero, only to become one when he was far too young to understand the cost. One glance at Saria made Zelda’s blood boil with sacrilegious fury. This quiet, doe-eyed girl was the Sage of Forest, he had been forced to wake her—to lose her—just after he’d been flung into adulthood himself.

“So, what can I do for you?” Saria wondered.

Words of Sagehood and sacrifice and duty were on the tip of Zelda’s tongue, ready to pollute this peaceful place, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak them. Instead, she settled for an easier truth. “I came to check on the Kokiri’s Emerald.”

“Ah. That’s a question for the Deku Tree Sprout.”

Sprout? That was new to Zelda. Though her counterpart’s immense restructuring of time had fixed most things in Hyrule, it came too late to bring the old forest guardian back. Saria led her through the village and into a clearing, where the tree’s enormous carcass still stretched high above all other foliage, its bark badly weathered and its open mouth full of creeping vines. Zelda took a few steps forward, looking for some sign of life.

“Down here,” said a voice.

Her hands flew to the twin daggers on her belt before she realized the speaker was a stubby little sapling no higher than her knees, with a smiling mouth and unblinking eyes. A talking tree. Zelda’s world was full of wonders, but she’d seen so few of them. She could feel magic all around her—not like the unnatural sickness that haunted the Shadow Temple, but something deep and strong as the earth.

“You’re new,” the Sprout chirped. “Never met anyone new before!”

“I’m Zelda.”

“The Princess of Destiny! Link spoke of you.”

She knelt before the Sprout, her heart hammering. “He did? You mean—recently? Or when he came to say goodbye?”

“What do you mean?” Saria asked. “I thought Link was in Hyrule with you.”

“No, he…he went into the Lost Woods years ago.”

“Oh.” Saria’s face grew thoughtful, then gradually, grievously sad. The fairy landed on her shoulder, touching a tiny hand to her cheek. “We don’t track time like your people do. But the last time I saw Link, he looked young enough that the other Kokiri still thought he was one of us. If he passed through here afterwards, he did so without saying goodbye. Link doesn’t like saying goodbye.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Zelda agreed quietly, remembering the heartbreak of their last embrace. If a clean break from Hyrule brought him some measure of peace, she couldn’t begrudge him that—she just wished it didn’t hurt so much. “Did…did he leave the Kokiri’s Emerald with you?”

“Almost,” the Sprout said. “But he changed his mind. He said that if a man with evil eyes came looking for the Emerald, I should say it’s nowhere near the forest. He said it was to keep me safe.”

She gazed up at the towering corpse of the Great Deku Tree, the first thing Link had lost. Of course he wanted to stop it from happening again. Either he’d hidden the Emerald elsewhere or still carried it with him—probably the latter, knowing him. Maybe that was for the best. No one could open the Door of Time without all three stones.

“Thank you,” Zelda told the Sprout, rising to her feet.

Saria fell into step beside her as she walked through the village, the spring grass brushing her ankles. There was one last chance to explain the secret that lay sleeping within her—but Zelda’s mind kept circling back to that carving on Link’s treehouse. His stolen future wasn’t so different from what the Sages would experience if she woke them: forever changed, forever unable to go home.

She owed him better than that. She owed him a world where children could remain children.

“I had hoped he was still with you,” Saria confessed. “He always said you made him happy.”

“No. No, I…” Zelda trailed off. I couldn’t save him. But I can save you.

“It’s true. He spoke of you with so much love.”

They paused on the swaying bridge, the village behind them and the wide-open world ahead; it was the same sight Link must have confronted all those years ago. Saria’s words warmed her, if nothing else. Reminded her of the happier times she’d had with him, the summers spent floating side-by-side in the river, the rare gift of his shy smile.

Zelda rested a hand on Saria’s shoulder. “He spoke of you the same way. I’m glad we met.”

A sad smile crossed the girl’s young face. The fairy drifted around them in slow circles, pulsing with gentle light. “If you see him…let him know that Saria is still his friend.”

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Zelda woke to the crash of thunder, half-convinced she’d pulled the dream into reality with her. Rain sheeted down her dark windowpanes. It’s nearly summer, she reminded herself. Storms happen all the time.

But Impa had trained her to listen to her gut. She grabbed the dagger she kept under her pillow and opened the door.

“Princess?” said one of the guards outside, eyeing her nightgown and messy braid.

She ordered him to wake Impa and had the second guard follow her down the quiet hall. The storm hung in the air, heavy and electric; the flagstones were cool and damp under her bare feet. Surely when Zelda turned the corner, her father’s guards would be posted outside his quarters as always, and he’d be snoring contentedly behind the door. Surely the dream was just a dream.

The hallway was empty.

“That’s not a good sign,” began the guard at her back. “Princess, we should—"

But Zelda was already running, careening through the open door and tripping over the bodies sprawled in the entryway: two guards, their eyes wide and empty. Distantly, she felt her own guard grab her arm, trying to pull her back to safety, but she shook him off and stumbled into the bedroom.

A shock of cold rain spattered her face, blown in through the wide window behind her father’s desk. The air reeked of blood. Shattered glass covered the floor, reflecting the flash of lightning that gave Zelda a glimpse of three silhouettes looming against the gaping night.

Golden light erupted from the Triforce of Wisdom, illuminating the wild grin on Ganondorf’s face. Two wizened old women stood on either side of him. But Zelda only looked at Ganondorf, and for a long, breathless moment, he only looked at the glowing symbol on her right hand.

Then Zelda’s gaze slid away and found her father, facedown on the floor.

Magic exploded out of her with all the savagery of the storm. She had no direction, no strategy, just huge currents of raw fury crackling through the room, bright enough to conquer the night. Zelda let it roll forth untamed, pretending that her power was the only thing in the world, pretending her face was only wet with rain, not tears.

Ganondorf’s companions shielded themselves with fire and ice, but he circled the desk lazily, his long crimson hair whipping in the gusts that tore through the room. Movement flickered past Zelda—her guard, forgotten in the chaos, another brave boy she’d dragged into an unwinnable fight. Before she could move, before she could blink, Ganondorf had wrenched the sword from his hands and plunged it through his chest. 

Zelda sobbed, drawing her flimsy dagger and staggering towards him through the swells of magic. Ganondorf had her in three moves: a feint to the left, his fist bashing the dagger from her grip, and his hands fisting in her nightgown as he dragged her to him. Her light flared even stronger in his grasp—compounded by terror and rage—but her fingers scrabbled uselessly over his wrists. Someone was calling for her, the sound muted by the crash of thunder and the constant, desolate refrain: My father is dead. My father is dead.

“You’re no Hylia,” Ganondorf sneered. “You never have been.”

The name stirred something inside her, but Zelda didn’t claim it. He was right. She was a shadow on the wall, a child watching through windows, a dream that went nowhere. She was no one at all.

“Be honest this time, Princess, and perhaps I’ll let you live. Where are Courage and Power?” Ganondorf shook her as though trying to dislodge the words. “Where is the boy?!”

“You’ll never find him,” she gasped. “You’ll never find the Emerald.”

“She’s lying,” said one of the crones. “Take her with us.”

Ganondorf studied Zelda’s face silently. She looked from his hungry eyes to the dim shapes that could only be Kotake and Koume. The Triforce blazed under her skin. She could have sworn she heard her name again, carried on the wind in a voice that made it sound precious.

Link, she thought desperately. Be like Link.

She seized every strand of magic she’d loosed into the room, unleashing them in a scythe that fell between her and Ganondorf. The room plunged back into shadow. Zelda hit the floor hard and scrambled backwards, nearly screaming when hands caught her shoulders, but it was Impa’s voice in her ear, Impa’s firm grip on her freezing skin. Guards flooded past them to converge on the enemy.

But the only thing left in the rain-soaked room was her father’s corpse.

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The argument raged well into the morning. From her perch high above the chamber, Zelda couldn’t decipher the Council members’ expressions—but that tense set to Impa’s shoulders was all too familiar.

She dragged a finger through the raindrops that beaded the windowpane from last night’s storm. Any minute now, someone would discover that she was no longer waiting in her chambers like a good little princess. She couldn’t summon the will to climb down from the rooftops, though. She couldn’t summon much of anything besides the sensation of Ganondorf’s iron fingers and the reek of her father’s blood.

Tears sprang to her sore eyes—it was a wonder she had any left to shed. Even Impa had been weeping when she’d dragged Zelda from the windswept room. That was the last thing she remembered before waking up in her own bed.

Even if she couldn’t hear what was happening in the chamber below, she knew why they hadn’t sent for her. Her father had claimed the throne simply by being the last man standing, not through any ancestral right—and Zelda doubted that even her mother’s goddess-blood would help her now. The Council would do anything to avert another full-scale war; replacing her with a leader they considered more suitable would only be the beginning.

Maybe she should leave them to it. Zelda rubbed her temples, trying to gain some clarity, but all she could see was the empty chair at the head of the Council table. Some of her earliest memories were of sitting there on her father’s lap, listening to the rumble of his voice. He was—had been—the anchor of her life, for better or worse. Perhaps now that he was gone, she should just drift out with the tide.

It wouldn’t be so bad to return to bed, surrender to tears, let someone else shoulder her inheritance. She could discard dresses and duty. She could belong to no one but herself. Maybe she could even go searching for Link.

The last thought made her throat tighten. Below her was Castle Town: the loud market, the bustling streets, a city of innocents who had no idea how much danger they were in. She had brought Link up here one night, hoping the stars would help him sleep the same way they helped her. He’d spent the whole time gazing across the rooftops with so much grief on his young face that Zelda couldn’t stop a question from tumbling out: Would you be happier somewhere else? Do you resent Hyrule?

Link had studied her face for a long time, then reached out to tuck a windswept curl behind her ear with cold, careful fingers. And he’d whispered softly, Zelda, I love it more than anything.

He hadn’t directed those words at the sleeping kingdom. He’d given them to Zelda. And if she loved him too, she couldn’t turn her back on the land he’d saved.

Eyes burning, she swung down from the narrow balustrade and started her descent.

She reached her sitting room just as Owen—who Impa had ordered to keep Zelda company—came back in, his eyes widening as he watched her slip through the window and land lightly on the floor. “Princess, what are you doing?”

“Did you find the moonberries I requested?” she wondered.

“Moonberries don’t exist. As I learned while making a fool of myself in front of the entire kitchen.”

“I’m sorry. I had to get you out of the room so I could go spy on the Council.”

“Golden Goddesses,” he sighed, dropping into an armchair and pushing his dark curls out of his eyes. “Impa’s going to kill me.”

“My father led men into battle the same day my mother died,” Zelda pointed out. “Nothing less was expected of him. I am his heir, and I am being kept from that table.”

“Perhaps people just want to give you time, after…”

“I’ve had nothing but time. I saw this coming. I failed to stop it.” The words tasted like acid. Would things be different if she’d woken the Sages? If she’d been more insistent with her father? A hundred choices, a hundred doors closed.

“What do you mean you saw it coming?” Owen asked.

Zelda sighed, sinking down into the chair opposite him. “I dreamed of a gathering storm eight years ago. And it would have ruined Hyrule if not for…for a friend of mine. He gave me what I needed to convince my father Ganondorf was a threat.”

“Sounds like this friend would be helpful right about now.”

“He…he’s been gone from Hyrule for years. When the dream came again, I tried to be ready without him—but perhaps this was always going to happen. We reap what we sow, and my father…my father was….”

“I understand,” Owen said when she trailed off. “Believe me, I do. None of our fathers survived the war without dirtying their hands.”

Tears were rolling down Zelda’s cheeks again; she wiped them away in frustration. “We can do better, can’t we? We have to do better.”

“Of course we can.” Owen fished around for his handkerchief and passed it to her. He wasn’t just placating her; she could hear the conviction in his voice. The daughter of a conqueror and the son of his nemesis, sharing hope in the wake of grief. That had to mean something. Surely Owen had already considered the idea Zelda was turning around in her mind now; it had been hanging over them both since the day he’d come to court. Maybe this was always going to happen, too.

If it had to be someone—if it couldn’t be Link—

She rose and went numbly into her closet, squeezing past her dresses to reach a floorboard in the corner. Spells unraveled beneath her hands as she pried the board loose. She’d always felt a need to keep the Ocarina of Time nearby, and the King of Thieves was less likely to search a princess’s closet than a high-security vault.

The instrument thrummed with divinity as she picked it up, but she thought less of power and more of its cost: Link’s molten eyes and furious words. It can’t fix death. I’ve tried. Don’t make me try again.

Goddesses, they’d been too young for that conversation—Link treating his life like a rock to be skipped across the river, not caring whether it reached the other side or sank; Zelda holding her breath on the shoreline, waiting and waiting, because a princess was good for nothing else.

The memory contained lessons other than heartbreak, though. First, the Ocarina would not bring her father back. Second, she would not spend another minute waiting—not for him, not for Link, not for anyone.

She reached back into the compartment and drew forth a river of indigo and ink, brightened only by the bloodred Sheikah eye. The suit might have belonged to Impa’s daughter in a different world; now it was Zelda’s, and it fit like a second skin. She wasn’t the Zelda who had lived on the run and watched her kingdom erode—but things could grow that drastic if she let Ganondorf have his way.

Owen’s mouth dropped open as she returned to the sitting room. “Impa won’t kill you,” Zelda promised him as she sheathed a dagger at each hip and started to gather her long hair into a braid. “She’ll be too busy trying to kill me. Besides, she likes you.”

He snorted. “I thought you were the only person Impa liked.”

“No. She may not show it, but she respects people who forge their own paths. You could have come here as your father’s lackey, like he wanted, but instead you kept him and his warmongering friends in check. It’s why I trust you. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you, Princess.”

“Call me Zelda. Please.”

Owen rose from his chair and crossed the distance between them, his eyes dark with worry. “I trust you, Zelda. Will you tell me your plan?”

She finished her braid and tied the band as tight as it would go, gathering her courage. “I’m about to ask a great deal of you.”

“I think Hyrule is doing the asking,” he pointed out ruefully. “And you’re the best answer it could ever hope for. How can I help?”

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Chairs scraped all around the Council chamber when the steward announced her title, followed by Owen’s. Impa was already standing beside the huge map of Hyrule that took up most of the wall. She turned slowly, her hands clenching into fists as she saw what Zelda was wearing.

“Princess,” she murmured.

“Commander,” Zelda replied. A foolish part of her had imagined being welcomed as the heir of a bright tomorrow, her mother’s golden hair shining like a crown, her father’s stubborn chin raised high. But she felt small and desolate and lusterless. She straightened her shoulders, remembering the way Link held himself—so certain of his body, so aware of his surroundings—and addressed the Council.

“Time is short, so allow me to guess at your line of thinking. Ganondorf fled after killing my father because he lacked the forces to seize the castle. By throwing us into leaderless chaos, he’s bought himself time to marshal the Gerudo. You plan to deprive him of that chance.”

“The army is preparing to march as we speak,” Impa said crisply. “We have to strike before they leave the valley.”

“Nabooru is our ally. She prevented Ganondorf’s supporters from rebelling after we captured him.”

“And perhaps she’ll try to do the same now,” another Council member allowed. “But Ganondorf is king by virtue of being the only man born to the Gerudo. Tradition is powerful; so is the revenge he offers his people.”

“Attacking now means convicting an entire people of one man’s crime,” Owen protested. “We have no way of knowing how the Gerudo will react to what Ganondorf did.”

“Unless we get inside that fortress,” Zelda added, lifting the Ocarina of Time. Impa’s face drained of color. Zelda was more focused on the Council: some members looked impressed, others skeptical, but all were listening. “I have no authority until you coronate me. I am not here to talk you off your chosen path—most of you have seen war; none of you take the prospect of starting another one lightly. All I ask for is a day. Wait until dawn to make your move.”

One of her father’s oldest rivals scoffed. “With all due respect, Princess, you said it yourself—we’ve scarcely begun to discuss the succession. In times like this, a more experienced leader—”

“Perhaps you’re right. You’ll have a whole day for that debate. I’ll entrust my interests to my fiancé, Lord Owen.”

A few seconds of silence—then every person started talking at once. Zelda turned her back and left them to it; if she froze here, she would never move again.

“Good luck,” she told Owen, extending her hand to him, lest the Council doubt she was speaking the truth. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, but it was only when he squeezed her hand between his that Zelda realized how badly she’d needed to feel another person’s warmth, if only for a brief second.

“You too,” Owen said, his dark eyes shifting to the challenge ahead. “You’ve done me an honor, Zelda. I’ll endeavor to be worthy of it.”

The sound of the Council’s argument followed her out into the hall. She only made it a few steps before the door flew open again. “Zelda, I cannot let you do this,” Impa said desperately.

“I’m sorry, Impa, but I’m not asking permission.”

Impa stepped into her path, her face weary and wretched. “Do you not trust me?”

“I trust you like I trust the sunrise. I’m just approaching the problem differently.”

“You are grieving. None of this needs to be your concern. Zelda, please, I failed your father. I won’t fail you.”

Zelda pulled her into an embrace, still clutching the Ocarina tightly in one hand. Impa hugged her back stiffly—she was all hard muscles and rough leather armor, and she never seemed sure of how to hold anything besides a blade—yet she still felt like the safest place in the world.

“You haven’t failed anyone, Impa. There’s a version of me who was far younger when she lost her father and her kingdom. But she was strong, because she had an Impa too—and when fate demanded it, they were strong enough to let each other go. Do you think you can let me go?”

Impa never spoke of her losses; she’d packed them all into that dusty cottage in Kakariko and left her hometown without looking back. But now more than ever, Zelda felt her grief stretching out between them on a silent string. When she pulled back, there were tears in Impa’s eyes.

“Only if you promise to return,” Impa choked out.

“I will,” Zelda swore, and in the sunlit hallway, they let each other go.

She kept walking until she was out in the breezy spring air, standing in a flower garden that bloomed with color. It took only a moment to glamour her eyes red and pull up her cowl. Then she raised the Ocarina to her lips and played the Requiem of Spirit.

She’d once asked Link how it felt to travel on the notes of a song that shivered with power. Like falling, he’d answered vaguely, his voice tight and stressed in a way that silenced her questions. Zelda hadn’t imagined he meant that literally.

The garden swept away before her eyes, and nothing replaced it, nothing but an awful white emptiness with no light and no air and no signs of life. Zelda plummeted through it alone, squeezing her eyes shut and finding that the gaping void was still visible behind her lids.

And then the world slammed back into place around her. The Desert Colossus loomed just ahead, a stone woman with her palms turned up to the clear sky. Zelda clutched her temples and gasped for breath. Link did that when he was a child.

Feeling sick to her stomach, she turned her back on the Colossus and headed in the opposite direction. Though the sun beat down ruthlessly, she would be half-blind once she entered the wasteland of sand and storms that lay between her and Gerudo Valley.  Impa could open her Mind’s Eye almost effortlessly. The spell was harder for Zelda to cast, half as experienced and lacking any Sheikah blood, but after a few minutes, she could see through the haze clearly enough to find the first flagpole marker.

It took at least an hour to reach the rocky ridge that separated the valley from the desert. By the time Zelda climbed to the top and spotted the cluster of sandstone buildings that made up Gerudo Fortress, she was drenched in sweat and panting with exhaustion. She tucked herself behind a boulder for a moment of rest.

Not much later, a voice reached her across the ridge, as old and cracked as the red earth. “We’ll be back by daybreak tomorrow, with a gift you won’t believe!”

Peering out from her hiding place, Zelda could see three figures through the heat waves that shimmered up from the ground. She would have known them anywhere, and still the reply—low and dangerous—sent chills up her spine. “So I am to do the work while you fly around spouting cryptic nonsense? Perhaps that’s the reason we failed last time.”

“We failed because we didn’t anticipate the girl and the boy,” said one of the witches sourly, hovering over him on her broom. “She’s predictable—no doubt she’ll make some final stand with the Six Sages and fall right into your lap. And he hasn’t been seen in years.”

“He has the Emerald,” Ganondorf snapped. “The Door of Time won’t open without—”

The other witch interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Your obsession with the Triforce blinds you. Who needs it? You have the Gerudo, whether they like it or not, and soon you’ll have our surprise. We’re making up for eight years of birthday presents, Ganny!”

To Zelda’s absolute shock, they reached out to muss Ganondorf’s hair and dodged his attempt to swat at them. Cackling laughter bounced off the valley walls as the witches took flight. Zelda pressed herself to the boulder, but they didn’t soar towards or away from her—she felt the telltale tug of powerful magic, and when she poked her head back up, Ganondorf stood alone.

He stalked back towards the fortress irritably. Zelda disliked surprises too, particularly when they came from Kotake and Koume. One glance at the guards patrolling the fortress and the valley told her she’d be spotted instantly if she tried to get closer in broad daylight. With a sigh for lost time, Zelda raised the Ocarina and played the cheerful notes of the Sun’s Song.

This one wasn’t so bad, thank Nayru—just disorienting. In the blink of an eye, she stood in darkness, cold wind tugging at her braid. As soon as she was sure the coast was clear, she scurried towards the place where the witches had disappeared.

The glow was so soft, so much like natural moonlight, that her eyes passed over it several times: a doorway of pale light, bending the fabric of nature. Zelda inched closer, her heart pounding. She couldn’t see much through the wavering magic. She could only feel a faint current of air drifting through the doorway, strangely humid against her skin—and it smelled nothing like the desert at all.

It smelled like another world.

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Zelda’s hands trace the shape of the door as she speaks—she’s a good storyteller, especially compared to the way Link stumbles through everything. He can almost pretend they’re talking about imaginary tragedies in some faraway land, not the events that ended with her dressed in mourning black on a lonely throne. But he knows exactly where that door led, even though it’s something he’d like to forget.

He reaches for her hands after they fall still in her lap. She’s cold to the touch, even though magic could keep her warm without much effort. The stables have grown dim in the fading dusk; someone will be along to feed the horses any minute now.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Link says. “And I know you, Zelda. I know you’re blaming yourself. Please don’t.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “But I—”

“You did everything right. Protecting the Ocarina and the Spiritual Stones. Moving Ganondorf to…” His mouth goes dry at the thought of the Shadow Temple. “You couldn’t have predicted Kotake and Koume.”

But Zelda still looks at him with the same regret he saw in her counterpart’s eyes before she sent him home. Link wishes he could lift it away, carry it for her, the way he did for those lost souls in Termina. All he can do is gather her into his arms. She doesn’t pull away; nor does she relax.

“You can say it,” he murmurs.

Her voice cracks around the confession. “I wanted you here.”

“I should have been here. I should have killed him the first time I saw him.”

“When you were ten? Link, you were the one who warned me what would happen if we executed him outright. You saw him crushed beneath his own castle, and you saw him rise again as a beast only the Master Sword could slay. If I’m not allowed to blame myself, then neither are you.”

He swallows down the urge to argue. “I just—I never thought you’d have to face him. Or use the Ocarina.”

Zelda lets out a long breath, warm against his collarbone, and he holds her tighter. “It did help me understand you a little better. There’s a loneliness to doing what everyone else is too afraid to do. And then living with it afterwards—I haven’t figured out that part yet.”

“I’d love to hear it when you do,” Link jokes, and she chuckles into his shirt, though there’s nothing funny about it at all. “I don’t know, Zelda. You just…hold onto whatever you can.”

He’s not even sure what he means, or why she should listen to someone who’s spent a decade running from all the things he can’t handle—a privilege she’s never had, given her station. But when Zelda pulls back to see his face, her eyes are full of understanding.

Link almost unspools his heart here and now, almost says that she was the one he held onto longer and harder than anything else. That even when time eroded the exact sound of her voice or that thoughtful crease between her brows, he always remembered the steel blue promise of her eyes.

But the sun’s getting low, and the castle must be waiting for its queen. The walls between them are crumbling, though. He can sense it with every word they speak. Maybe Zelda feels the same, because she holds his hand the whole walk home.

Link spends another night on her sofa. The castle’s overflowing with people escaping the cold weather, but when she offers to try and find him a room, he sits down with all the stubborn weight of a Goron. Zelda gives him a wavery smile and retreats to bed.

Breakfast the next morning feels shockingly normal. He can’t stop watching her hands—feeding the baby, spreading butter over her toast, curling around her teacup. He’s as hopeless as he was in the Other Hyrule, mesmerized by those slender fingers as they danced along the lyre’s strings, wanting so badly to ask where she got her scars.

“Did I ever tell you about Sheik?” Link blurts out.

Zelda raises her pale eyebrows. “No.”

He takes a generous bite of toast to buy himself time. Where did that come from? Now she’s watching him curiously, and not so long ago, he would have died to spend this quiet morning across the table from her. Doesn’t that mean he owes her the truth now?

“The—the other Zelda,” he continues slowly. “She disguised herself as a Sheikah too.”

Her expression grows very careful. They’ve only spoken of her counterpart a handful of times over the years. “I suppose that makes sense—she was hiding from Ganondorf. But…even around you?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know where Zelda was, but Sheik…really helped me.”

That doesn’t begin to cover it. Even after a lifetime without Sheik, Link doesn’t understand the secrets and longing and guilt that got tangled up between them. Hyrule was a blackened shell of itself, and he was a child crouched inside the body of an adult, and Navi did her best by him under the worst circumstances. But it was Sheik who gave him something to look forward to as he trudged from temple to temple. There was no time to process that she and Zelda were the same until he lost them both—first to Ganondorf, then to cruel fate.

It's been so hard to take the second chance she gave him without feeling like a traitor. But when the Zelda he grew up with slides her hand across the table, it’s still her: no Sheikah bandages, no silk gloves, but the same strong grip tightening around his.

“She would be proud of what you did,” Link says, striving to keep his voice steady. “So am I.”

“Thank you, Link.” Zelda squeezes his hand—and is he imagining things, or is she blushing? He ducks his head, turning his attention back to his breakfast.

A serving woman comes to bring the baby to the nursery, sending curious glances at Link, but Zelda looks unworried about whatever rumors might follow. She just stretches her arms over her head and says happily, “My first meeting isn’t until eleven.”

It’s an offering to continue where she left off. Link would rather hear about how she stopped Ganondorf than revisit the next chapter of his own story, but she deserves to know how closely they were intertwined, even with worlds standing between them.

“About the doorway you saw in the desert,” he murmurs. “I…I know where it led.”

“You do?” Zelda drops her arms. “Wait…Kotake and Koume haven’t been seen since then. Did you have something to do with that?”

Link’s right eye aches with remembered pain. He takes a breath and meets Zelda’s gaze. “Yeah, I did.”

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The dream always began with rain on Link’s face and the creak of the Castle Town drawbridge. Zelda, he whispered, expecting to see her horse emerge from the night; instead he blinked and found himself in a room of broken glass.

She was a star come to earth, her white nightgown whipping around her legs, her golden hair crackling in the currents of electricity that poured from her center. The look of devastation on her face made Link stumble forward through the storm, calling her name—but the dream slipped through his grasp, and when he opened his eyes, he was alone.

Reality returned in pieces: morning light drifting into the hayloft, animals snuffling below. Cremia was still dismayed that Link had politely refused to sleep in the ranch house the past two nights, but the weather was warm enough, and he was not about to bring his nightmares through her door.

And those were worse than ever. Not just falling moons and ticking clocks now, but Zelda and the enemy. It couldn’t mean anything—she was safe in this lifetime—but it made him even more desperate to get home. Except home still lay on the other side of a forest that might either leech his life away or toss him into a different world. Comically shitty options, Tatl had said the one time he’d broached the subject with her.

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Link descended the ladder and let the animals out to graze. The sky was clear azure, the moon nowhere in sight. Termina. He still couldn’t process it; his thoughts slammed into a wall every time he thought beyond the chores he’d asked Cremia to fill his hands with while he gave Epona time to rest.

Romani was practicing with her makeshift targets again. “Breakfast soon,” she told Link as he passed by, smiling at him in a way that made him want to neaten his sleep-mussed appearance.

He nodded, his gaze straying to the bow in her hand: a real weapon of fine yew, not the flimsy thing she’d used as a kid.

“My eyes are up here,” Romani teased.

“Wh—I wasn’t—”

“You want to show me what you’ve got?”

She held out the bow, eyebrows raised. After a moment’s hesitation, Link accepted it, rolling back his shoulders and testing the draw before he plucked an arrow from the bucket where she stored them. His first arrow missed, but each one that followed landed true; the bow felt light and powerful and good in his hands, a moment of clarity after weeks in the mud. He ran out of targets all too quickly.

“Wow,” Romani breathed.

Link shrugged and gave her back the bow. She peered up at him with such blatant curiosity that the back of his neck burned. He couldn’t help but see Malon and Zelda in her blue eyes, and it made him long for a thousand things he couldn’t have.

Cremia called them inside for omelets and cheesy potatoes. That was one of Termina’s more bearable traits: food, always available and always delicious, thanks to the sisters’ endless kindness.

Later that morning, Skull Kid came scampering onto the ranch with the fairies. To Link’s surprise, the workers seemed to find him funny, even endearing. Surely they didn’t realize this little creature’s connection to the moonfall—how could they? Skull Kid seemed so happy, so untouched by his time as the mask’s thrall that it mystified Link.  

“Hey,” Tatl greeted as she landed on the edge of the basin Link was using to wash his laundry. “Did you know Romani’s glancing at you longingly from across the field?” His glare only made her giggle. “What? She liked you even back then, you know.”

“I’m not staying,” he said evenly.

“I know. But, hey…before you go, there are some things I really want to tell you.”

There was plenty Link should say too, about how grateful he was, how sorry he was, but all those words moved like magma through his veins, threatening to crack him open. It had never stopped burning, and now that he was an hour’s ride from Clock Town—

“Link, you’re going to scrub that shirt to pieces.”

He forced out a shaky laugh, gripping the edge of the washboard and glancing up at the clear sky. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be ready.”

“How can you be ready? How can you stand it here? This place—we got out, Tatl. I never thought I’d be back. I hate looking at—” Link made a gesture that encompassed the ranch, Clock Town, the distant shape of Snowhead. “At any of it.”

“I did too, at first. Honestly, none of us were okay. We spent a lot of time in the Lost Woods, talking the whole thing through…but Termina has been Skull Kid’s home for so long. And we decided to make it mean something good, despite all the bad. You know…you were the one who taught me to think that way.”

Link’s laugh was bitter this time. It was one thing to see the good in Hyrule, where he’d fought beside friends and fallen in love. Termina had been just as worthy of saving, he knew that, but he still carried an unfathomable anger towards every inch of this world. Right now, the morning was beautiful and bright; Cremia was weeding the garden in a floppy sun hat; Romani was giggling at Skull Kid while he played with the dog. Link couldn’t square any of it with all the nights he’d spent fending off ghosts until his fingers grew numb on the bowstring. He couldn’t square Romani’s joy with the memory of her terrible fate in the one cycle where he’d failed to save her.

At least one thing was constant: he didn’t need to make sense of this place. He only needed to get out.

The afternoon heat drove Skull Kid and the fairies back to their shady forest. Not much later, someone rode through the ranch gate on the back of an old mule—probably a peddler, though there seemed to be some kind of commotion when Cremia and Romani went to greet him. Link tried to ignore it until the sisters stormed into the barn while he was mucking stalls.

“She could be anywhere,” Cremia was saying. “She could’ve snuck off with a boy.”

Romani scoffed, stuffing arrows into her quiver and reaching for her horse’s tack. “Without telling her father? No way.”

“I snuck off without telling Dad all the time.”

Romani rounded on Link. “You! If a friend of yours disappeared without a word, would you go looking for her?”

He remembered standing in that silent temple, watching a sunbeam swallow Navi’s blue glow, and nodded reluctantly. Romani gave Cremia a triumphant look. Link kept his head down as they argued over safety and sacrifice and loyalty, trying to remind himself that their problems were not his problems.

But his gaze strayed through the barn’s open doors. The visitor’s mule grazed placidly at the edge of the field. Its rider leaned against the ranch house’s exterior, staring off into space without drinking the glass of lemonade someone had put in his hand.

It was Pamela’s father, and there was only one reason he would look that afraid.

Link gripped his pitchfork hard enough to hurt. Dear Zelda, began another letter he would never send, I can’t do this. I have to do this.

“I’ll go with you,” he said aloud.

The sisters stopped mid-argument to gape at him.

“I can fight.” Link glanced between their faces, a desperate part of him searching for some recollection of what he’d done for them.

“Are you sure?” Romani asked carefully. “You don’t even know Pamela.”

Link glanced back at the man who had turned into a shambling monster due to his own folly. You had a bad dream, Pamela had said afterwards, still protecting him when he should have been protecting her. You were just having a little nightmare. As if she hadn’t been living a nightmare too.

But I fixed that, Link thought. Why doesn’t anything stay fixed?

“I know she needs help,” he said finally. “That’s enough.”

Cremia grabbed Romani by the shoulders. “I know I can’t stop you. But I also can’t lose you. The moment you’re in over your head, get out.” She looked at Link pleadingly. “Keep her safe.”

He nodded, then climbed up to the hayloft to assemble his inventory. Sword, bow, Hookshot, bombs…Farore, he missed his shield; he’d abandoned it in the Lost Woods to spare Epona the weight. Old instincts made him reach into the hidden pocket sewn into the bottom of his pack, feeling around until he found the Kokiri’s Emerald, warm with ancient power. The Great Deku Tree had entrusted it to Link; that still meant enough that he didn’t like to be separated from it for long. As he pulled it out, his fingers brushed a different object.

It's been a while, boy.

Link jerked to his feet, dropping the pack and spilling its contents across the floor. Though the masks were all swathed in paper, he knew which of the four had spoken. He pocketed the Kokiri’s Emerald and counted to twenty before he made himself reach for the Fierce Deity.

Something made him pull the wrappings aside rather than put the horrible thing out of sight. Despite the moon-pale skin and silver hair, the mask still resembled Link’s own face to an unsettling degree. This thing had allowed him to slaughter Majora with a heedless violence that frightened him to remember. Putting it on might unravel the fear that twisted through his guts every minute he spent in Termina—but if the mask had awoken that much rage inside him as a child, it would find a banquet of weakness to feast upon now. Link couldn’t take that chance.

Aren’t you tired?

His hands flinched towards his ears, as though the voice wasn’t booming through his very skull—silent and deafening all at once.

Haven’t you been tired for a long time? Use me. My strength is infinite.

Infinite and deadly. It would turn Link into something monstrous, something even Zelda might not recognize: a creature of wrath and ruin with no home but the battlefield.

Child, the Fierce Deity sneered, isn’t that who you already are?

Another voice—Romani calling to see if he was ready, her words reaching him as though he was underwater. She couldn’t come up here. She couldn’t see the masks. Link broke contact with the Deity’s empty eyes, snatching up the paper and concealing its face again. Then he reached for the others, scattered around the dusty floor. Mikau stung like salt in a wound; Darmani was cold desolation; the Deku Scrub drove splinters under his skin.

Link buried the masks at the bottom of his pack and shoved the whole thing into a corner. Romani called for him again. He searched his hands for cuts, burns, any evidence of what he’d just felt—but all he could see were long-healed scars. The pain had left no trace at all.

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“Something is wrong in Ikana,” Pamela’s father said when the red walls of the canyon came into view.

Tatl would have laughed at the understatement. Ghosts, Gibdos, curses, and always the sense of something watching you from the shadows. Link threaded his fingers through Epona’s mane to avoid reaching for his sword.

“I thought things had gotten better around here,” Romani replied, looking relieved to break the silence that had blanketed their ride so far.

“For years, yes. There were still Gibdos and other phenomena to study, but our readings were stable for a long time. Now they’re more volatile than during that business with the moon.”

“So you think Pamela went to investigate.”

“I’m nearly certain of it,” the researcher said despondently. “No one’s seen her in Clock Town. She’s been wanting to go deeper into the canyon for weeks. I should have known she’d grow tired of hearing no. I should have known.”

From the sour look on Romani’s face, she was thinking the same thing. “Pammy’s last letter to me spoke of an eerie feeling that’s settled over Ikana. Though, honestly, it’s always seemed eerie to me.”

Link couldn’t agree more. There was beauty here, with the way the canyon’s rocky arms cradled the sunset—but the shadows were growing long with secrets, and Epona kept swiveling her ears in every direction as the cool wind howled around them. He wished suddenly for Tatl to be here, cracking some sardonic joke that made everything less frightening.

The researcher pointed up at Ikana Castle as they rode past, all crumbling stone and chipped paint. “The worst of the activity seems to be concentrated there.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Romani asked impatiently.

“Things grow far worse at night. Believe me, I’m reluctant enough to drag you two into danger. The least we can do is wait until it’s safest.”

Romani scowled unhappily, but she wasn’t the imprudent type. Link was, though. He’d play along and slip out after they fell asleep. The Music Box House was thankfully silent, with no Gibdos to drive away; he and Romani tended to the animals while the researcher stepped inside to cook them dinner.

“You’ve been here before?” Link asked.

“Yes. I heard there was someone who studies ghosts, which is…useful to me.” Romani paused, scrutinizing him over Epona’s back, but he focused pointedly on unbuckling the girth. After a moment, she continued. “I felt bad for Pamela. Between you and me…I don’t think growing up in this place has been good for her. So I visit when I can, and we write letters in the meantime. Anyway, thanks for coming. Not many people would volunteer for something like this.”

The researcher insisted on giving his bedroom to Link, claiming he would sleep in the basement instead, though fifty Rupees said he was actually burying himself in work down there. Link lay across the end of the bed with his legs dangling over the edge, only intending to wait a few minutes until Romani fell asleep in Pamela’s room. But the mattress felt so divine…

The next thing he knew, she stood golden-haired in the valley sun, her chin raised fiercely, her eyes shifting from red to blue. A grinning shadow lurked between them. And then Link was back at the gates of Castle Town, caught in the current, too small and slow and weak to do anything but watch her disappear into a storm that would last seven years.

He bolted upright in the researcher’s room. Was Zelda in danger? Why else did he keep dreaming of the night he’d first lost her? Nothing had gone right after that—unwilling slumber for him, oceans of guilt for her, and only a goodbye waiting at the end. A part of Link would always be standing under that boundless blue sky, all of his unrealized love drowning beneath a helpless desire to accept Zelda’s gift, to get something back, for Hyrule and for himself.

When fate first brought him back to that flower garden, the lack of recognition in her eyes had felt like losing her all over again. But that seemed so trivial after all this time apart. Maybe Link was the ruined past and she was the golden future, with no bridge between them, but she was still Zelda. He could not understand why he’d left her so many times. Missing her felt like missing a lung.

But he had to keep breathing somehow. He’d made sure Hyrule was safe this time around; the dream couldn’t be more than a dream. And there was someone in this world who needed him.

Judging by the hateful moon, Link hadn’t slept long. No one heard him sneak downstairs and out the door. The canyon wind had grown brutally cold; he moved quickly to keep warm, walking along the outer wall of Ikana Castle until he found the hole he’d entered through years ago. Someone had nailed boards over the opening since then, but several had been pried off and left in the dirt, allowing Link to slip inside.

As soon as his eyes adjusted, he knew he wasn’t alone. Four shapes stood in the darkness, still as statues, but a brief lurch of childish panic told him they were ReDeads. Only the thought of Pamela kept his sword sheathed; one scream from those creatures might wake whatever lurked in the castle and put her in danger.

Sheik had taught him how to harness the shadows, how to master his reckless inclinations. He’d never been more grateful for her teachings—far more ReDeads and Gibdos lurked around the castle than he remembered, though sneaking past the undead was child’s play compared to the two Gerudo strongholds he’d infiltrated.  

Link reached the second level without a sign of Pamela. He vaguely recalled using his Deku Scrub form for the next part, but maybe following the parapet around would get him somewhere. Pulling himself onto the walkway, he paused at the sight of a ReDead blocking his path.

The bastard was just standing there, releasing the occasional eerie moan that evoked more annoyance than fear right now. As Link reached slowly for an arrow, either the movement or the sound of his fingers brushing the fletching caught the ReDead’s attention. He looked up just in time to meet its awful stare as the creature parted its jaws and screamed.

Every muscle in Link’s body froze. For a second that lasted eternities, there was nothing in the world but the shambling corpse and the terror gaping inside him like a wound. He was in the blackened ruin once called Castle Town; he was choking on mud at the bottom of Kakariko’s well—and then he was wrenching free, the Triforce of Courage thrumming under his skin. His arrow found the ReDead’s throat.

But the silence was already broken. When he reached the place where the parapet rejoined the other side of the castle, the dead were waiting. Link held onto the high ground as long as he could, his arrows striking enemy after enemy, but within minutes they were clustered around his vantage point, reaching for him with cold, grasping hands.

He gritted his teeth and leapt into the seething crowd, casting Din’s Fire and landing in a ferocious blast that tore through the enemies all around him. Still more crept forth from the castle’s second floor. Link drew the Gilded Sword, slashed through a ReDead’s bloodless chest, and severed a Gibdo’s mummified head from its neck.

Cloaked shadows flitted forward—Garo, their eyes cold and bright as the moonlit blades at their sides. Link felt a brief jolt of fear; he’d never fought them without a shield, and they were far tougher and faster than the other monsters. But he caught the first Garo’s whirling attack easily, his blade strong and his feet light, and realized the thrill of the challenge.

He hadn’t enjoyed a good fight since that fire boar in the last world. It made his blood sing, narrowed the world down to something clear-cut and sensible. Link should’ve been worrying about Pamela, about why there were so many monsters, about his own safety—but he only saw his enemies and the stars scattered overhead.

“That’s enough of that, boy!”

Fire crashed down from the sky, making Link stagger backwards. Moon rubble, he thought in panic, reaching for an Ocarina he hadn’t carried in years. But the sky was calm except for the two dark shapes plummeting down from it.

At first, he thought they were crows or Guays—he would take any monster, familiar or not, over this reality. They descended on broomsticks, white-haired and older than sin and grinning madly, gemstones gleaming on their brows: one ruby, one sapphire.

No, Link thought, the word slamming a frantic beat against his ribcage. No, no, no.

“Another mouse has wandered in, Koume,” one witch chuckled. She wore the golden-beaked mask of a Garo Master, yet he knew that underneath her face was identical to her twin’s. 

“So it seems, Kotake. Shall I do the honors?”

This wasn’t possible. Kotake and Koume had vanished from Hyrule; the two hags who lived in Termina’s swamp only resembled Ganondorf’s mothers. Just as the ranch sisters resembled Malon, and Lulu resembled Ruto, and Anju resembled—

But only the witches carried the same names in both worlds.

Ice rained down from above, forcing Link back into his body. Farore help him, he didn’t have a shield, let alone one designed to repel magic. He reached for his bow, dodging their attacks in search of a good angle.

“He’s making this fun!” Kotake cackled, gathering ice in her palms. He sidestepped the blast, took aim, and sent a fire arrow into her forearm. Her laughter cut off in a shriek.

At least Link had the advantage of surprise. That cleared his head enough for a realization: if the witches had traveled here from Hyrule, they might have a way back.

Koume swept to her sister’s aid with a blast of fire. He rolled out of her path, but they were already retreating as the dead seeped forth from the castle, even after he’d felled a dozen of their brethren. Link felt hyperaware of everything: his depleted magic reserves, the cramped space, the fact that he didn’t have Navi or Tatl watching his back. All he could do was raise his sword, the Triforce glowing under his skin.

“Wait a moment,” one of the witches said. “That’s no ordinary mouse.”

Everything went still. The Garo that had been stalking towards Link froze in its tracks. The ReDeads and Gibdos stood like pale shadows. Link put his back to the open parapet, turning to face the witches. The mask Kotake wore was the same kind he’d used his last time in Ikana, but it only protected him from the dead; he’d never been able to control them.

“The mark of Courage,” Kotake said in disbelief, barking out a laugh that her sister echoed. “This is too good to be true!”

“I thought—” Link’s voice cracked. “You sold potions and did swamp tours. You were…kind to me.”

“Kind? If we’d met the boy who ruined all our plans, we would have turned him to ashes!” Koume scoffed.

“I helped you,” he snapped, suddenly furious at her, at everyone who had ever forgotten him. “The—the moon was falling. Skull Kid left you bleeding in the woods.”

The sisters exchanged glances and burst into another round of cackling that seemed to last forever. If Link was smart, he would kill them while they were distracted—but there was a desperation shuddering through him, a sense that he was closer to home than he had been in years. Dead women couldn’t answer questions.

“We had him right within reach, Koume, and we didn’t realize!”

“Better that way, Kotake. We were weak as kittens back then!” The witch jabbed a finger at Link. “By all the Eight…the drudgery we’ve endured in this stupid land, thanks to you!”

“How did you get here?” Link demanded. “And where’s Pamela?”

Kotake reached under her mask to wipe away her giddy tears—and then her hands shot out, sending a scythe of ice arcing towards him. He dodged, reaching for his bow, but searing pain made him drop the weapon as it burst into flames. Backing away, he raised his sword instead, his gaze flashing from the witches to the dead as they started to creep towards him.

Koume darted past, missing a clumsy slash of Link’s sword—then Kotake rose beneath the terrible moon, laughing the same way she’d laughed after dragging Nabooru into seven years of hell. Then all he felt was cold, and pain, and oblivion.

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The dream came—the valley, the shadow, Zelda’s red-blue eyes—and left him empty upon waking. Link lay on his side with his hands bound to the iron legs of a huge brazier. His head pounded like a Goron’s drum. The chamber was blurry but familiar: Ikana’s throne room, with cracked stone flooring and two high windows that let the moonglow in.

There was another source of light: a strange doorway surrounded by a frame of ice that wavered in front of the dais, bright enough to multiply the pain in his head. He dragged himself upright, testing his ropes and finding them unyielding. At least the compass still rested against his heart—but his weapons were gone. Even worse, he didn’t feel the weight of the Kokiri’s Emerald in his pocket.

“Fuck,” Link muttered. Navi would scold him for such language. Tatl had taught him that bad situations deserved words with teeth.

“You’re awake.”

He flinched as the speaker sat up from behind another brazier. Seeing Romani grown up hadn’t been so strange, but in his mind, Pamela remained that frightened little girl defending her father. She was a teenager now, with short dark hair and surprisingly hard eyes, though the smatter of freckles across her face still made her look terribly young.

“Where are the witches?” Link asked.

“Probably still celebrating their luck,” Pamela answered tartly. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m here to help.”

She eyed his bound hands. “How’s that going so far?”

He chuckled, then winced in pain; he definitely had a concussion. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. What’s that magic thing near the throne?”

“No idea. You can see stuff through it if you watch for a while.”

Link squinted at the glowing doorway until its surface shimmered. Pamela was right; there was something on the other side. Something that made his heart stop short.

A cluster of sandstone buildings lay below, glimpsed from a high enough vantage point that he could see the valley beyond, where glittering water plummeted down the dark cliffs and snaked out towards a wide-open field. Silhouetted against the starry horizon was a volcano ringed by clouds, blurred by the tears that sprang to Link’s eyes.

He whispered the word like a prayer: “Hyrule.”

“That’s right,” one of the witches chuckled. “But you won’t be seeing it again.”

They glided into the chamber and landed before Link. With the end of her broomstick, Koume began to trace glowing symbols on the floor around him—Gerudo words, he realized, though he couldn’t read them and didn’t care to try. Nor did he watch Kotake’s approach. The only thing in his world was the doorway to Hyrule. His pulse pounded with all the violence of waves crashing against their home shore.

“The Goddesses do have a sense of humor,” Kotake said, tipping up his chin with the point of a silver dagger. Behind the Garo Master’s mask, her gaze followed the tears that rolled down his face. “It was the traitor Nabooru and your king’s hounds who drove us to the ends of Hyrule—yet you pointed them in our direction, didn’t you? It took everything we had to carve our way to safety. We’ve been so patient, learning what this land has to offer—and now you’ve come at the perfect time.”

“The dead,” Link said faintly. “You’re going to bring them to Hyrule.”

“Indeed we are. All that magic requires a bit of fuel. It could have been anyone. It was going to be that girl.” Pamela shrank into herself, but Kotake never looked away from Link. “But you…what a gift your death will make to King Ganondorf.”

He couldn’t turn his head without risking the dagger’s bite, but he could hear the dead shuffling into the corridor that led into the throne room. Something about it made him sick, all those restless souls made into puppets, like Skull Kid had been to Majora.

“Not just his death,” Koume reminded her sister. She was at Link’s back now, halfway through the circle of spells she was surrounding him with. “His Triforce will find a more worthy bearer as well. And he was kind enough to bring us the Kokiri’s Emerald too.”

Link pulled on the ropes; Kotake pressed the blade into his skin hard enough for blood to trickle down his neck. He couldn’t break free through his own strength, but he still had a little magic simmering under his skin.

He thought of the smell of Kokiri Forest when it rained. He thought of Castle Town bustling with all the lives he’d saved. He thought of—

Movement in the glowing window. It wasn’t just the sleeping kingdom he saw this time. Someone crouched on the other side, inspecting the doorway.

A long blond braid spilled over the shoulder of her Sheikah clothes. And it didn’t matter that shadows sheltered her and a cowl covered half her face—Link had known her masked before. He would know her beyond the grave.

Zelda.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, but the sobs were wrenching through him one after another now. She’d always been the best and worst pain. This couldn’t be real. This was asking too much. Her name burned in his throat, a miracle, a golden thread that had led him close enough to touch her. If Link called to her, he would only put her in more danger—and she was already in so much, considering what was about to come through the portal if he allowed it.

He couldn’t allow it.

In this very throne room, a withered old king had taught him the saddest song he’d ever heard. I grant you a soldier with no heart. One who will not falter in the darkness.

Link tried to become that now. Kotake’s dagger was cold against his skin. Koume was back in his line of vision, the Kokiri’s Emerald glinting in her free hand as she etched the last line in her circle of spells. The portal’s surface rippled with power.

On the other side, Zelda flinched to her feet and backed away, disappearing from view. He shuddered, not sure if he should be grateful or devastated that he wouldn’t be able to see her for what came next. Dear Zelda, he started, but the letter went nowhere; he’d always been awful at saying goodbye.

He slammed his palms against the floor and cast Din’s Fire with all his remaining strength. Huge waves of flame billowed out around him, and as Kotake fell, Link rose.

Charred ropes slid from his wrists. He threw himself at the witch, ripping the mask from her face; Koume seemed barely affected by the blast of her own element, but before she could react, Link already had the silver dagger pressed to her sister’s throat.

“Close the portal or I kill her,” he ordered Koume.

“Ha! You’re bluffing.”

“I’ve done it before.” His voice was shaking badly, but there was force in it, and there was real fear in Kotake’s eyes. “Both of you merged together couldn’t stop me. You don’t remember, but I do.”

“What are you blabbing about, boy?”

“I know the name Twinrova. I know that only your fire will melt her ice. I beat your king twice. How do you think I proved his guilt? How do you think I stopped the moon from falling? I had the Ocarina of Time.”

Pamela drew in a sharp breath. Kotake began to squirm beneath the blade. Dimly, Link could hear footsteps behind them: the undead monsters, free from the mask’s control, were drifting away.

“Let’s make a deal,” Koume tried. “It took us years to build this thing. We’ll give you whatever you want—we’ll let you come through with us!”

Fresh tears dripped down Link’s cheeks. For a moment, he swore he could feel the cool wind of Gerudo Valley on his skin. It was so close. She was so close.

No, he told himself viciously. She’s probably forgotten. She’s probably happier that way.

“You made Ganondorf what he is,” Link spat. “You poisoned him, and he poisoned everything else, and I—you think I won’t kill to stop that from happening again? Close the portal.”

Koume looked from his face to the knife at her sister’s throat, then turned for the dais. Every step she took dragged a silent scream up his throat. By the time fire started streaming from her hands to engulf the portal, he could hear nothing else. Don’t take it away. I don’t care what she remembers. I want to go home, I want to try again, please let me try again—

With a hiss of steam and a swell of power, the portal was gone. The chamber was silent in its wake. But the scream inside Link went on for seven years, for three days, for an entire black future he couldn’t fathom.

He smashed the hilt of the dagger into Kotake’s temple and leapt to his feet, tackling Koume before she could react. The blade entered between her ribs. She choked out a sanguine gasp as Link pulled it out, and he wanted to bring it down again and again; he wanted to be cruel like she was, if only because it was better than helplessness.

The only thing that stopped him was a glimpse of Pamela huddled against the brazier, trapped and terrified. Link had come here to save her, not avenge his own heartbreak. And if the witches merged into Twinrova, he would be facing them exhausted and concussed. He knew what Sheik would say: There’s no shame in survival. I should know.

Shuddering at the memory, Link climbed off Koume. She was trying to summon weak fizzles of flame, but he barely felt the heat when he pried the Kokiri’s Emerald from her fingers and shoved it back in his pocket. Pamela watched wide-eyed as he cut her ropes with shaking hands.

Finding his weapons piled by the doorway, he handed the dagger to Pamela and closed his grip around the cold comfort of the Gilded Sword, forged out of gold dust on a freezing mountain. This weapon had kept him safe across five worlds. It wasn’t enough, but he had nothing else left.

Link turned away from the witches—from the memory of that perfect window, as golden as Zelda’s hair—and led Pamela towards safety.

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Chapter Text

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Zelda watched in bafflement as the glowing doorway faded into the night. Had the spell or its caster sensed her presence? She’d never seen anything like it, and she couldn’t understand why she felt an ache behind her sternum, as though she’d just lost something.

Maybe Nabooru would have answers. Zelda crept along the ridge and climbed down to the western side of the fortress, ducking into the shadows to let the guards pass until she found the chamber she sought.

The Gerudo always left their windows open to drive away the day’s heat. She was grateful for that practice now as she pulled herself into Nabooru’s bedroom, letting her eyes adjust until she could make out the sleeping figure on the bed, surrounded by gaudy displays of stolen treasure. Zelda pulled down her cowl and removed the spell that glamoured her eyes before she stepped forward to shake Nabooru’s shoulder.

Nabooru stirred at once, reaching for her scimitar. Zelda—raised by war veterans and best friends with a hero—had expected nothing less. She backed away, waving her hand to light the candle on Nabooru’s nightstand. “I’m sorry for the surprise. I mean you no harm.”

“Princess?” Nabooru squinted at her incredulously, kicking the covers away. “What on Din’s red earth…?”

“I’m here to prevent a war. Tell me—when did your people learn of Ganondorf’s plans?”

“When he waltzed up to our door last night. Princess, sit down. You look like a ghost dressed up as Impa.”

Zelda couldn’t argue with that—she wasn’t sure when she’d last eaten, and there was a throbbing pain in her head that wouldn’t let her forget about her father, or about the frightening mess her life had become in the last twenty-four hours. She sank down at Nabooru’s small table, mumbling her thanks when the other woman poured her a cup of water.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Nabooru said. “I will not pretend I had any love for him, given our history, but I know you did.”

“Thank you. Time is short—if my people listened to me, we have until dawn to point our blades at the true enemy, but I cannot guarantee anything. Do you know what Kotake and Koume are planning? I heard them tell Ganondorf they’d return by daybreak.”

“Those damn witches wouldn’t explain anything. Neither would Ganondorf. They came here without warning to force our support. Not that all my people need to be forced.” Nabooru shook her head bitterly. “Even after he failed and landed himself in your prison, some still see him as king. No matter how angry we are that he’s put us in this position, that remains the case.”

“Let me fight him, then,” Zelda declared. “Let me prove that he’s not a god to be revered—just a man who bleeds like any other. Let me show the Gerudo that I’ll risk my life to preserve peace between our peoples.”

Nabooru looked her up and down, a slow smile spreading across her face. “I think that can be arranged. If there’s one thing my people respect, it’s spirit. You should probably stay here—we don’t want you running into Ganondorf before I can speak with my people. I’ll bring you something to eat. In the meantime, get some rest.”

“Thank you.” Zelda rubbed her aching temples. She’d barely slept last night. Again, she remembered the broken glass, the smell of blood, the hunger on Ganondorf’s face. “Nabooru, what does he want?”

She hadn’t thought about it much as a child. The dreams told her to beware the man with the evil eyes, and then Link came along to explain exactly what Ganondorf would do with the power he sought. She just didn’t understand why.

Nabooru sighed. “How old were you when you ate your first apple?”

“I…don’t remember.”

“I do. I was fourteen, and the war was nearing its end. My squad’s first mission was to raid some Hylian caravan. We’d never seen anything like that food, so much and so fresh. It made us giddier than any treasure—well, most of us. I’ll never forget Ganondorf’s face. He ate that apple like it tasted of ashes, staring towards your castle all the while. Everyone suffered during the war, but your people never lacked the way mine did.”

There was no denying that. With supply routes compromised and the kingdom tearing itself apart, hunger had been widespread—but while Hyrule had enough arable land for each faction to prevent outright famine, Gerudo Valley had none at all.

“Combine that with our idiotic tradition of putting a crown on every boy’s head and telling him he owns the world,” Nabooru continued, “and maybe then you’ll understand. Ganondorf sees himself as the revenge of the Gerudo. The problem is that he would throw anyone and anything into the fire—including us—rather than settle for less.”

She was working her long red hair into a ponytail, her face far away. She’d spent years as a lone thief rather than follow Ganondorf. Yet there was something in her voice when she spoke of him—something deeper than anger.

“You didn’t always hate him, did you?” Zelda asked softly.

Sadness drifted across Nabooru’s face like a firefly’s glow—there, and then gone. “No. A long time ago, I called him friend.”

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Zelda was used to seeing Ganondorf in the shadows. He looked different out here in the rising sunlight that poured into Gerudo Valley: older, thinner, more resigned than enraged. Yet his black-and-gold armor and crownlike headpiece made his intentions clear.

A Gerudo scout had just reported movement in Hyrule Field. Zelda’s people had waited until dawn, just as she’d requested—probably thanks to Owen and Impa. Ganondorf stood impassively before the fortress, his hands folded over the hilt of a claymore that rested point-down in the dry earth.

“They have the numbers,” he said at last. “But not by much; that fool king never rebuilt the army. And we have advantages of our own.”

“That we do,” Nabooru agreed with an amused glance towards where Zelda crouched on the roof of the building behind them.

So Ganondorf was still expecting Kotake and Koume. Did he know that strange doorway had disappeared, with no sign of its return this morning? Zelda had a feeling that wasn’t part of his plan.

She’d dreamed of Link last night—and not some fantasy of him being tall and handsome and smiling at her with those old shadows wiped clean from beneath his eyes. He’d been in pain, and far beyond her reach. That was all she remembered.

She missed him more than ever right now, gazing down at the enemy they were supposed to face together. But he and the other Zelda had done enough. It was her turn to defend what they’d given her.

At Ganondorf’s command, the Gerudo were flowing out of the fortress to hear him speak. These straight-backed women with no uniforms or military salutes were just as fearsome as the Castle Town guard—yet there couldn’t be more than fifty altogether. Such a small tribe to warrant so much fear from Zelda’s people.

“We wait,” Ganondorf was saying. “If they’re stupid enough to approach, we destroy the bridge and trap them here with no supplies. If not—”

Zelda vaulted over the parapet and landed behind him on silent feet. Some of the Gerudo snickered—not at her, but at Ganondorf’s shock as she stepped into his field of vision, a masked stranger with eyes as red as the weeping crest on her tunic.

He snatched up his claymore. “Who are you? Some Sheikah?”

She slid her fingers under the cowl and pulled, letting the cloth unspool from her face in white rivulets. Ganondorf’s shock bled into fury. Then he barked out a hoarse, derisive laugh.

“If you think so little of me, you have nothing to lose,” Zelda said, drawing the twin daggers Impa had trained her with.

“What do you think you’re doing here, girl? Do you realize how much leverage you’ve just given me?” Ganondorf laughed again, gesturing vaguely at his people. “Someone escort the princess to a cell.”

Zelda held her breath, waiting for betrayal, but not a single Gerudo moved to obey.  The snickers were growing louder.

“She won’t be your hostage,” Nabooru cut in. “We won’t fight for you if that’s the case. Look around—is anyone else surprised to see the princess?”

Ganondorf’s gaze raked through the crowd. He stepped forward until he was glaring down into Nabooru’s defiant eyes. “Back-alley dealings with the Hylians? You’re the one I should have thrown in a cell.”

“Unfortunately for you, people like me too much. And all we promised her was a chance to prove herself. The same chance we’re giving to you.”

“I have nothing to prove. I am your king. Tradition dictates—”

“Fuck tradition!” Nabooru declared, drawing outright laughter from the crowd. “Gerudo take what they want. We’ve earned this peace. You want to lead us down a different path? Show us you’re worthy, not just entitled by birth.”

Ganondorf glared at Zelda. “And why would you want to fight me, Princess?”

Meeting his eyes, she remembered what Nabooru had said about the hatred that stretched all the way back to his youth. Maybe even further. Link had warned her about the beast dwelling within this man—the reason he still posed a cataclysmic threat even without the Triforce of Power. Zelda could see it if she looked closely enough: fog and fury, choking miasma, the tusks of a great boar that loathed her with all its ancient being.

This was the legacy she had inherited: a rusted past, a bleeding present, and a dark future prevented only by Link’s sacrifices. His was the path she would follow, then. No matter how deeply fate had wronged him, he’d never watered his grief with blood, never lost sight of compassion or reason. He rained hope upon every patch of bitter earth he encountered.

Ganondorf was the opposite—and rain could not change unyielding stone.

“I want to keep us out of the hell you would create,” Zelda said quietly. “I want my people to lay down their swords and leave yours in peace. They won’t do that as long as you lead the Gerudo. Fight me, and we’ll see what your people think of you when we’re through.”

“Fine,” he growled. “There’s time to kill before the real fight starts.”

Nabooru gave her an encouraging nod as she stepped out onto the sunny stretch of earth before the fortress. Ganondorf followed, abandoning his scabbard in the dust. This wasn’t like sparring with Impa—there were no rules, no expectation of mercy. The outcome was a clean cut between life or death.

They faced each other. Zelda raised her chin and cleared the glamour from her eyes, leaving them blue as the sky. Be like Link, she reminded herself.

Ganondorf took the claymore in both hands and charged. Not wanting to test her strength against that avalanche, Zelda sidestepped at the last minute, sweeping out with her righthand blade. He pivoted in anticipation, and she wove in and out of his blows, studying each movement the way Impa had taught her. His armor protected him well, and he clearly hadn’t shirked his push-ups while imprisoned—yet with his old leg injury, she felt certain she could outlast him.

Perhaps coming to the same realization, he began lobbing spells at her, one crackling sphere of magic after another. Zelda reduced them to sparks easily—he stood no chance against the amplifying effect the Triforce of Wisdom granted her own magic—but that wasn’t the point. Between the spells and that deadly charge he’d opened with, Ganondorf wasn’t going to let her stay at long range.

But he had no idea how fast she could be. Shrouding herself in the blue light of Nayru’s Love, she darted forward, letting his magic crash harmlessly against the shield as she closed in to attack him with quick, ruthless jabs. When she dodged his every attempt to counter, Ganondorf grew angry—then crafty.

Magic arced towards her legs. Zelda skittered back, panicking briefly when his incoming strike left her no choice but to parry. Knowing the force of the blow would send her reeling, she sent a bright current of electricity crackling up his blade to buy herself a moment to recover.

Ganondorf jerked away, singed and surprised, his eyes flashing to her face. For a heartbeat they were back in her father’s bedroom, the storm raging through the broken window—or back even further, to the day he’d knelt before the throne, dripping with duplicity, while she watched helplessly from the garden.

There was no window separating them now. And this wasn’t just about Hyrule. It was about making him pay.

One lunge forward, one feint towards his center; then Zelda’s dagger drew the fight’s first blood from just below his false crown. Ganondorf snarled, lashing out blindly, but she’d already leapt back. He paused to wipe the crimson trail from his face, grinning down at her with a touch of madness. “You’re still no Hylia.”

“I don’t need to be,” Zelda spat. “Thief. Assassin. Betrayed by your people. Where are your witch-mothers? Have they forsaken you too?”

“Ha! Where’s that brat of yours? Did he tire of being your dog and choose a different mistress? Or did he flee at the first whisper of my return, like he coward he—”

A blast of heat and furious light made him stagger back. She launched herself after it—Ganondorf’s claymore was too slow to meet her, but she’d underestimated his magic. Stupid, stupid mistake; she knew it immediately, and felt it when the lightning caught her side.

The world bleached white. Zelda crumpled to her knees, and only the thundering mockery of his laughter made her roll to her feet, backing away and casting Nayru’s Love while her vision cleared.

She was terrified to look down at the blazing agony in her side, so she glared at Ganondorf instead, the breath hissing out of her like steam from a cookpot. The Triforce hummed under her skin. She knew what it was saying, the same advice Impa would offer: Anger’s no good in your head. Put it into the blade instead.

Link must have learned that lesson much earlier in life. Ten when he first left the forest, seventeen when he defeated the same man Zelda fought now. She steadied herself, feeling the earth under her feet, the sky overhead, the people watching her decide their kingdom’s fate. Grief and fear and pain faded against the path that glittered in her mind.

“Well?” Ganondorf drawled. “Ready to yield?”

“Not until they put me in the ground,” Zelda replied coldly.

With a slow smile, he charged.

She didn’t dodge this time. She just slid down and into the blow, ducking beneath his blade while her own found his unprotected leg. And then she shoved him away with a burst of magic, letting him come to her once more.

Though she couldn’t keep him at a distance like Impa would suggest, she could operate in little circles around him—always making him follow, always reusing the momentum of his whirling attacks. Ganondorf was a furious boar, barreling mindlessly towards vengeance; all Zelda had to do was flow around him with the wisdom of cool water.

She carved a second cut into his thigh, a third across his collarbone, assailing him with magic all the while. He lost his patience quickly; hers had no end. Hadn’t she constructed it from years of caution, of diplomacy, of watching from the sidelines? The more enraged he grew, the more mistakes he made—and the more of his blood she sent spattering across the stone.

“Yield,” Zelda commanded, driving her dagger between his gauntlet and pauldron.

“Not until they put me in the ground,” Ganondorf wheezed, his bad leg faltering under him as he continued the assault.

For her, the exhaustion seemed distant—in her mind’s eye, a golden thread dangled in the darkness, brighter than the whole world, shining with the same fateful clarity she’d first found in Link’s fierce blue eyes. She’d lost track of the number of wounds she’d dealt when Ganondorf’s leg buckled beneath him.

“Enough,” Zelda said. She was glowing—not just the Triforce, but her, as though the sun itself thrived under her skin. “I won’t fight a defeated man.”

He growled, trying and failing to rise, but anyone could see the fight was over. Murmurs threaded through the crowd of onlookers. Her own legs trembled with exhaustion—but she was still standing, clinging to her daggers for dear life. Ganondorf was completely vulnerable. He’d bled her father like a pig. No one would blame her for doing the same.

But Zelda was a symbol of peace, built from the hope of a war-torn kingdom, and when she looked into his eyes, all she felt was pity.

She turned back towards Nabooru. Behind her, sand scraped against stone; magic shivered through the air.

She whirled, catching the blast of lightning on the blue shield of Nayru’s Love. Ganondorf’s face was a snarling mask of hate. He would never stop. He would throw himself at her until the beast awoke.

Be like Link.

Zelda seized hold of that golden thread and flooded the world with light. Raw magic billowed forth like storm winds, whipping at her clothes and tugging her hair out of its braid. Hylia, she thought, and it was more than a forgotten name this time; it was a truth sheltered in the deepest part of her.

She started by crushing his claymore into dust, but that wasn’t enough. Her true aim was his rotting core of malice and all it had wrought—her father’s death and the gouge it had torn through her heart and future; the other Zelda, alone in the ashes of her ruined kingdom; Link’s screaming nightmares, his attempts to give her the happy childhood he’d lost, his desperate quest for the fairy who understood it all.

“You will take no one else,” Zelda said in a voice that sounded bigger than her body.

Ganondorf fell to his knees beneath a cascade of light as she took that ghastly core in her grasp, feeling her power grow around it with all the might of Hyrule—the deep earth, the rushing rivers, the towering trees that separated her from Link. But she could feel the beating heart of his Courage nonetheless; she could feel the golden thread wrapped around her like an embrace, turning her into a force strong enough to contain the beast.

By the time her vision cleared, Ganondorf was crumpled on the ground, staring down at his hands. Zelda understood—she half-expected her own skin to be changed by the magic, but as the light ebbed and the spell settled, she was herself again. Releasing a shuddering breath of relief, she sheathed her daggers.

Nabooru came to her side, eyeing the shock on Ganondorf’s face. “What did you do?”

“I…sealed away the source of his power,” Zelda answered uncertainly.

“Why not do that from the start? Why drag out the fight?”

“I didn’t know I could.” There were legends of the sealing power passed down through her maternal line, but she’d never tapped into it until she’d found that golden thread winding through her power, leading her to…she touched the mark of the Triforce. Link. It led me to Link.

The Gerudo were murmuring amongst themselves, some of them inching closer to take in the sight. “So much for killing time before the real fight,” someone scoffed.

“Where are the advantages you promised?” another demanded.  “Where are Kotake and Koume?”

Ganondorf glared at the ridge where he’d last seen his witch-mothers and said nothing.

Nabooru shook her head slowly, her jaw clenched tight. “Is this our king?” she asked her people. “One who’s put us all in danger and can’t deliver on his promises? One who would strike a foe’s back after being shown mercy? If you would still follow him, step forward.”

Not a single person moved.

Nabooru sighed in relief. “Good. We can still salvage this mess if the Hylians know we’ve detained him.”

Ganondorf cursed and struggled as several of the women hauled him upright and led him away, but there was something halfhearted about it. “I must go to my people,” Zelda told Nabooru. “They’ll suspect a trap if—”

“I’ll go myself. Impa trusts me. And she’ll kill me if I let you travel with that injury.”

Zelda took one glance at her burned side and squeezed her eyes shut.

“That was kind of cathartic, watching you kick his ass,” Nabooru chuckled as they retreated towards the cool relief of the fortress. Zelda stumbled on the threshold, adrenaline giving way to searing pain, but Nabooru caught her with steady hands. Her next words were somber and sincere. “Thank you, Princess Zelda. I think you’re exactly what Hyrule needs.”

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She woke in a fountain of sacred blue light. Voices drifted in and out of her hearing. A boy in green stood staring down at his hands in disbelief, not listening to the fairy bouncing around his head or the old man who was handing him the fate of the world.

What— the boy flinched at his own voice and had to try again. What happened to Princess Zelda?

He was older than she’d ever seen him, yet young enough that he was still hopeful, still afraid. I’m right here, Zelda tried to say, struggling to her feet. You’re not alone.

The old man heard her. Link did not, because this had already happened—she couldn’t change it, couldn’t save him, couldn’t tell Navi how badly he needed her to stay. Zelda stumbled forward anyway, but his image blurred and slid through her outstretched fingers, carried away by the river of time.

She rounded on the old man. What was that?

He turned towards her with a sigh. My apologies, Princess. Time is everything and nothing here. You saw what you longed to see, but it was only an echo.

You’re Rauru, aren’t you? Why am I here?

You are always closer to the Sacred Realm than most, Sage of Time. Now more than ever. I sensed it when you sealed away the beast that dwells within Ganondorf. I must warn you that without the backing of the other Six Sages, it will not last.

Does anything? Zelda asked acidly, glaring at the waterfalls of light that flowed from the heavens to the unfathomable depths below. She was right back where she’d started. She would lose Impa. She would take Nabooru, Ruto, and Darunia from the people who loved and needed them. She would steal from Saria the same thing Rauru had stolen from Link.

There may be another way, Rauru said, his forehead creased in thought. Send Ganondorf to the desert prison at Arbiter’s Grounds. In that place of old magic, I shall summon my ancient comrades. We were not enough to end him when he bore the Triforce of Power, but as he is now…we will try to be enough this time.

The world was shimmering around her, fading like ripples across a pond. I’ll hold you to that, Zelda said fiercely, glancing at the spot where Link had stood a lifetime ago before she closed her eyes.

She opened them under the cool sandstone roof of Gerudo Fortress. Impa stirred in a chair beside her bed, reaching for her hand. “Don’t get up,” she ordered. “How do you feel?”

Zelda stirred, wincing at the pain in her bandaged side. “Awful. What happened?”

“You prevented a war, that’s what happened. I sent our troops home. Owen’s talked the Council down beautifully. After they hear what you did today, there will be no more talk of coronating anyone else.”

“It’s over?”

“Yes.” Impa smoothed the hair from her forehead. “I couldn’t be prouder.”

Zelda shut her eyes. There was relief, of course—but what came next? A throne. A fiancé. A funeral.

Tears slipped past her closed lids. Impa slid an awkward arm around her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace as she started to sob. “It’s all right,” murmured the woman who was her mother in all but name. “It’s over, my little bird. We’ll be home before you know it.”

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Chapter Text

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The swamp air hung thick with humidity and buzzing insects. Every step seeped moisture into the soles of Link’s boots. There were wildflowers as well as brambles, though, and clear water glittering under the rising sunlight. No poison; no grinning moon; no rage twisting through the roots. Sometimes during those three days, he’d come here just to close his eyes and listen to the birdsong, pretending he stood in the same forest where he’d grown up.   

It wasn’t working today. Maybe the swamp was clean, but the poison hadn’t gone away; he’d just pulled it all inside himself, and none of the dusty vials that lined the potion shop’s shelves would cure it. Link stood in the center of the hut, staring at Kotake’s concoctions and the stack of pamphlets advertising Koume’s ferry rides. He’d almost killed them on sight back then until he’d fallen for their guise of innocence, never realizing they were cobras waiting to strike.

The mask they’d been using to control the dead hung from his belt now, but that wasn’t enough to stop them. He should be searching high and low for them right now; that was why he’d ridden to Woodfall. But now Link was frozen, his aching head pounding out a single question: What did I just do?

The instant he saw that portal, it became another sacrifice to make. He hadn’t considered negotiating with the witches, hadn’t considered any option besides closing another door on what he wanted. And now Termina had swallowed him whole once again. So much of his life had moved in circles and cycles—but they were of his own making now, because he couldn’t imagine anything else.

Zelda had been so close. She wouldn’t be sneaking around Gerudo Fortress in Sheikah garb unless there was some kind of trouble. Link could have stepped through the portal and knelt at her feet; he could have told her, We’ll face it together. We were always better together. I love you, I missed you, I’m sorry—

He seized the nearest jar and hurled it at the wall of vials, creating a cacophony of shattering glass that ached through his skull. Potion dripped down the wall like blood.

If you have to break something, a guard in the Castle Town gatehouse told him once, gesturing to the storeroom of pottery, make sure it isn’t someone’s heart. Link had been ten years old and looking for money, not advice, but apparently the grief was that obvious on his face.

What a stupid thing to remember, now of all times.

“Link?” someone called from outside the hut.

No, he thought, pressing his palms to his eyes.

“Is he in there, Sis?”

“Yeah. Wait outside.” A featherlight weight landed on his shoulder, and Tatl said into his ear, “Link?”

“Is it the witches?” he asked in a shaking voice.

“No. We went to the ranch and heard what happened from Pamela. Everyone’s worried about you—let’s go back, okay?”

Too tired to argue, Link turned away from the reek of potion and climbed down the ladder, sloshing through the murky water to reach Skull Kid, who took his hand and led him through the swamp. Tael fluttered on ahead of them, but just around the bend from where Epona waited, he chimed in alarm and retreated.

“Um, guys, there’s someone waiting over there.”

Tatl caught up to her brother, leaning in so he could whisper something in her ear. “No,” she hissed in response. “Hell no. Not him, not now, not ever.”

Link released Skull Kid’s hand, stepping around him to see what had upset the fairies. His heart plummeted to the bottom of Kakariko’s well and floundered there in the dark. He backed away until his shoulder hit the nearest tree.

The moon was safely below the horizon; Skull Kid stood right beside him, maskless and innocent. Link clutched his compass and risked another glance towards the hollowed-out tree that separated Woodfall from Termina Field. Purple clothing. Copper hair. The figure was standing far too close to Epona, who grazed calmly nearby.

“We’ll ignore him,” Tatl promised, flying back to Link. “We’ll leave him in the dust.”

Skull Kid was shivering with fear. So was Link, but he was the adult here, wasn’t he? Swallowing hard, he touched the child’s shoulder and said, “Stay behind me.”

The Happy Mask Salesman did not look surprised to see him. He wore the same robes and the same uncanny grin he had beneath the Clock Tower, and Link glanced towards the sunrise again, trying to keep himself from falling.

“Well, look who it is,” the Salesman greeted cheerfully. “I never thought to stumble upon you again.”

Tatl scoffed from Link’s shoulder. “You don’t stumble anywhere. Leave us alone. Termina’s been better off since you left.”

“The Lost Woods guides me where it will. And you, my friend—” he looked Link up and down, “—you were guided as well. You’ve already rescued the mask I was seeking.”

Ignoring the bait, Link reached Epona and lifted Skull Kid into the saddle. He was about to mount up himself when the Salesman’s voice slithered after him: “What if I could tell you the way home?”

Link froze.

“Keep going,” Tatl whispered in his ear.

But his legs wouldn’t move. They were tethered to the earth by something even stronger than the Great Deku Tree’s roots. Without turning around, he said flatly, “You know how to travel the Woods without getting lost.”

“I know how to find what I seek,” the Salesman clarified. “That’s why there are masks to collect in every world I visit, and why you’ve always met people in need of a Hero. What greater threat than two witches with a dangerous plot?”

“I’m not seeking—” Link choked on the words, on the idea that he’d never been in control, never had a chance of finding Navi.

“No? Well, far be it from me to understand the powers at work in those Woods. Yet I can give you a tool that will guide your steps. All I’d require in return is that mask you carry.”

Link turned warily, his hand going to the Garo Master’s mask on his belt. “You can find these all over Termina. I had the same kind. So did the Gorman Brothers.”

“That one is unique. It belonged to the Garo King, not an underling. It was crafted to end the war with Ikana—hence its capabilities.”

“How can I trust you?”

The Happy Mask Salesman tilted his head. “I seem to recall our last deal made a lot of people happy. We both got what we wanted, and it only took three days.”

Silence stretched for a long time. Skull Kid was hunched on Epona’s back, hiding his face under his hat. Link unhooked the mask from his belt, the early light catching on its gilded surface. Tatl clutched at his sleeve without a word.

His feet carried him across the marshy ground. He watched Salesman’s smile widen hungrily as he held the mask out—then watched it die as the wooden face landed in the mud and broke beneath his boot.

The Salesman released a wordless hiss of rage, lunging forward as though they were still under the Clock Tower, as though Link was still a little boy who could be picked up and shaken around and guilted into saving the world. Link could feel a sinkhole opening under his feet, tipping him towards an unfathomable abyss, and he would do anything in the world to never drown like that again.

He caught the Salesman’s wrist before those grasping fingers could close around his collar. Anger boiled through him, hot and visceral and so much easier than despair; for once in his life, he made no attempt to leash it.

“It wasn’t three days, and you knew it,” Link spat. “I saw it in your eyes. You knew what I was doing with the Ocarina, and you didn’t care. All you had to do was wait.”

The Salesman smiled, feverishly bright, and attempted to free himself from Link’s iron grip. “I am merely a collector, after all; not a warrior. You were best equipped to—”

“You already knew the Song of Healing! You could have done something, anything to help—but you just gave it all to me instead, and I—people suffered, over and over, because you let that mask into the world!”

“It was that dreadful imp who stole—”

“He is a child!” Link shouted in his face. “Do you know what you took from him? From me? I had a chance then, I still had a chance to get something back until this place dragged me in, and you—you knew I couldn’t walk away! You knew I’d pick up every problem and carry it no matter what. I was ten years old and I was already dying and you used that to fix your mess! This place killed me, do you understand?! It fucking killed me!”

He didn’t know what he would have done next if Tatl and Tael hadn’t gotten between him and the Salesman, if Skull Kid hadn’t seized his free hand and pulled on it with all his strength. Link stumbled back and collided with Epona, turning to hide his face in her mane.

Dimly, he registered a great deal of colorful vocabulary from Tatl, but the sound of his own shuddering gasps dwarfed everything else. Epona shifted her weight and blew out a long sigh. Skull Kid wrapped his skinny arms around Link’s waist and hummed an off-key version of the song Saria had taught him in a sunny clearing all those years ago, the one he’d later passed onto a lost child in search of a mask, not knowing that they would later become enemies—and eventually friends.

Tatl landed on his shoulder and brushed his tears away with shocking gentleness—she had never touched him that way before. It was something Navi would have done. “He’s gone, Link.”

“I’m sorry,” Link whispered to her. “All you wanted was to save Tael. I dragged you around trying to fix everything, I played the song over and over—”

“I don’t want an apology,” Tatl said firmly. “I have my brother back because of you. I’m a better person because of you. What you said to the Salesman…Link, you’re not dead. You’re just carrying things you don’t know how to put down.”

But he didn’t know who he was without the weight. He didn’t know how to make sense of all of it, any of it—especially not here. His voice came out small and plaintive: “I just want to go home.”

“I know, Link. But…for now, would you let us help you?”

His friends were quiet for as long as he needed. Link stood there breathing in his horse’s warm smell until he had the courage to lift his head. “Okay,” he said finally. “Thank you.”

He lifted Skull Kid back into the saddle and followed the fairies out of the tangled swamp, towards the rising sun.

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Hours later, Link stirred awake to the sound of cicadas singing outside the open window. He was upstairs in the ranch house. Skull Kid still dozed on the plush rug next to the bed, sprawled facedown like a dog, both the fairies asleep near his head. Link’s eyes were fluttering shut again before he realized what had woken him—Romani was halfway up the stairs, cringing as the floorboards creaked under her feet.

“Sorry,” Romani whispered. “Go back to sleep. Unless you want more ice?”

Link put a hand to the lump at the back of his skull and winced. “Yes, please.”

“And…Pamela wants to talk to you, I think. Is that okay?”

He nodded. When she returned a few minutes later, Pamela crept up the stairs after her, looking nervous and small in an oversized dress she must have borrowed from one of the sisters. “Thank you for saving me,” she said quietly. “I don’t really understand what happened back there, but—thank you.”

Link tried his best to smile at her. Romani pressed a dishcloth full of ice to his bruised head and held it there until his hand replaced hers.

Pamela twisted her fingers together as though trying to pull the words from her own flesh. At Romani’s stern look, she dropped her hands and continued in a rush. “Um, I heard you and the witches talking about the moon. And an ocarina?”

“Yeah?” He tried to keep the wariness from his voice.

“I…this might sound crazy, but there was a boy with an ocarina who helped me a long time ago. But that couldn’t have been you, right?”

Link stared at her in disbelief. He knew his actions in the last cycle were permanent—hadn’t he worked frantically to make them that way, to leave Termina better than he’d found it? That was why Pamela’s father was human, why Romani Ranch was safe and thriving. But in his mind, none of it had stuck. One hopeful sunrise couldn’t overwrite three endless days of being erased from Termina, the same way he’d been erased from Hyrule.

But Pamela remembered. She had only been a child—was still a child—yet she remembered. Trembling with a feeling he couldn’t name, Link took a breath and answered quietly, “It was me.”

Her hands flew to her mouth. She took a faltering step towards him. “Then I owe you everything. Everything.”

“No, it’s—it’s not a debt.”

That only made Pamela bury her face in her hands. Romani put an arm around her shoulders and met Link’s gaze. He could see it written all over her face: nameless ghosts with yellow searchlights creeping out of the night, the secret no adult would ever believe. The memory didn’t seem quite so awful when it was reflected in someone else’s eyes.

There had been reasons for all of it—the masks, the bloodshed, the crushing pressure of time—and two of them stood before him now.

“I knew you right away, Grasshopper,” Romani admitted, her gaze bright with unshed tears.

The nickname dragged a breathless laugh out of Link. It caught in his throat when she sat down on the bed and put her arms around him. His first instinct was to pull away, save them both a world of pain, but Romani felt so warm and solid and real that he couldn’t stop himself from hugging her back shakily.

Zelda had been the last person to hold him on that midsummer morning, with insects teeming in the tall grass and the sky glowing a clear and boundless blue over Hyrule. Don’t be alone, she had told him fiercely. Wherever you go, don’t be alone.

She’d sent him away in one lifetime, watched him leave in another—all because she wanted him to live. Link had to keep trying. Even if every version of her was lost to him now, he had to keep trying.

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Chapter Text

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The traitor didn’t look like much. Thin, slouching, grizzled—just like any other guard, except he stood on the wrong side of the cell door. The cool damp of the dungeons came as a strange relief; aboveground, Zelda had been sweltering in her black mourning dress. Owen looked equally rumpled and weary at her side.

“Why did you do it?” Zelda asked finally.

The traitor stared at his feet. “You had me guarding the Shadow Temple.”

She frowned. Sheikah wards blocked off the worst of the temple, but even so, it wasn’t for the faint of heart. That was why Impa had assigned the best of the best—and why it came as such a shock that this man had leaked Ganondorf’s location to Kotake and Koume.

“My brother was interrogated there at the hands of the Sheikah,” he elaborated eventually, eyes still downcast. “I don’t blame you, Princess. You were only a child during the war. But your father…”

“Do you understand what you unleashed? What it cost Hyrule? How much worse it could have been?”

“I do, Princess. And…for your sake, I’m sorry.”

Zelda curled her fingers into fists, wanting to fling his pity back in his face. But her father’s killer rotted in Gerudo Fortress, waiting for someone to decide his fate; this was only a man with a justifiable grudge. She turned and stalked upstairs into the summer heat.

Owen stumbled to catch up. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. What do you think?”

“The Council will probably want him executed. I don’t really see the point, though.”

“I don’t either. He’s no Ganondorf; he won’t be a threat from prison. We would gain nothing from his death.” She brought her knuckles up to massage her aching temples. “What’s next?”

“Er…lunch with the wedding planner.”

Restraining a groan, Zelda drifted down the hallway, trying to ignore the itch of the healing wound in her side. She did want to be here. She’d fought Ganondorf not just to preserve Hyrule’s future, but to secure her birthright. It was just that she never had a moment to catch her breath, to mourn her father, to come to terms with the wedding. Sometimes she wanted to use the Ocarina and buy herself a week, even a day. Sleep until noon. Go riding with Malon. Float around Zora’s Domain with Ruto.

But she would be queen of Hyrule even then. Only Link had allowed her to be Zelda, just Zelda. The world had been so much easier to bear when he was here to share its weight.

“Pr—um, Zelda.” Owen smiled at her sheepishly. She stopped to listen, the same way he always did for her. “I just wanted to say…it’s not too late to reconsider.”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“No. We work well together, don’t we? I just…I won’t hold you to a pact we made hours after your father was killed.”

She forced a smile. “I appreciate that, but…”

“Would you consider it? I want you to be sure.”

Breaking off their betrothal would cost him dearly. There was so much kindness in the offer, and it twisted through Zelda like a knife. She could not have survived the past week without Owen picking up the slack every time she stared off into space during a meeting. There were no illusions of romance between them—no time for it, either—but he’d proved himself a friend. That was better than many people could hope for when entering a political marriage.

If only she could silence the voice that kept screaming, I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. He could ride over the drawbridge any minute.

For Owen’s sake, she spent the rest of the afternoon trying to gather her thoughts—but they just circled restlessly until she found herself in the courtyard garden. The flowers stirred in her wake as she sat down on the bottom step of the dais and pulled off her circlet, turning it around in her hands.

Zelda remembered everything about the day she’d met Link. The flowers in early bloom. Her small hands, shaky with days of sleeplessness, clutching the windowsill. The view through the glass of Ganondorf leading her father towards doom. The mark of divine gold that shone on her skin when the strange boy crept forth, clutching the Kokiri’s Emerald in a white-knuckled grip.

Do you remember me? he’d asked, his fierce blue eyes scouring her up and down.

Part of her did. He had walked straight out of her dreams to reach that moment. His name had been etched into her heart long before she’d heard it aloud. But to answer his question honestly, her only choice was to dash his hopes against the ground.

Maybe their chance died there and then. Link had known and loved another version of her, but she could not reach across time to claim that woman’s memories. It was probably better that way. The other Zelda had been broken alongside her kingdom, which made her the best person to pick up its pieces—just the same, this Zelda was meant to build bridges and soothe tempers and plant trees in her own Hyrule. She couldn’t symbolize peace if she was weighed down by someone else’s bloody future.

But logic always ended where Link began. She’d loved him since the moment he pried her white-knuckled grip from the windowsill and said, I believe you. It’s going to be okay. She’d loved him whether he showed her the sunlight or retreated into those dark places she couldn’t reach. And she loved him even now, half a decade into his absence with no sign of his return.

“You look like you’re feeling very sorry for yourself,” Impa greeted dryly.

“How did you find me?”  

“Because this is where you come when you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

She scowled. Impa settled down beside her and let the wind rustle through the flowers, let the shadows deepen. Silence, Zelda realized, was a trait her favorite people had in common.

“Owen is giving me the chance to back out,” she admitted finally.

“And?”

“And there’s no practical reason why I should. The politics make sense. He’s a good man; he’ll be a good king.”

“But?”

Zelda surveyed the garden bleakly, her fingers plucking idly at the grass near her shoes.

Impa sighed. “Zelda. Link may never return, and even if he does…puppy love doesn’t always work out.”

“If it was puppy love, it would be long gone.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re clinging to an ideal.” Impa waited for Zelda to meet her wine-red eyes. “I won’t lecture you of duty. If you want to turn Owen down, do so—but not for the sake of someone you haven’t seen in five years. I know you’re tired of waiting.”

But I feel him, she thought, listening to the wind sweep through the garden. He’s alive. He’s still in my dreams.

“You could certainly do worse than Owen,” Impa added.

“I could do worse,” Zelda agreed quietly. “And I can’t do any better.”

She took one last look at the stone dais behind her, where two children once gripped each other’s hands and vowed to save the world together. Right there in Link’s eyes, she had found the confluence of everything she was and everything she would become—but he was gone now, perhaps forever, and Hyrule remained. Zelda slid the circlet back into place with a silent farewell to all the hope those children had harbored for their future.

Then she got to her feet and went to find Owen.

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Chapter Text

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They’re quiet in the wake of each other’s sacrifices. At some point in the story, staying still becomes unbearable, so Zelda takes Link’s hand and leads him through the garden, along the hedges and frozen fountains he snuck past on that first fateful day. White walls all around them, grey sky overhead, empty flowerbeds at their feet. The birds have long since migrated to sunnier shores.

She believed the same of Link not so long ago—that he was happily removed from Hyrule and all its problems—when all the while he was fighting desperately to come home. They settle down on the steps where they met and parted so many times. Zelda smooths out the folds of her black skirt, trying not to imagine him on the wrong side of that glowing portal, so close and so far. But she can’t think of anything else. She can’t help wanting to close the gap between them now.

He's hugging his legs to his chest, hands tucked under his knees for warmth. He glances at the window behind them, as if half-expecting to see Ganondorf through the glass. “He’s really gone?”

Zelda sets her jaw and meets his gaze neutrally. “Yes.”

“Did…did things get better after that?”

“Yes, I suppose so…we stepped back from the brink. But keeping Hyrule stable was no small task. I could never have managed it without Owen.” Her stomach twists with irrational guilt. “That—that was my husband’s name.”

“Zelda…he was part of your life. You don’t have to pretend otherwise.”

“He could charm a Goron out of his rock roast,” she says quietly. “He could humble the proudest noble with a single joke. But when it came to me, he was…quieter. And that was exactly what I needed.”

That’s a shallow way to describe it. Never once did Owen cross the silent boundaries she laid between them; never once did it seem like he wanted more than someone to share a throne and a bed with. He adored their daughter with a devotion Zelda never experienced in her own childhood, and the knowledge that he won’t be here to watch her grow hurts even more than the loss of a king and a husband.

Link smiles at her sadly, putting an arm around her waist, and Zelda shifts closer to rest her head on his shoulder. The words slip out of her, soft as snowfall: “Thank you for coming home.”

“I…for a while, I thought the portal was my last chance.”

“It was an awful choice you had to make. I hope you understand what you did for us. If the witches had sent an army of monsters through that portal…” She makes a sweeping gesture to encompass her home. “All of this might be gone.”

Link shudders against her. He doesn’t need to use his imagination—in another life, he saw Hyrule’s destruction with his own eyes. Zelda takes his left hand, scarred and callused from ten years of wielding a sword.

“Not just that,” she continues. “Even though Ganondorf took us by surprise, I had what I needed to defeat him because your warning humbled my father. Do you think he would have spent years improving our relations with the Gerudo otherwise? Or entrusted me with diplomacy if he still thought I was a little girl fixated on dreams? Against everything we built, Ganondorf was just one man. That’s thanks to you, Link.”

“Oh.” The word is a hushed exhale that clouds the winter air. Link—who has no legacy, who won a war and got robbed of its spoils—leans his cheek against the crown of her head and takes a while to say anything else. “Thank you, Zelda. But don’t give away all the credit.”

“I held onto the throne. Believe me, that’s all the credit I want.”

“But your court never took you seriously before. You carried their hope and all they wanted was to put you on a shelf somewhere and run the kingdom in your name. Now you’ve proved them all wrong. I’ve been to five worlds, Zelda, and I haven’t met many people brave enough to do the right thing. The hard thing.”

“So we’re the same,” she says, warmth spreading through her.

Link lifts his head. “No. Why would you—"

“I missed you for the same reason. That’s why.”

She lifts their joined hands to press a gentle kiss to the side of his palm. Link turns red instantly, peering at her shyly from under his bangs. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Zelda wants to smooth away that uncertain crease in his forehead. She wants to know what’s under the bandage that covers his right eye. She wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to sleep on the sofa when her bed feels wide enough to swallow her whole.

For now, she’s just glad to see she can still make him blush.

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The next day brings enough warmth to melt even the most stubborn patches of snow, making the training yard slick with mud—another thing to throw Link off balance. Even after shedding his outer layers and rolling up his sleeves, he can feel sweat dampening the hilt of his practice sword. It’s not the weather. It’s Zelda.

The first problem is that she’s beautiful. Her hair’s tied away from her face, long and golden in the sunlight; her face is sharp with concentration. She wears a plain linen shirt and trousers that hug the curve of her hips. People used to disapprove of the princess dressing like that, but the queen holds her head high.

And then there’s her speed. He can easily picture her defeating Ganondorf, who was so powerful and forceful that he left a dozen openings to exploit. Link is even worse—his opening is half the world, a huge swath of darkness he can’t figure out how to guard. Victory goes to Zelda every time she shifts into his blind spot faster than he can pivot, to say nothing of how often he misjudges her proximity.

Sheik was beautiful too, even masked and mysterious, and just as skilled. Link remembers the same heat creeping up his neck every time they sparred. But he still won most of those fights, back when he was the Hero of Time and had two working eyes.

“I’ve always wanted to see you fight,” Zelda admits when they pause to catch their breath, her cheeks flushed from exertion. “You’re incredible, Link.”

“I’d be dead if this was real,” he scoffs.

“I don’t believe that.”

“You’re going easy on me.”

“You’re doing the same. If you were using a real sword and all your strength, I’d be incapacitated as soon as you caught me. But we’re sparring, Link. Murder is off the table.”

He tries to laugh, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. The bandage is growing itchy and stifling. He doesn’t really need it anymore, but he can’t imagine leaving the scar unconcealed.

The barracks door slams open, and a squad of recruits marches out, driven by the fearsome sound of Impa’s voice. They start drilling in pairs while Link fights the urge to seep into the shadows rather than have an audience to watch him get trounced. Impa studies her recruits for a moment, hands planted on her hips, before she crosses the mud to Link and Zelda.

“Well, Zelda? Feel like showing them how it’s done?”

“Don’t you terrorize them enough? They won’t want to risk hitting the queen.”

“They won’t,” Impa agrees, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “But I will.”

Zelda chuckles at that. “All right. Let’s see you try.”

Seeing her approach, the recruits fall over themselves to bow or kneel until she waves them off. Once, she was cocooned in silk and kept apart from her people until the day they decided she had value. Now she’s smiling at them, mud on her boots and sweat on her brow, and Link’s chest is swelling with pride.

“You’re being obvious,” Impa tells him slyly.

“Huh?”

“Oh, please. You look at her like she’s the entire world. You’ve been doing it since you were a boy.”

Link stares at his feet, face growing hot. She’s as tactful as ever.

“She’s my world as well,” Impa says in a softer tone. “But you should know by now she doesn’t need to be protected. She’ll wait as long as you need—but she’s ready. She’s been ready a long time.”

“But I’m—she’s—just look at her,” he protests. “She’s carrying so much.”

“And you aren’t?”

Link doesn’t lift his gaze. He can’t deny it, no matter how much he wants to. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’ll never be like those recruits she’s talking to, confident and carefree, looking to the future instead of choking on the past.

Impa sighs. “Do you think you’re the only person who ever lost an eye? The only person to ever have nightmares?”

“No,” he mutters unwillingly. She tried to send him to a doctor once, when he was eleven years old and screaming himself awake every night. At the time, the idea was horrifying enough to drive him away from Hyrule. Now it’s just embarrassing.

“There are ways to deal with both. I’ve known soldiers who suffered the same injury. As for the nightmares—no one survived the war without picking up some of those. And she’s been troubled by dreams as long as you.”

Zelda’s laugh rings out from across the courtyard. Link can’t help but turn his head towards the sound. It’s true—she was ten years old when she predicted the doom of the world.

“Think about it,” Impa concludes. “I’m here, Link. I’ve always been here. And not just for her sake. I understand what you saved us from.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Um…thank you.”

She nods briskly, crossing the yard and plucking a practice sword from the rack. Link sinks down on a bench, watching her and Zelda face each other. An awestruck hush falls over the training yard, broken only by the rhythm of melted snow dripping down the castle rooftops—then by the smack of wooden swords, connecting again and again as the queen trades blows with the woman who taught her everything she knows, their faces sharing the same fierce joy.

The sun is warm on his skin. It’s one of those rare moments that makes him feel like a child, still enchanted by the magic of everything. 

And Link remembers the portal shimmering into nothing, trapping him in the world that hurt him in ways he’s barely begun to understand. Thinks about how he made that sacrifice first and asked questions later—and how furious those questions made him, how terrifying the answers still are.

Something ruptured inside him that day. And then, slowly and stubbornly, it began to heal.

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Chapter Text

Part II: The Golden Thread

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The prison wagon rolled to a halt in the shadow of Arbiter’s Grounds. Zelda could barely glance up at its grim silhouette without the sun blinding her, but she knew that somewhere above her head was an amphitheater ringed with pillars, one for every sage but the seventh.

How symbolic. The leader stands apart. According to Link, the other Zelda could walk in two realms while all the other awakened Sages were restricted to one. She would be spared that loneliness in this lifetime, if Rauru kept his promise to carry out the sentence her people and the Gerudo had finally agreed on.

“Sit,” Impa ordered, guiding Zelda to a rock in the shade. “Drink some water.”

She was too tired to protest. Ganondorf was hunched inside his wagon, glaring at Nabooru as she handed him a canteen through the wooden bars. The rest of the Gerudo escort were passing around dried fruit and meat. Zelda shook her head when they reached her, but Impa took two portions and gave her one with a sharp look.

“You’ve barely eaten. And I heard you sneak away from camp this morning. How long have you been feeling unwell?”

“Since yesterday morning,” Zelda admitted, wishing it was possible to keep secrets from this woman. Her husband hadn’t woken when she rolled out of bed and vomited into the nearest basin. Not that she blamed him for sleeping heavily—Hyrule was working them both to the bone.

Impa wiped sweat from her forehead. “You should have stayed behind.”

Zelda couldn’t argue with that. Two days riding an irritable camel under the beating sun certainly hadn’t improved matters, but she felt she had to witness Ganondorf’s end with her own eyes. Maybe she owed it to her father. Maybe she owed it to Ganondorf himself, by virtue of the grim fate they shared.

The moment Nabooru unlatched the wagon door, he dropped to the ground and swung his manacled hands at her head. She dodged smoothly while two of her comrades seized Ganondorf’s arms, paying no heed to his snarls as they marched him towards Arbiter’s Grounds. Though the prison had fallen out of use before the civil war, the howling wind and deepening shadows made Zelda question whether the ancient Sages were truly its only inhabitants.

By the time they reached the top of the long staircase that twined up and around the coliseum, Ganondorf had tried to escape so many times that the Gerudo looked ready to kill him themselves. The setting sun poured into the roofless chamber, turning the stone nearly bloodred. There was no sign of the Sages, only an enormous stone slab and a dais that held a metal frame and a circle of dark glass.

“What now?” Nabooru wondered.

Before Zelda could respond, Ganondorf slammed his heel down on one guard’s foot and tried to wrench away. Nabooru grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back against the slab at the rear of the chamber. “You’ve gotten predictable,” she told him dryly.

“You’ve gotten weak,” he retorted. “You used to have a mind of your own, even when you used it against me. Now what? You serve the Hylians?”

Zelda was distracted by a flash of light from one of the pillars overhead, followed by another and another, until five glowing figures stood silhouetted against the burnished sky. The sixth took form between her and the black stone, where Nabooru was giving Ganondorf a piece of her mind.

“Greetings, my Queen,” Rauru said, bowing his head. He looked the way he had in Zelda’s dream, a bearded man in orange robes; the others gazed down with identical, masklike faces. The thrum of magic told her they did not belong on this mortal plane—Link’s letter had been exactly right about the fate of an awakened Sage.

“You’re certain this will work?” Zelda asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice. “You can execute him without unleashing the beast he carries?”

Rauru turned his piercing gaze on Ganondorf. “The man will fall here, and the beast will have no way to rise. You must bind him in place and leave the chamber.”

“Leave? But—”

“We must take his measure—his alone—and forge a weapon strong enough to end him. No other mortals should be in range.” Rauru’s eyes softened by an increment. “We are prepared this time, my Queen. I will inform you when the task is complete.”

How could Zelda refuse, knowing that she lacked the power to handle this alone or the will to doom her six friends? She went to Nabooru’s side and found—to her disquiet—that chains were already bolted to the stone, making it easy to secure Ganondorf. He sneered at her all the while.

Zelda stepped back to study his mocking smile, his unruly mane of orange hair, his right leg that still trembled from the wound Link had dealt him. When he’d first come to the castle, Ganondorf had seemed larger than life, a figure born from nightmares to destroy all she held dear. He’d succeeded in a different lifetime, and nearly again in this one.

There were still mornings she woke up forgetting her father was dead, forgetting that she shared her bed with a good man she didn’t love. She wanted to hate Ganondorf for that, but she couldn’t summon anything besides exhaustion and a strange sadness, so distant it felt like it belonged to someone else.

“For whatever it’s worth, what my people did to yours was wrong,” Zelda said wearily. “It was war, and it started long before either of us were born—yet there is no excuse for the way we kept twisting the knife. I cannot reverse that past. But Nabooru and I will do our best to build a better future.”

“A future of servitude,” Ganondorf said acidly.

“Do you think I’d be her ally if that was the case?” Nabooru snapped. “Do you think it’s easy? It’s a choice, every day, to listen and think and work for something better than what you planned to give us.”

He ignored her, staring at Zelda with a grueling intensity that reminded her of the night her father had died. For a moment of freefall, she glimpsed every coil of the net that ensnared them both: the vengeful curse driving him, the love of a Goddess blazing inside her, the world dying and returning like the beat of a stubborn heart.

Tears rose unbidden. So did the longing for Link, sudden as a lance through the chest. She was not supposed to face this fate without him.

“Only a fool wastes water in the desert,” Ganondorf said impassively. “You are no fool.”

Zelda raised her chin, not bothering to dry her face or steady her voice. “Perhaps you’ll choose differently the next time we meet. Perhaps we’ll all be able to keep our hands clean.”

“No chance of that. Not for you or the boy. Certainly not for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not what we were made for,” he answered. The deepening twilight threw strange shadows across the chamber, and when she stepped back for one last look at Ganondorf, nothing remained in his eyes—no past, no future, nothing at all.

Zelda lowered her gaze and allowed the parched stone to swallow her tears, turning away to give Nabooru a final moment with the man she’d once called friend.

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Waiting was agony. Zelda paced up and down the ruins where they would make camp tonight, driving everyone mad until Impa grabbed her arm and hissed, “Will you sit down? You’re ill.”

Zelda sank down on a crate and watched stars emerge through the damaged roof. The Gerudo were gathered in a circle, telling stories of the days when their king was still deserving of loyalty. It was not the sort of conversation that welcomed outsiders. She rested her forehead in her hands while Impa struck flint against stone with increasing frustration.

“That wood probably rotted before either of us were born,” Zelda pointed out. “It won’t catch.”

“Not with that attitude,” Impa replied brusquely. She acted like this anytime she was worried about Zelda, as if one pebble rolling down a hill guaranteed that a landslide would follow, and stopping it was her sole responsibility.

“Impa, enough. I—I don’t think I’m sick. My bleeding never came this month.”

The flint bashed Impa’s knuckles instead this time, making her curse. Zelda might have laughed under different circumstances, but saying the words aloud had made them real, and now her eyes were stinging—wasting water again, as Ganondorf had said. Impa set down her tools and rested a hand on Zelda’s knee.

“I thought I’d have more time,” Zelda mumbled. “For—for all of this.”

“I know you did. Zelda…there are herbs you can take. Just say the word.”

That was a bad idea for Hyrule, and Impa knew it—but Zelda was just grateful that someone loved her enough for poor ideas to seem wise, so long as they took her fear away. “Thank you,” she murmured, covering Impa’s hand with her own. “But I’ll need an heir. I think this will be a good thing, someday. It’s just…bringing a child into all this…” She gestured helplessly at the wreckage of the cruel prison, a perfect example of the legacy she would be passing down.

“Your parents had the same worries,” Impa said quietly. She reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Zelda’s ear, her features barely visible as the last vestiges of sun slipped below the horizon. “But it’s like you said before you went to face Ganondorf. We do our best to protect people, but when they’re ready…we have to let them go. You’re a guide, Zelda. Not a savior.”

Zelda wanted to protest, but those words made painful sense. Being a savior had pushed Link into such a terrible place. He couldn’t even recognize his own grief, as if the ability to care about himself—to accept anyone’s help—had been torn out of him before they’d ever met. She couldn’t go down that path if she wanted to be a good leader or a good mother.

Out of nowhere, the Triforce of Wisdom flared under her skin. Zelda sprang to her feet, feeling something shift in the world around her. She blinked and saw two identical crones frowning down at her; blinked again and saw a row of shrouded bodies, a girl biting into an apple, a stone door in a quiet temple, a metal door closing on a prison cell. And then, for a brief instant, a blond man shrouded by fire and ice, half his face covered in blood.

“Link?” she gasped aloud.

He was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. The golden thread felt so distant, so frayed. But the new connection was viciously strong. Zelda stumbled out of the ruins and ran for the stairs.

When she reached the top of the coliseum, the chains bolted to the slab of black rock were empty. Five Sages stood in a silent semicircle, turning at her approach. “What happened?” Zelda demanded, her eyes wheeling around the chamber. Impa caught up a moment later.

“Gone,” Rauru answered. “He claimed the Sage of Water’s life, but he is gone.”

Zelda glanced down at her still-glowing hand. “Where is the body?”

“We were not expecting the Triforce of Power to—"

“Where is the body?”

Rauru sighed, a sound as old and tired as the desert wind. “He was still breathing when we sent him to the Twilight Realm, Lady Queen.”

“I trusted you!” Zelda shouted. “You said you would be enough! What are all you Sages and spirits and gods good for?! What’s your power worth if you never use it to keep us safe?”

“You are safe,” Rauru said patiently, and Zelda had to wonder if he’d used the same infuriating tone after Link woke up from seven years of slumber. “Ganondorf has been grievously wounded and cast into a world that will not welcome him. Recovery may well be impossible.”

Anything was possible for the inferno of ancient malice that dwelled inside Ganondorf, bolstered by the Triforce. Why had Power returned to him? The piece was supposed to be sealed away in the Sacred Realm—unless something drastic had happened in the other version of Hyrule. Zelda’s stomach churned at the thought. This kingdom demanded sacrifice after sacrifice, and so few of them stayed in place.

Maybe that was why Link had left. Over the years, she’d glimpsed him in a foggy forest, on the shore of a vast ocean, fighting some fell beast in the snow—but she hadn’t thought there was anything real about those dreams. Today’s vision carried the brutal weight of clarity. He was alive. He was in pain, or would be in pain, and she was helpless to stop it.

Impa touched her elbow. “Zelda, come here. It’s over.”

“It’s not,” Zelda mumbled, but she went into Impa’s arms without hesitation, wondering if there was anyone to hold Link. If only she could reach him, keep him safe with her love, tell him all the things she never had the chance to say.

Impa stroked her hair. “Did you hear what Rauru said? The Twilight Realm. There’s no record of anyone returning after being exiled there. We could be safe for generations to come.”

Generations without the beast breathing down Hyrule’s neck. The Door of Time would remain shut, the Master Sword locked safely away. And there was an even greater reward. Impa was here in her arms, Nabooru was coming up the staircase with her people—and in the far reaches of Hyrule, Ruto and Darunia and little Saria would all have a future.

Zelda couldn’t regret that, no matter the cost.

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When she walked into the royal suite, Owen looked up from his paperwork—he was the only person she’d ever known to actually enjoy paperwork—and smiled at her. Zelda was surprised to realize that she’d missed him. It was nothing like the constant gravitational pull of missing Link, but that didn’t have to be a bad thing.

“Ganondorf is gone,” she announced. There was more to the story, of course, but it felt less important than the news her physician had just confirmed.

“Thank Farore,” Owen sighed, standing up to refill his wine glass. “Want some?”

Zelda leaned her hip against the desk and watched him pour, wishing she could accept a glass to steel her nerves. There was nothing to do but say it. “I’m pregnant.”

He choked mid-drink, and Zelda lunged to rescue his precious paperwork from the wine, giggling at the look on his face as he coughed and spluttered. This king of hers could be stately and charismatic when he tried, but she liked him more when he didn’t.

“You’re laughing,” Owen gasped when he finally caught his breath. “You’re happy? Is this a happy thing?”

“For Hyrule, certainly. Between us, I…I have to admit I’m a little frightened. It feels awfully fast. Goddesses, I don’t know anything about children.”

“Nor do I.” He ran a hand through his curls, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t be that different from ruling, can it?”

“Sounds like something my father would say.”

“Actually, I was imitating mine.”

Zelda laughed again. Owen pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on her head, and Zelda closed her eyes. The storm had blown through and demolished so much of what she’d known. And she was still heartsick some days, still weary—but more and more, she was learning to pick up the pieces and fit them back together into something new.

“We don’t have to be perfect,” she murmured into Owen’s shirt.

“No,” he agreed, “but we’ll be enough.”

And that was all Zelda needed.

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Chapter Text

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Link’s bow arm was sore by the time the last ReDead fell. Romani had been putting him to shame all day, taking down monster after monster at twice his speed; he was still getting used to the bow she’d lent him after the witches destroyed his own. But it was much better to handle the remaining monsters in Ikana Castle from a distance—he didn’t want Romani getting hurt, and he certainly didn’t want their screams in his ears.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

Link resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s fine. It’s been fine for the past month.”

“Well, of course it is. No one could hit hard enough to get through that thick skull of yours!”

He snorted. “And here I was about to compliment your archery.”

Romani grinned. “Thanks. I’ve had plenty of practice, thanks to…you know, Them.”

Link winced, suddenly grateful the fairies were scouting ahead. Even though Tatl had been with him at the time, the night-ghosts still felt like a secret between him and Romani, tucked away with all the other horrors that were invisible to adult eyes. “So, um…Cremia still doesn’t believe you?”

“Oh, I stopped trying a long time ago. I can handle them alone now, so what’s the point? My sister’s as stubborn as you. She won’t believe anything she doesn’t see with her own eyes.”

Link looked away, remembering the cycle when he’d been too slow to stop the ghosts from taking her away in a column of yellow light. When she returned shell-shocked and silent the next morning, Cremia blamed herself with an intensity that had felt all too familiar.

“Maybe you should try again,” he suggested carefully. “She would help you if she understood.”

Romani dropped down from their perch, waiting for him to follow before she started towards the castle’s throne room.  “It’s only one night a year. It happened a few weeks before you arrived, and I was perfectly fine.”

“But…you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

“You did it alone,” Romani retorted, her usual airiness melting away beneath sudden heat. “You told me to stay safe in the barn, and I didn’t even—”

“Hey!” Tatl interrupted, zooming towards them with Tael behind her. “There’s no sign of the witches.”

Link paused in the doorway to the throne room, staring towards the spot where the portal to Hyrule had been. A few nights ago, he’d woken up to the Triforce glowing on the back of his hand, and for a brief, terrifying moment, the old connection to Ganondorf had shivered before fading away. Now his only dreams of Zelda were the faint, ordinary kind. That had to mean she was safe and closing the portal had been the right choice. Link would not entertain any other possibility.

Tael fluttered around the dusty room. “Where could the witches have gone? Are they still a threat?”

“Maybe,” Link sighed, wishing he didn’t care. But he’d never been good at leaving things unfinished. Kotake and Koume would do anything to return to Hyrule; it was his responsibility to stop them. That probably meant scouring Termina high and low, coming face-to-face with all the things that inhabited his nightmares.

“Well, Ikana’s as safe as it’ll ever be,” Romani said. “Still, Pammy and her dad should probably stay at the ranch a while longer. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if they stayed forever—I don’t think this place has been good for either of them.” Tatl and Link both chuckled humorlessly at the understatement. “Want to let me in on the joke?”

“It’s not very funny,” Link admitted.

She quirked an eyebrow. “You’re quite the puzzle, Grasshopper.”

“Yeah, well…thanks for helping me, all the same.”

Romani just smiled, her eyes very blue in the low light that reached past the canyon walls. There was that look again, the look of someone searching for something. Malon had flirted with him a bit in the Other Hyrule, Ruto more than a bit. Sheik had always been too guarded for such things, but she’d given him what she could afford: music to guide his path, stiches for his wounds, safety at the campfires they shared. Even though she’d withheld her identity, there had been such an honesty to their time together.

He couldn’t be honest with Romani. She was hardworking and funny and loyal, and certainly closer to him than any stranger who had winked at him over a tavern counter as he passed from world to world. Yet Link had absolutely nothing to give her. The few corners of his heart that remained good and kind and hopeful belonged to Zelda; she was the reason they were intact to begin with. Romani would probably laugh if he admitted he’d fallen in love at ten years old and never wanted to climb out, but it was true.

“Well, have fun staring at each other,” Tatl said as the silence stretched on. “I’m getting out of this place.”

Link flushed and shot her a glare, but no one was sorry to leave the castle and board up the gap in the outer wall. A chill ran up his spine when he turned away—maybe some echo of old Ikana, a once-great kingdom lost to time.

Or so he wanted to believe.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched on the ride back to the ranch. Pamela and her father spent dinner quietly absorbing the news that they could return home if they wanted. Romani had the right of it, in Link’s opinion—Pamela seemed happy here, and she was safe, which was more than the canyon would ever offer—but sticking his nose in other people’s business had never led him anywhere good.

When Cremia handed him a bucket of scraps for the pigpen, he was grateful for the excuse to flee. Breakfast and lunch were scarfed down between chores; something about these slow dinners full of laughter always itched under Link’s skin. It seemed so normal, so…constant. No one at that table had led a painless life, but they were all full of hope and color and plans for the future.

He was on his way back from the pigpen when some instinct stopped him in his tracks. Clouds hung thick over the night sky. All he could see with clarity was the orange beacon of candlelight that flickered through the ranch house’s windows; all he could hear was wind rustling in the grass and pigs snuffling behind him. Yet something made Link set the bucket down and reach for his sword.

“Not much point in that, boy.”

He drew the blade, backing up several steps in search of the voice’s source. Up. He always forgot to look up; he’d never quite shaken the habit of relying on Navi to do it for him. All the shrouded moon allowed him to see was a dark silhouette, hovering over the house—but he’d know that voice anywhere.

“Stay where you are,” the witch warned. “You have no bow, and that fire spell of yours won’t reach me—but I’m quite in range of this charming little house.”

Pale blue magic shimmered at her fingertips. Kotake. Her sister could be standing five feet away and Link would barely be able to see her.

“Before you consider making trouble, I can collapse this roof faster than you can blink. Returning to Ikana was foolish, boy. I saw you with that girl—and you led me right back to her.”

“What do you want?” Link demanded.

“I want the Kokiri’s Emerald. And I want what you stole from me.”

The Garo King’s Mask. If he admitted to breaking it, she might destroy the house in revenge. “I hid them,” he blurted out.

“Where?”

He hesitated long enough that a long spear of ice formed in Kotake’s hand, poised to fall. Link rushed to say, “I’ll bring them to you. Tell me where and when.”

Kotake considered for a moment. “Very well. Dawn, beneath the Clock Tower.”

His legs turned to water. The world seemed to tilt around him; he could hear the ticking, the waterwheel, the Song of Time. No, please, anywhere else—

“Well, boy? If you don’t show up, we’ll wreak havoc on this land. That seems like it would bother you.”

Link barely recognized his own voice. “I’ll be there.”

Her magic faded, and without another word, the dark shape of her flitted across the dim moon and disappeared into the night. Kotake and Koume didn’t frighten him—but he could feel the Clock Tower reaching for him across the miles, across every creeping minute, threatening to tear everything down all over again.

Through the window, he could see Romani and Pamela at the sink, giggling and flicking soap suds at each other. Had Link really been hoping to find a life like theirs? Hoping to escape the inevitable?

He slept on a futon in the house most nights, but there was no way he could face the others right now. Instead he went to the barn, pausing a moment to rest his forehead on Epona’s neck, and climbed up to the hayloft.

Returning to the Clock Tower made a sick sort of sense. Circles and cycles. Maybe those desperate words he’d flung at the Happy Mask Salesman were true, and whatever slim chance he’d had of growing up and taking control of his life died in this place, and there would never be anything else.

He tried to imagine what the letter would say. Dear Zelda, I’m not coming back. I’ll never pull myself out of the water. I love you enough to leave, but not enough to stay.

No. Link couldn’t accept that—not for her sake, or for his own.

Footsteps neared the barn, followed by the orange glow of a lantern. He put his back to the ladder and pretended to be asleep.

“I come here when I’m upset, too,” Romani said.

“Who says I’m—” Link stopped midsentence, cursing himself, but clearly she hadn’t bought his act anyway.

“My dad was good at coaxing me down. He always said that every problem gets smaller when you share it with someone else.” She allowed the silence to stretch. “Do you want me to go, Link?”

The kind answer would be yes. Romani belonged inside that quiet, comfortable house full of people who cared for each other. But the cowardly part of Link didn’t want to be alone with the sound of the Clock Tower tolling in his ears.  He turned his head just enough to see her perched on the ladder, the lanternlight turning her hair the color of fire, and said slowly, “No. I don’t want you to go.”

Shadows danced over the rafters as Romani pulled herself the rest of the way up the ladder and brought the lantern to his side. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“Do you…distrust me? Sometimes you look at me like—I don’t know. Like you expect me to hurt you.”

“Oh.” Link sat up, brushing the hay from his hair and plastering on a smile. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to apologize for. I just…I can tell you don’t like it here. Not that I blame you. Everyone says Termina was at its worst when the moon was falling. That’s all you saw of us, and you helped anyway. I know you told Pammy it’s not a debt, and I respect that, but…” She tucked her hair behind her ears self-consciously. “What I’m trying to say is, you can trust me.”

“I do,” Link said truthfully.

“Good.” Romani settled back against a hay bale. “So, do you want to talk about why you’re up here?”

Link fiddled with a piece of hay for a while. If nothing else, he owed her a warning. “Uh…one of the witches came to see me. And I’m going to stop them tomorrow, but they know about the ranch now, so…maybe you guys should go away for a few days, just in case—”

“Leave my cows to those hags? Never!”

“They don’t care about cows, they—never mind. I just want you to be careful.”

“I get it,” Romani replied sharply. “You think I’ll let you slink off alone, like you did when we went looking for Pamela. Not a chance, Grasshopper. I’m coming with you this time.”

“What? No. This isn’t like shooting ReDeads or ghosts. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Then teach me. Those witches need to be stopped, and you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

“No,” Link insisted, turning to face her head-on. “You have way too much to lose.”

She raised her chin. “You can’t just weigh our lives on a scale and decide mine is more valuable. You happen to mean a lot to me, Grasshopper.”

That struck Link speechless. Heat spread through his chest, unexpected and unwelcome, because it would make refusing her much harder.

“I barely fear the ghosts anymore,” Romani went on softly. “I don’t enjoy it, but…every year, every carnival, I remember you riding out to face Them with that look on your face. Like you were daring the whole world to stop you. But we were strangers. You could have walked away. Why didn’t you walk away?”

He shrugged, looking down at his scarred hands. “It’s not who I am.”

“Well…I guess I don’t really know who you are. I don’t know where you’re from, or how you became so strong when you were so young, or why you think the witches are your responsibility. The only thing I’m sure of is that you’re a good man. And I’m not going to walk away, either.”

Link stared at her in disbelief. She held his gaze, her jaw set stubbornly, her red hair curling around her face in the summer humidity. For once, he wasn’t seeing Malon or anyone else—he was seeing a brave young woman who kept reaching out her hand no matter how many times he pushed her away. Wherever you go, don’t be alone, Zelda had said, but by clinging to his losses, Link had forgotten how to be anything else.

“Thank you,” he whispered, reaching for Romani’s hand. She slid her fingers through his with a smile—and then she leaned closer.

There was time to pull away. Link was surprised to find himself closing his eyes instead. He’d only been kissed once, when his heart had been in the midst of breaking; in comparison, this kiss was brief and soft and harmless. Romani withdrew to search his face.

“I have nothing to give you,” he said helplessly.

She considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m not asking for anything, Link. Let’s just keep each other company for a night.”

He looked down at their joined hands. Romani was so warm, and even at the peak of summer, he had been so cold for so long. Was that a good enough reason to want what she was offering? Because Link did want it. He was afraid of tomorrow and of all his yesterdays, and she was offering to fill his chasmic longing for a little while—offering to let him do the same for her.

He shifted closer with experimental caution, as though the fragile kindness of this moment could be ripped apart like the wings of a butterfly in the next heartbeat. Again, Romani took nothing more than he was willing to give; again, the kiss felt sweet and simple. And Link wanted so badly for one thing to be simple.

“Okay,” he told her, and with a smile, Romani dragged her lantern across the dusty floor and blew out the flame.

When he woke in the slim blue hours before dawn, she was still curled up at his side, her chest rising and falling steadily. Link stared at the barn’s dim rafters and tried to recall what Zelda looked like. All the memories he had taken for granted were hazy now, their clarity stolen by time. He remembered promising to return, remembered the faith shining in her eyes—blue eyes, of course, he would never forget that—but the details of her face felt like water slipping through his fingers.

Romani shifted in her sleep. He couldn’t regret this, despite his grief for a future that would never be. He was grateful beyond words for what she’d given him. Safe harbor from loneliness, a reason to feel nothing besides his body and hers—and even before that, she had offered to risk everything and face the Clock Tower at his side.

Link couldn’t let her do that. He couldn’t lose this girl who fought off ghosts every year without help or thanks from anyone, who had reminded him time and again that this world—all worlds—were worth saving. The thought of his unfinished business cutting her future short was unbearable.

He was the Hero of Time, no matter that no one remembered him. What was he made for, if not to protect people like her?

Carefully, reluctantly, Link untangled himself from her warmth. When the rooster’s first cry greeted the dawn, Romani would wake up alone.

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Chapter Text

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Link stared up at the painted limestone walls that surrounded Clock Town, wondering what Navi would say to get him moving. So many years after she’d disappeared into that silent sunbeam, he didn’t think of her nearly as often as he used to—except at moments like this, when he needed her.

One step at a time. That would be her advice. He kissed the white blaze between Epona’s eyes and removed her bridle so she could graze outside the walls. If he won today, he’d return soon. If he didn’t—well, she knew the way back to Romani Ranch, and the sisters would take better care of her than Link ever had.

He passed through the southern gate with a nod to the guards. The tower blocked out the rising sun, but he kept his eyes at ground level, assessing his surroundings like a battlefield.

There was nothing special about the dusty cobblestones, the thatched roofs, the pigeons pecking at scraps—Link had passed through countless towns like this since leaving Hyrule. This early in the morning, the plaza was empty but for the guards and one lone figure crossing the street in a mailman’s red hat. But he doesn’t collect until nine, Link thought in a brief flash of panic, until he realized the man was unfamiliar. No carnival flags. No viewing platform for the fireworks. It was a new day.

He could do this. Link stepped into the Clock Tower’s long shadow and approached the open door—that was different too, along with the absence of the Happy Mask Salesman’s smiling face. When he’d found himself here after every reset, the door had always been closed.

A few more steps, and noise struck him loud as thunder: the churning of the waterwheel, the creaking of the gears that powered the clock, the sound of the cycle beginning anew. Link grabbed at the cool stone wall, squeezing his eyes shut; the ground felt no steadier underfoot than the canoe Koume had used for her swamp tours, back when she seemed so convincingly innocent.

The Fierce Deity’s Mask hung from his belt as a last resort. He was tempted to put it on now, surrender both his control and his terror to the god. He should have brought Tatl. She wanted to help. Link had agreed to let her help. But returning here would hurt her too—and he’d done enough of that by spending all those cycles striving for perfection while she begged for an end. So he didn’t have Tatl. He didn’t have anyone.

On one of the worst nights of his life, Sheik had found him hunched on the ground outside the Shadow Temple, his task complete but his mind finally catching up to the horror of it. The only thing Link remembered with clarity was her bandaged hands holding his wrists, her crimson eyes anchoring him to safety.

Fear is like the wind, she’d told him fiercely. Let it guide you, then let it fade.

Link clung to those words as he inched forward, drawing the Gilded Sword just to feel its weight. He didn’t see the witches, just the horribly familiar chamber with its mossy walls and those two massive gears turning above his head. He used to imagine them grinding him to a pulp, the same way the moon would crush Termina; used to wonder if it would feel like relief.

One step at a time. The sound of the Clock Tower was all around him. The witches must be somewhere below, in the tunnels that first brought Link to Termina. He passed over the spot where the Happy Mask Salesman had always stood and descended the stairs, slick from the moisture that escaped the waterwheel. The last vestiges of morning sun deserted him on the other side of the bridge that spanned the canal.

There was another source of light, though: an arch of blue ice that Link recognized immediately. Unlike the other portal, he could see nothing but a gossamer-thin veil of magic between the two pillars. The witches had spent years creating the first one; it stood to reason that the second would take time as well.

Fire roared out of the darkness, illuminating the tunnel for a brief instant as Link dodged and let it crash against the wall behind him. Koume stalked forth, smoke rising from her hands. Kotake joined her, saying with mock reproach, “I thought we were going to test him before killing him, Koume.”

“I was testing him, Kotake. That pretty sword is no blade of evil’s bane. And if he had the Ocarina, we’d be fighting on his terms. Are you really the same boy who thwarted King Ganondorf?”

“Does it matter?” Link asked wearily. “You’re not here for me. You’re planning something with the mask. With Clock Town.” 

“There’s a great deal of magic swirling around this tower,” Koume said. “No better place to work spells of our own. This town is nothing to us. All we want is to go home. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I hope you brought what we asked for,” Kotake added, cold as the element she controlled.

He took a breath—smelling the damp stone, hearing the terrible churn of the gears—and said, “I destroyed the mask.”

She growled wordlessly, raising her broom to send spears of ice raining down on Link. He danced away and gave himself over to the fight. The witches had caught him off guard in Ikana; since then, he’d spent plenty of time contemplating how to defeat them without the Mirror Shield or the Master Sword. Plenty of time practicing, too.

When fire bloomed in Koume’s hands, Link held his ground, waiting until the last minute to cast Nayru’s Love. Cool blue magic flowed around him—not just a shield, but a catapult that absorbed her spell and flung it back at her sister. Kotake scrambled away and collided with Koume, who shoved her away with a curse.

That was his advantage: surely the sisters loved each other, given that Koume had sacrificed the portal to save Kotake, but they also loathed each other. They didn’t work together the way Link had worked with Sheik, the only person whose strength truly matched his—a relief so profound he hadn’t allowed himself to feel it since their parting, maybe not even with her other self.

The witches were so busy squabbling that he was halfway down the tunnel by the time they noticed. Fire and ice hurtled towards him. Link kept going one step at a time, spell after spell of their uncoordinated assault breaking against Nayru’s Love. He was faster than he had been in the Spirit Temple with Navi at his side; he was faster than Koume, who was the first to falter, the first to fall as Link redirected a blast of her twin’s ice. She shrieked and sank to the floor.

Kotake stepped in front of her, casting a barrier around them both. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she mused, dragging her sister upright. “Maybe you are the one who locked King Ganondorf away.”

He remembered his enemy’s last-ditch effort to charge the king, remembered how his rage had warped to shock when the Kokiri sword pierced his flesh. He’d stared down at Link, unable to believe that someone so small and so young could stand against him, unable imagine anything but victory.

Link met Kotake’s hateful eyes and smiled savagely. “I’m also the one who fucked up his leg.”

The witches only sneered. Link stalked forward, the sword tight in his grip, thinking: I can win. I can be free from all of it.

And then the Clock Tower’s bell began to toll.

Clang. Wood digging into his skin, filling him with the terror of a lost Deku child crying for his father. Clang. The moon’s baleful grin sinking closer with every second. Clang. Romani asking his name after the fourteenth time he’d saved her life. Clang. Another dawn, another tick mark in his notebook, and none of it had mattered; the clock would keep turning until he broke under the weight he’d lifted from the dead. And even then—even if he let go of everything—there would still be one ghost wandering Termina’s ashes, because no one was coming to play the Song of Healing for Link.

Ice snaked across the floor, locking his feet in place. He dropped to his knees, reaching for the Fierce Deity’s Mask, for anything to get him out of this, but the ice crept up to trap his hands against the stone floor. Koume pried the Gilded Sword from his grip and pressed it gently to his throat.

“Maybe you were enough last time,” she said almost piteously, “but not anymore.”

Kotake shuffled over to pluck the mask from his belt. The ice was cold and unrelenting. The bell had fallen silent, but Link could still hear the gears churning above his head. Fear is like the wind. Let it guide you, then let it fade.

What if he couldn’t make it fade? What if it stretched on and on inside him, no matter how far he ran or how old he got?

He would never find out if he gave up here—and that thought was truly unbearable. Link hadn’t kept going this long so he could die alone beneath the gears of time, in a place that smelled like the bottom of the Kakariko well. He’d kept going to learn what waited around the bend.

The Triforce of Courage warmed on the back of his left hand.

“You should know that losing the first portal was only a setback,” Kotake gloated, studying the Fierce Deity’s Mask. “By the time this one is complete, King Ganondorf will have led the Gerudo to victory.”

“That’s a lie,” Link snapped.

Koume shifted the swordpoint to rest beneath his right eye. “Is it? You’ve been gone for a long time. I wonder what Princess Zelda will say when we throw you into her prison cell, blind and maimed. Assuming she’s not carrion food already.”

He was nearly angry enough to make his move right then—until he felt the heat of Triforce build beneath his skin. For a breathless moment, his vision clouded with gold. It felt like stumbling out of the Shadow Temple to see her waiting, one glowing spot of safety in the graveyard of their world. Like kissing her goodbye at the end of everything. Like finding her in the garden and falling in love all over again.

Zelda was alive. And she was with him. Not in the way he wanted, but the pale trace of her, the reminder of her heart beating beside his, would ease what came next. There were a lot of things Link wanted to forget, things that had sunk their claws in and would not let go—but he would hold onto that golden thread as long as he could, because on the other end of it was someone he loved.

He took a deep breath. No Silver Gauntlets in this lifetime; he’d worked for his strength, the same way he’d worked for everything. The witches had no idea he was capable of breaking free. The rest would come down to speed.

Dear Zelda, Link thought, in case it was his last chance. Thank you. I’m sorry. I’ll keep trying.

“You’ll never reach her,” he promised the witches. “We’ll never let you win.”

They made identical expressions of distaste, but with their attention on Link’s face, they didn’t see him bracing his knees against the floor. With a wrench of pain, his hands came free of the ice and reached for the Gilded Sword.

Koume reacted instinctively. Link saw gold and white—then red, terrible red. Half the world erupted into agony. He heard himself scream, high and frantic as a child, but he wasn’t a child; he was the Hero of Time, and that sword belonged to him.

The moment his fingers found its familiar hilt, he wrested it from Koume and slashed upwards. She tumbled back with a cry. Link could feel hot blood pouring down his face; his whole body heaved with sobs. Keep going. Keep trying. He slammed the sword’s hilt down against the ice that encased his legs and tried to crawl away.

But Kotake was there, her face contorted with a fury he’d only ever seen in Ganondorf; she would freeze him to his soul. Link had one moment to remember Zelda’s blue eyes before the end.

Except the end never came. Kotake choked out a wet gasp. The ice melted in her hands; the Fierce Deity’s Mask clattered to the floor. Link snatched it up on pure instinct, trying to make sense of the world, trying to think past the pain.

“Grasshopper,” Romani gasped, lowering her bow and running to his side. “Can you stand?”

Her voice came to him as though underwater. It made no sense. Link had left her behind; she wasn’t supposed to follow. But her hands felt very real as they pulled him up and tried to guide him to the stairs.

Link planted his feet, pulling his arm from her grasp. “Run,” he choked out.

“What?” Romani shrieked.

“I—I have to stay, I have to stop this—”

“Are you crazy?!”

“Go!” he insisted, shoving her towards the stairs.

“Link—”

He turned, holding his damaged eye—Farore help him, his eye—just in time to see the sisters join their bloody hands. Scarlet and cobalt intertwined. The power grew bright, then blinding, until Twinrova loomed over him, laughing the same cruel laugh that still haunted his nightmares.

In another lifetime, killing her in the Spirit Temple had left Link inconsolable for hours. But he’d never forgotten the burnt carcass of Castle Town, the seven years of loss Zelda blamed on herself. Those crimes belonged to Ganondorf, and yet—Link’s mother had spent her last hours bringing him to safety. Saria and the Great Deku Tree taught him to love the world, even when it didn’t love him back. What had Kotake and Koume taught Ganondorf? Poisonous rage. Endless hunger. The unhealed wounds of a war older than him.

It was past time to cut the corruption off at its roots.

Link was shaking so hard he could barely stand, anguish sweeping over him in unsatiable waves. There was only one way to win this fight, and it meant falling back into something he’d been trying to escape for half his life. But his mind was ready, even if his body was petrified.

Taking one last breath, he slid the Fierce Deity’s Mask onto his face.

There was a heartbeat of silence, of remembered terror. Then a triumphant voice slithered through his skull: Finally.

Link had tried to forget this pain. It made a mockery of every natural wound he’d taken, splintered through every inch of skin, burrowed into his marrow until there was nothing else. Gone was the Kokiri child, the Hero of Time, the scarred wanderer trying to hold himself together. It all sank away to make room for the power pouring into him, the memories of blood and grief and red skies, the colossal rage.

As the agony ebbed away, he watched his hand reach for the double helix sword. There was a girl behind him, backing away with her hands over her mouth, but the voice ordered, Ignore her. You have an enemy.

He had an enemy. Nothing else mattered.

Fire engulfed the tunnel. He walked into its embrace, slow and languorous; time was his to conquer, and so was the witch who dared to stand against him. When the flames guttered out, ice took its place, huge pillars of it slamming down to block his path. One swing of his blade was enough to shatter them. He could tear apart the entire tower if he wanted, destroy the earth, consume everything. No one would ever hurt him again.

Twinrova stumbled back, weak from her injuries, while he took his final steps forward. “You’re coming with us,” she spat, the beginnings of some desperate, final spell fizzling between her hands.

But she was nothing to a god. His sword plunged into her chest. She coughed once, spattering his face with blood, and was dead by the time he withdrew the blade.

Good, the voice sneered. Now move. Freedom awaits.

The girl squeaked out a word as he passed, one syllable that tugged at some buried part of him, but he kept walking. Past the waterwheel, up the stairs, into the sun. He studied the world he would soon rule, wondering if he should start by bringing down the tower.

Something gripped his wrist. He nearly shook it off before he saw the girl’s desperate face as she clung to him—that took a great deal of courage—and pointed towards the town.

A fairy as bright as the sun soared across the plaza and landed on his shoulder, shouting in his ear fearlessly, as though he couldn’t crush her like a bug. More words, distant yet familiar. But his mind was reaching for something beyond this place.

There had been another fairy. Another tower, too. Black stone crumbling all around him, a sacred sword in his grip, a tiny voice encouraging him onwards.

Move, the voice growled. I’ve waited long enough.

The swirl of pink skirts, the glimmer of power. He touched his face in confusion. Someone had shown him the way out. He could find it again, couldn’t he? That was why she’d given him a compass. For all the times she couldn’t be his guide.

False promises, like everything else.

The voice didn’t belong to him. He was carrying it for someone else, carrying all that rage and grief, even though he had plenty of his own. But that wasn’t all he had. Again, he remembered the warm breeze of her magic lighting up the tower, her voice threading gold around his name.

You have no name.

“Hey!” the fairy was yelling, her voice finally reaching his addled mind. “Listen to me, you idiot—come back! You told me you wanted to go home!”

You have no home. Reaper, revenant, forgotten little boy—you have only the battlefield.

But that wasn’t true. There were forests full of secrets, lakes lit by sunrise, boundless green fields. And there was a moonlit bedroom where a girl had pressed her hands to his heart—his broken, still-beating heart—and told him, You survived. You’re still here.

His fingers caught the hard edge along his jaw. The voice hissed out a thousand vicious protests, not one of them louder than the call of home.

I’m still here, Link thought, and he tore the mask from his face.

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Link looks so content now—half-asleep with his back against the arm of the sofa and his legs in Zelda’s lap—that it’s hard to imagine he carved his way through the unimaginable to reach this moment. She has to wonder what he’s leaving out of the story. His voice always falters over the words Clock Tower. No doubt it has to do with his first visit to Termina, the one that amplified the fear he was already carrying when they first met.

She reaches over to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I wish I had been with you.”

“You were,” Link replies softly. “Whenever I needed you, I felt you there.”

Zelda felt him too—when her father died, when she fought his killer, when the Sages botched the execution at Arbiter’s Grounds. And in so many dreams. The golden thread was stretched so thin for so long. Now it’s coiled around them, between them, waiting for what comes next.

“But it wasn’t enough to keep you from getting hurt.” Her fingers linger over the bandage that covers his eye. “Or from having to continue the fight afterwards.”

“Romani saved my life. And I…I had something from my first time in Termina that made the fight easy enough.” Link pokes the crease between her eyebrows, the way he used to do when they were children. “You worry too much. It turned out okay.”

You always do this, she wants to protest. You smooth over the truth for my sake. Though Zelda’s guilty of that too. Except for those who were at Arbiter’s Grounds that day, Hyrule believes Ganondorf is dead—he might as well be, considering how unlikely it is that he’ll survive the Twilight Realm. But the speculation won’t comfort Link. Giving him the truth would mean dropping another cruel weight on his shoulders.

Perhaps someday she’ll tell him, but right now he’s leaning his cheek against her palm, looking sleepier by the second—and she can’t imagine doing anything to hurt him. Not when he’s finally being forthcoming after all those years of silence, he’s finally trying to be honest with her. Zelda never wants to move from this sofa; she wants to fall asleep right here in his warmth.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she says to buy herself a little more time, “tomorrow is the castle’s rest day. I sometimes spend it with the children at the Castle Town orphanage. Their caretaker likes bringing them to visit Lon Lon Ranch.”

“That’s restful for you?” Link asks skeptically.

She giggles. “Well, no, but it’s fun. Would you like to come?”

“Hmm. Okay. Been meaning to ask if the ranch has space for Epona.” Reluctantly, she slides out from under his legs, but Link catches her hand before she can turn towards her bed. “Zelda?” he says, anxiety bleeding into his voice. “Impa told me you’re good at dealing with nightmares.”

She fights to hide her surprise. “Did she?”

“I didn’t know you had them in the first place. Besides the prophetic ones.”

“They’re mostly to do with my father. But…I try to go to sleep thinking of something happy. It seems to help my dreams from turning dark.”

“Really? That works?”

“Some nights.”

Link furrows his brow. “Wait, is that why you changed the subject? Mentioned the ranch?”

Zelda smiles sheepishly. She’s been doing it since they were young—trying to make him smile, to turn his thoughts in a positive direction before he went off to bed. Link must be realizing that right now; she can see him think back through the years, his expression cracking open into something heartfelt and vulnerable.

“Let’s try?” she offers.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Tell me about something you enjoyed during your travels. You know I love Hyrule, but I’ve always wished to see the world.”

“Oh, the best part was trying new food,” Link answers easily. “There was this one thing like…a round piece of bread covered in melted cheese. Sometimes meat or vegetables too. I can’t remember the name.”

“Sounds delectable.”

His face has taken on that childish wonder he reserves for the things he loves most. It’s a rare enough sight that Zelda hoards every instance like a dragon guarding her treasure. Link’s hair is loose around his shoulders, golden in the gentle firelight, and the smile smooths his hard edges away—but he’s always been beautiful, one way or another. She wonders if saying that would embarrass him.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Of course. Good night, sleepyhead.”

Link is still gazing up at her, his face impossibly soft. Zelda was married, for Nayru’s sake; how can a simple look make her heart pound so hard?

She’s reluctant to withdraw her hand, and he’s reluctant to let it slide through his grasp. Like they could both hold on forever.

The thought carries her into warm dreams.

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The snow is coming down hard by the time they reach Hyrule Field the next morning. Link turns his face up to the sky and lets the cold flakes brush his skin. He hasn’t seen snow since the world before Termina. It reminds him of days spent playing in Kokiri Forest just like the children of Castle Town are doing now, their laughter ringing out across the wide-open plain.

It’ll be slow progress towards Lon Lon Ranch. Headmistress Rin, an indomitable woman with inky hair and startling scarlet eyes, doesn’t seem to mind. She’s strolling along at Zelda’s side, speaking of the orphanage’s needs while Link brings up the rear with Epona.

They’re halfway to the ranch gates when one of the younger children faceplants in the snow and bursts into tears. Link fights a sudden instinct to move towards the sound, to fix whatever needs fixing. Rin is already crouching down to help.

“My husband and I started spending time with them when I was pregnant,” Zelda says quietly, falling into step beside Link. “Neither of us had much experience with children. He was a natural. I’m still clueless.”

“You’re wonderful,” he protests. 

“She’s only a baby now. What about when she’s walking and talking and falling down in the snow? She’ll need me. And I’ll be raising a successor, not just a daughter. She’ll have privilege, yes, but not freedom. Not outside the role I’m forcing her into.”

Link stops in his tracks and catches her arm. Epona halts with them, huffing out a sigh that drifts through the cold air. He’s always tempted to tear down that beautiful castle whenever he thinks about the burden it places on Zelda. Guilt tormented her in the Other Hyrule. Even here, where her childhood was free of tragedy, she’s still carrying more than one person should bear.

“You’re doing your best, and you’re not alone,” he says firmly. “No one could doubt how much you love her. It will be enough, Zelda.”

She blinks up at him, pulling her dark cloak tighter around herself. “How do you know?”

“Because I’m a time traveler. Duh.” Zelda rolls her eyes, but he’s gotten a smile out of her. Link takes both her hands in his and gives his real answer. “Because you’ve always been enough.”

Her smile widens. She’s so beautiful with her cheeks flushed from the cold and the snow settling in her hair, and he thinks of her hand tracing his face last night, thinks of how she’s been planting happy seeds in his mind to ward off the nightmares. For so long, all Link had of her was a compass, a lullaby, and memories that almost hurt too much to think about. And those were gifts—it’s all been a gift—but there’s so much warmth in her eyes right now that he realizes he’s allowed to ask for more. That maybe, as Impa said, she’s waiting for him to ask for more.

The moment breaks when two girls creep up shyly and ask to pet Epona. With a rueful glance at Zelda, who’s trying not to laugh, he moves to keep watch over his testy mare while the girls stand on tiptoe to stroke her neck. They must be sisters, neither of them older than ten, swallowed up by their oversized coats.

“What happened to your eye, mister?” one wonders.

“Maybe it got pecked out by a crow,” the other speculates. “Or an Octorok had really good aim. Or—”

“Not very polite to poke people’s wounds, is it?” Rin interrupts, tromping back through the snow and placing her hands on her hips.

Link shrugs it off. The girls look contrite, but their dark eyes are still gleaming with curiosity, like coal at the heart of an inferno. And with a sudden avalanche of feeling, he thinks: Saria.

He’s been so wrapped up in the relief of being home, being safe, being with Zelda—but that’s no excuse. He could mount Epona right now and reach Kokiri Forest in an hour. Saria was the best part of his childhood. She raised him to be kind, showed him the music of the world; he’s only just beginning to understand how much that saved him.

But it’s been so long. Link watches the girls trail after Rin like little ducklings, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other. It’s been so long since he was that carefree. If he’s being honest with himself, he can’t really remember the child he used to be. And maybe Saria won’t either.

He walks on at Zelda’s side, his gaze lowered against the sun’s blinding reflection on the snow. He felt so hopeful just a few minutes ago. What’s wrong with him? Why can’t he ever hold onto the good and let go of the bad?

“Link?” Zelda prompts quietly. “Did it bother you, what the children said?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine.”

She slides her fingers through his without another word. He holds tight the rest of the way to the ranch.

As soon as they pass under the gate, Talon emerges from the barn, holding the door open behind him—and out steps Malon, pulling a wool hat over her red hair as she smiles at the children.

Link’s stomach twists with nonsensical fear. Years have passed since he found refuge in the quiet, simple work of this place. There’s no way Malon remembers someone who passed through her life so briefly—and that shouldn’t be a surprise. It shouldn’t matter.

But it does. It matters so much that he’s sick with the need to run away.

Some of the children follow Talon inside to visit the Cuccos, while Rin leads the rest towards the pastures. Ingo is nowhere to be seen; maybe they finally fired him. Link tries to console himself with that thought as Malon waves at Zelda and glances curiously at him. Her hair is long and her eyes are unguarded, but when she smiles, he sees someone else in her place—Romani, who gave him so much, who never forgot him.

That’s what he should focus on, not the polite, impersonal look in Malon’s eyes as she comes towards them. But an awful whisper reminds him, Romani did forget. In the fifth cycle, the twelfth cycle, all the others you lost count of. They all forget. There’s nothing stronger than time.

“Link,” Zelda says, warm magic seeping from her fingers into his cold skin. “Are you with me?”

He blinks, putting a hand on Epona’s shoulder to ground himself. It’s so shameful the way he falls apart, slides into awful nothingness, leaves only an empty shell behind. He's been trying to repair it all this time, but then the most innocuous thing—like a red-haired girl with a dazzling smile—topples whatever meager progress he’s made. 

But Zelda always brings him back. She did it as Sheik, masked and taciturn; she did it when she was a child and Link was the ghost of one. Even when he was worlds away and the Fierce Deity tried to seep its way to power through his deepest wounds, she was the compass that guided him home.

“Yeah,” Link says, squeezing her hand. “I’m—I’m here. Thanks.”

When Malon makes it down the snowy path, she’s not looking at him or Zelda—only Epona. Her face floods with quiet disbelief. When she slips a hand from her mitten and holds it out, Epona dips her head and breathes in the smell of the girl who loved her long before Link did.

Malon traces the blaze of white hair between Epona’s eyes. Then she glances up at Link, studying him for a moment that stretches hours, and says to them both, “Welcome back.”

Link’s breath rushes out of him in a long cloud. She’s proven him wrong, like Zelda and Impa, like Romani and all the others in Termina. He realizes he’s grinning from ear to ear—all three of them are, especially when Malon comes forward to pull Link and Zelda into a hug. For a moment, they’re all children again, no matter how fleeting childhood turned out to be.

When he asks about keeping Epona at the ranch, Malon is thrilled to accept. She lifts the saddle from the mare’s back and carries it into the barn. Zelda lingers to see if Link wants company, but he waves her inside to get warm; this moment belongs to him and his horse.

Snow crunches underfoot as they walk towards the pasture. Epona was so wary in all the towns and villages they passed through—always surrounded by strangers, always gone the next morning—but she’s calm as he unlatches the gate, her ears pricked towards the other horses curiously. As soon as Link slides her bridle off, she shakes her mane, spraying snow all over his face and making him laugh. Epona pauses to nuzzle his hands before she turns to greet her herd.

Horses have long memories. She knows she’s home. And only now does the truth settle over Link, gentle as snowfall: it’s finally over, that life of campfires and hunger and transience. As long as he can find it in himself to stay.

Headmistress Rin is leaning against the other side of the fence, watching the children fuss over a patient little pony. She shoots a grin at Link. “Would your mare like to take a turn?”

“That…would not end well.”

She chuckles. “You and the queen make quite a pair, by the way. It’s nice to see her happy.”

“Oh, we’re not—I’m just—"

“Mistress Rin!” one of the children cries. “Meg won’t share with me!”

She sighs, pushing herself off the fence to break up the argument. Link watches the children’s faces as they listen to her, all their frustration smoothed away by trust. He’s passed through plenty of towns with hollow-eyed orphans begging for scraps. The awful part was the way they would smile when he handed over whatever he could—as if it was enough to save them, as if he wasn’t going to leave them behind.

“What were we talking about?” Rin asks when she rejoins him at the fence.

He just smiles at her. “I really admire what you do for these kids.”

“I wish I could do more.”

“You—you’re giving them a place. That’s everything.”

Rin shrugs sheepishly. “At least we’ve got the resources to help them these days. The old king funded us, but he didn’t pay attention the way King Owen did. I think she’s mourning him, in a way, when she comes here with us.”

Zelda still guards every word about her husband very carefully—whether out of grief or misplaced guilt, Link doesn’t know. When he told her about Romani, she only said, I’m glad you weren’t alone. And he feels the same way. He’s always known his heart when it comes to Zelda, but he doesn’t regret what he shared with Romani. And Zelda shouldn’t regret Owen.

“Anyway, you’re right,” Rin continues. “They have a place—it’s not much, but it’s better than how things were when I was a kid.”

She’s maybe a decade his senior, born during Hyrule’s darkest days—and she’s Sheikah; Link knew it the moment he saw her. Impa is widely considered the last of the Shadow Folk, but he’s seen more shocking things than a woman with eyes the color of blood. It makes him glad to imagine survivors scattered across the kingdom they helped build, living quiet lives in service to no one but themselves.

“You understand,” Rin observes. “You’re a war orphan too, aren’t you?”

To his own surprise, Link nods. He’s never really thought of himself that way, but something about this woman’s kind, sad face makes the admission come easily. The war mortally injured his mother; he’ll never know anything about his father. And that’s to say nothing of the battles Link fought all on his own, the ones that marooned him in a terrible place he never expected to escape.

What if someone like Rin was looking out for him? What if Navi stayed and helped him pick up the pieces of his life? Better yet, what if Zelda’s father heeded her warning about Ganondorf and spared the children of Hyrule seven years of suffering?

“Sure makes it hard to understand peace,” Rin murmurs.

“It really does,” Link says ruefully.

“But we deserve it as much as anyone else. And these kids deserve better than we got at their age.”

Another snowball fight has broken out. The two dark-haired sisters are braiding the pony’s mane and singing some off-key song. Link watches them, and he misses Saria, and he misses the person he was in the forest—but he knows by now that some things are lost forever.

Not everything, though. He has no idea what peace means. He’s never tried to learn, out of fear that it would just be ripped away. But there are teachers all around him: in these children and their caretaker, in the quiet snowfall, in Epona as she explores her old home without fear. And, always, in Zelda.

He’s come this far. He has the strength to travel a little further.

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Chapter Text

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Rain drumming on the roof overhead. Pain like a starving animal. The reek of copper.

“Keep still,” someone told him. “You’re all right.”

That sounded like Anju. And rain meant it was the second day. If Link brought her Kafei’s pendant, he could unravel some of that worry from her voice. Tatl would point irritably at the grinning moon and remind him that there were a thousand other pinpricks bleeding Termina dry. What was so important about a woman waiting for answers and a man afraid to let her down?

Link didn’t know. He just couldn’t bear to abandon them.

The agony seemed to be building by the minute. He prodded the right side of his face and found it swathed in gauze. A hand caught his, guiding it gently away.

“The fairies did their best,” Anju said quietly. “I’m sorry. Romani’s getting you another potion.”

Romani? That made no sense. Link opened his good eye, gritting his teeth when a wave of pain radiated from the other. At first, the Knife Chamber looked just as he remembered it—but the hole he’d used to eavesdrop on the room next door had been patched over with ugly green wallpaper. And Anju looked older, her dress a summery yellow, her mouth marked by smile lines.

“What…” Link started hoarsely.

“You’re all right. Romani brought you here from the Clock Tower, remember?”

With a rush of relief, he did—the tower and those three days were behind him. Romani entered the room then, a grown-up with short hair and worried eyes, and the rest of reality fell into place around her. The witches. The Fierce Deity’s mask. His eye…

Romani popped the cork on a red potion, holding it out to him. “Think you can sit up?”

Link pushed himself up shakily, misjudging the distance and nearly knocking the bottle from her grasp. She steadied his hands, wrapping them around the cool glass, and for a moment neither of them pulled away.

“You saved me,” he whispered.

She shrugged.

“She also brought you healing fairies,” Anju added helpfully. At Romani’s glare, she chuckled and saw herself out of the room.

Link drank the potion slowly. He’d been left behind enough times to guess how she felt after waking up alone in that hayloft. But she had followed him all the same. Only one other person had ever put Link’s life before hers, and he’d never expected that number to increase—yet here she was.

“Thank you,” he breathed, though the words still felt insufficient.

Romani smiled at him tiredly. “You would have done it for me.”

“How long was I out? Did you carry me here? I don’t remember anything after…”

“It’s only been half a day. You walked, sort of. Kafei helped me get you up the stairs.”

He could only imagine Kafei trapped in his childish form, so desperate to fix everything. Majora’s death must have broken the curse. Link was glad for him and Anju, despite the twist of pain that made him miss Zelda more than ever.

He had no appetite for the broth Anju brought, but she and Romani gave him stern looks that brokered no argument. By the time he emptied the bowl, he was falling asleep again—and so was Romani, curled up in a nearby armchair. Link’s eye throbbed in rhythm with his pulse, a question he was too frightened to ask.

“Won’t Cremia worry?” he wondered instead.

“I sent word to her,” Romani mumbled. “Just rest, Grasshopper.”

He pulled the blanket back from the other side of the bed, and after a moment’s hesitation, she climbed in with him. The quiet rainfall had nearly lured him to sleep when he heard hushed voices in the hallway. The door opened, spilling orange candlelight into the Knife Chamber, and Anju whispered to be very quiet before she closed it again.

Link couldn’t see much in the dark room with one eye bandaged, but he knew those shambling footsteps well enough—Skull Kid climbed into the chair Romani had vacated, Tael’s dim glow settling down with him while Tatl landed on Link’s pillow.

“Hey,” he whispered.

Her wings fluttered, then folded. “Hi.”

Romani was still awake under Tatl’s light. Suddenly, the question didn’t seem half so frightening anymore. Link took a breath and asked, “Is it gone?”

For a long moment, there was no sound but the rain. Then Romani reached over to brush the hair from his face and said, “The fairies saved the eye itself, but…your vision won’t return.”

Link expected grief, or rage, or fear of how this new vulnerability might affect him in battle. All he found was exhaustion. It was just one more thing he’d lost along the way. Twinrova was gone, and he’d overcome the Fierce Deity’s attempt to make him its puppet—maybe it would be all right to finally rest. To let one pain heal before he faced the next.

Tatl combed her fingers through his tangled ponytail, the rhythm slow and soothing, like something Navi or Saria would have done. “Sleep, Link. Dream of home.”

And for once, he tried to listen.

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Dawn found Link awake and restless, though everyone else slumbered on. He crept into the bathroom to tame his messy hair and change into the clean clothes Anju had left for him. His reflection looked pale and weary, and when he lifted the bandage to study the gruesome mess underneath, he couldn’t bear to look for very long.

Dear Zelda, he thought, do you remember me? Would you recognize me?

He didn’t know. But if there was a way back to her, he wanted to try.

It would be a while before he could travel, though; half of his world was dark, the rest of it thrown off-kilter. Just going downstairs required him to clutch the handrail like an old man. The Stock Pot Inn was quiet and familiar—Anju’s kindness had always made it one of the better parts of Termina.

Dim light drifted through the pair of windows in the deserted kitchen. Link was fumbling around for a drinking cup when a voice announced, “Papa, there’s a guest!”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. A little girl with purple pigtails stood in the doorway, hugging a stuffed cow to her chest. Wonderful, he thought sourly. Children can get the drop on me now.

A man rounded the corner and sighed in relief. “Sorry,” he told Link with a chuckle, sweeping the kid up and setting her down on a stool by the counter. “She gets away from me sometimes. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Kafei was tall and willowy, with long hair the same color as his daughter’s and a far brighter look in his eyes than Link remembered. Without waiting for a response, he poured the girl a glass of milk and started clattering around the kitchen. Link gripped the edge of the counter, caught by an inexplicable urge to flee this room.

“Is your eye gross?” the girl asked him boldly. “Can I see?”

“Carmine, be polite,” Kafei chided with an apologetic look at Link. “Tea? Breakfast?”

Link’s stomach growled his answer. “Um…both, please. Can I help?”

Kafei scrutinized him for a moment, concealing his interest only a little better than his daughter did, before he slid a bowl and an egg carton across the counter. Link concentrated on cracking eggs—a harder task that it should’ve been, given how unreliable his vision was right now—and for a while, the silence was only broken by the whistle of the kettle and Carmine’s off-key humming as she swung her feet back and forth on the stool.

When Kafei tried to hand him a teacup, his clumsy attempt to take it ended with hot liquid sloshing all over the other man’s sleeve. “Shit,” Link mumbled, then winced when he realized he’d cursed in front of the kid. “Sorry.”

“She hears worse when her mother and Cremia get into the Chateau Romani,” Kafei joked, wringing his sleeve out over the sink. He seemed so much calmer and kinder than the desperate person he’d been during those three days—but somehow that only made Link feel worse. “Besides, you’re the last person who should be apologizing to me.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“Tatl told us who you are, Link.”

He dropped his gaze, cheeks flaming.

“Don’t be angry with her. Skull Kid isn’t who he was when he cursed me, but having him around my family…” Kafei sighed. “I was reluctant to let him in until Tatl explained that he’s your friend—and that you’re the boy in green who saved our future.”

Link shrugged stiffly. Errands, puzzles, a few sleepless nights—he’d done far worse for rewards less meaningful than seeing Anju and Kafei reunited.

“I’m glad for the chance to thank you,” Kafei went on. “And also…to apologize. I’ve thought of you often these past few years—about how wrong I was to put you in harm’s way.”

“I put myself there,” Link protested. “I wanted to help you.”

“That’s commendable, and I’m more grateful than I can say. But I’m still sorry I asked so much from a boy of…how old were you?”

“I—it doesn’t—you didn’t do anything wrong. It was complicated.”

“Not from where I’m standing,” Kafei said, glancing at his daughter. “I only looked young. You really were. I shouldn’t have handed my problems to a child.”

Link stood unbreathing, his thoughts scattering in all directions. He was relieved when Anju came into the kitchen, kissing Carmine’s forehead and taking her place beside Kafei. The two of them started cooking breakfast together, a routine so practiced and so comfortable that it needed no words. Link watched steam rise from his teacup, turning those words around in his mind: I shouldn’t have handed my problems to a child.

The Great Deku Tree had always taught the Kokiri that all living creatures, from the smallest beetle to an ancient power such as himself, grew up out of the same earth. Everything had value; everyone had a role in preserving it. To be alive was to be a keeper of the world, and that was a blessing, an honor.

Be grateful, Link remembered telling himself when he woke from his seven-year slumber and set off to save Hyrule. The Goddesses gave you a bigger role than anyone else. That means you’re strong enough to carry it. And that was how he got back up every time he fell, how he staved off terror and grief and—perhaps most importantly—resentment. It made him keep trying even when no one else did, even when he just wanted to close his eyes forever.

A decade later, Link had to wonder if the Great Deku Tree had been full of shit. Being a keeper of the world meant losing everything else. Right in front of him was a family, a home, a peaceful life—all things Link had lost by his eleventh birthday. And even at the bottom of the well, even at the core of the moon, he had reminded himself to be grateful.

Where had that gotten him? Where had it gotten anyone? According to the witches, Zelda was in grave danger. Link knew she was alive, but those dreams of storms and shadows and broken glass also meant that she’d suffered. Her happiness had always been the brightest light in this timeline—too bright for him to look at closely, yet now he knew he'd taken it for granted. Stupid, stupid mistake, after so many of his sacrifices had been undone by cruelty or swept away by the flow of time.

And if there was no end—if everything was ticking clocks and thieves who named themselves king—had Link ever mattered?

He slid off the stool and left the kitchen, nearly colliding with a bedraggled Romani. “Hey, you okay?” she said, searching his face.

“Yeah, just—my eye,” he mumbled, brushing past her. “Going to lie down.”

Back in the Knife Chamber, Skull Kid was jumping on the spare bed and laughing his squeaky laugh. He landed neatly on the floor when Link walked in, sticking his skinny arms out for balance.

“Link?” Tatl said. He shook his head, pacing to the fireplace, to the window, and back again until he tripped over the leg of one of those hideous green chairs. Tatl got in his face and demanded, “What’s wrong?”

“Am I stupid?!” Link burst out.

“You…really want me to answer that?”

“I mean—why was I so obsessed with fixing every single thing? Why didn’t I listen when you asked me to end it?”

“Well, because…you always said there were bigger things than you or me.”

He laughed derisively. “Well, are there?! Was there—was there ever a reason I—"

Skull Kid shambled up to hug him around the waist, just like he’d done that awful day in Woodfall. It was enough to make Link catch his breath, to stem the flood of hysteria.

“What brought this on?” Tael wondered, landing on his shoulder.

Link rubbed his aching head miserably. “I dunno. Kafei said something about how it wasn’t my job to help him. I guess I…I always thought it was.”

“It wasn’t,” Tatl said firmly. “Not ever. I don’t know who or what gave you that idea, and honestly, it scared the hell out of me. I also don’t think there was a reason for any of that shit, except maybe bad luck. But you weren’t stupid. There are things bigger than us.”

“Like the entire population of Termina,” her brother added. “Which would be gone without you two. And the small things definitely mattered. I mean…under this roof alone, there’s a happy couple and a kid who wouldn’t even exist without your help.”

Tatl nodded. “But that’s where the problem comes from, too. You don’t know when to stop. You’ve been saving everyone besides yourself.”

Link sank down onto the bed, hugging his legs to his chest and resting his aching forehead on his knees. He thought of how much it hurt to see Termina’s peace, Romani’s hope, Anju and Kafei’s love. It wasn’t that they didn’t deserve every bit of that happiness. It was that he envied everything he’d given them and denied himself.

Ever since Navi had flown through that window and left him alone in a land that didn’t remember him, he had been lost. Passing from world to world like a ghost, untethered and unnoticed; throwing himself into the fire and coming out warped and wounded every time. Because at least that life was familiar; better to keep clinging to the rock than let the river wash him into the frightening unknown. Only now that his fingers were worn to the bone did he understand that the old cycle had been hurting him all this time, that it wouldn’t stop hurting until he let go.

“Is it too late?” Link asked in a small voice.

“It’s never too late to heal,” Tatl said quietly. “You know that better than anyone.”

Skull Kid lifted his head, blinking those gentle orange eyes that understood loneliness all too well. “For starters,” he said, reaching for Link’s hand, “no more masks.”

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Chapter Text

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After the baby finally fell asleep, Zelda curled up in an armchair and watched the year’s first snow drift down over Hyrule. The sun was setting somewhere beyond the grey clouds, and her bed was too far away; she was half-asleep when the door opened.

“Look,” Owen exclaimed in a hushed whisper. “I made her a hat.”

Zelda suppressed a laugh at the sight of the lumpy, misshapen thing in his hand. “Since when do you crochet?”

“Since stress relief became necessary to my sanity. Not everyone finds it relaxing to hit people with sticks.”

She stretched, still sore from her first sparring session in months; she’d practically run to find Impa as soon as the doctor gave her permission. Owen bent over the crib and slid the hat over little Zelda’s blond curls. Ribboned boxes and congratulatory letters were still piling up outside the royal chambers, but the best gift was the Council keeping the kingdom running without any sign of subterfuge. Maybe Zelda was still a symbol, as her daughter would be, but Hyrule loved her enough to give the gift of time.

“Come see,” Owen gushed. “She’s so cute.”

She unfolded herself from the armchair and came to stand at his side. The hat was as blue as the baby’s eyes, which were peacefully closed right now—she really was devastatingly cute, and Zelda loved her with a ferocity she’d never expected, as though she’d grown a second heart. She rested her head on Owen’s shoulder.

At times like this, she wondered if she could love him too.

But she never had the chance to try.

It happened a week later, halfway through a meeting with some droning noble who was testing her short supply of sleep and patience. When a tearful maid burst into the study, Zelda’s first panicked thought was of her daughter, then of Impa; she wasn’t expecting to hear her husband’s name. He wasn’t a fighter. He was supposed to be safe.

An abject numbness seized her body and steered it all the way to the infirmary bed where Owen lay, surrounded by weeping doctors and nurses—he was as beloved as Zelda herself, after all he’d done to engineer the peace they now enjoyed. But they didn’t know him the way she did; they didn’t know how his fingers were always stained with ink, how he’d cried with joy the first time he’d held their daughter, how he mumbled about legislation in his sleep. Zelda willed him to be sleeping now as her fingers brushed his dark curls and trailed down to the place where his pulse should be.  

Someone said in the shaking voice of a little girl, “He’s gone.”

“Yes, Lady Queen,” the doctor said gently. “He collapsed in the hallway. His heart, I believe. You’ll remember his father died the same way—King Owen must have inherited the same weakness.”

“He wasn’t weak,” Zelda whispered. Where were her tears? Frozen like the rest of her? Was this her fate, to be left behind over and over again, to never have anything last? She understood Link perfectly in that moment—because if she had the option, she would flee the same way he had; better to be free than to wait for tragedy to tie you down.

Owen deserved to be buried amongst the vast southern orchards where he’d grown up, but he was a royal now. On a dreary grey morning, Zelda followed the funeral procession through the Kakariko graveyard and watched the priestesses slide his coffin into a dark slot at the back of her family’s tomb. Sniffles came from the crowd they’d collected along the way.

The baby was quiet for now. Zelda clung to her like a lifeline, shivering in the cold breeze that blew through the tomb’s doorway, staring blankly at a spot on the wall, unable to focus on the funeral rites. Past all those layers of stone waited the Shadow Temple, and she could think only of the dead surrounding her, Hylian and Sheikah and the terrible secrets they had shared.

She only realized the ceremony was over when Impa guided her outside. Halfway between the tomb and the crowd of mourners, Zelda faltered, feeling an unearthly chill ripple through the air. The wind, she thought, or the grief—but Impa’s arm had gone rigid around her shoulders.

The baby burst into sudden tears. And Zelda could feel something reaching towards her across the mossy gravestones, something dark and wrathful and hungry. The deeper parts of the temple were still sealed off; she’d checked them herself after Ganondorf’s escape.

But perhaps some secrets couldn’t stay buried forever.

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“You can’t be serious,” Impa said later that night, when she walked into the royal suite and found Zelda pulling on the dark boots that completed her Sheikah suit.

“You sensed it, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. But you have enough to worry about. I’ll gather some scouts.”

Zelda slung a quiver of arrows over her shoulder. “No scouts. This is my responsibility. After what happened in the Shadow Temple at my family’s behest—”

“And by my clan’s hands,” Impa interrupted in a low voice. “By my own hands, Zelda. You’re better off without seeing what remains.”

“I rule even the darkest corners of this kingdom, Impa. Besides, I won’t let you face it alone.”

She held out the Ocarina of Time. Impa frowned down at it, her eyes violently red above the white Sheikah tattoos. “Is this what you need?”

Zelda glanced back at her empty bed, at the desk piled with Owen’s beloved paperwork, and said quietly, “Yes.”

Impa crossed the room to take her hands without hesitation. The Nocturne of Shadow swept away the world and deposited them in the quiet graveyard.

Impa barely batted an eye at the disorienting travel, but she stared into the Shadow Temple’s gloom with dread, not moving until Zelda did. The area where they’d imprisoned Ganondorf was eerie enough—old bones, skittering rats, more darkness than a spell-light could drive away. Past that were the wards Impa’s people had cast years ago to contain the temple’s dangers, still intact but badly frayed; no wonder that presence had been able to reach out to them in the graveyard.

“It’ll get worse from here on out,” Impa said grimly. “Best to cast now.”

The teardrop symbol glowed briefly on her forehead as she opened her Mind’s Eye. When Zelda followed suit, the illusory wall at the rear of the room became an open doorway. Impa led them onward through the twisting hallways, pale and silent, pausing only to warn of Keese or ReDeads.

The temple did get worse, and not solely due to traps and illusions and monsters. Zelda knew what people whispered about her family; she knew the cause of Impa’s nightmares. But it made her very blood feel vile to actually see the cells, the rusted torture devices, and the bones of those who had been denied even the dignity of burial. The chill she’d sensed after Owen’s funeral became an oppressive weight here in the darkness. Worst of all, she couldn’t escape the sense that something worse waited around each corner; with every step forward, her instincts screamed at her to retreat.

Impa brought them to a boat that floated in a narrow canal—unanchored and untethered, just waiting there for them, its horned figurehead pointing into the darkness ahead. The canal wasn’t full of water, it was full of…fog? Emptiness? Zelda’s eyes strayed away every time she tried to focus on the abyss.

“I never went further than this,” Impa said faintly.

But Link did. Zelda carried his wrinkled letter in her pocket, for no reason but to feel him with her; she ached to imagine him experiencing this terror as a child in a teenager’s body. Though she didn’t know the details of his passage through the temple, she could guess it was the reason he’d always flatly refused to visit Kakariko with her.

“Did…did the other Sheikah use this ferry?” Zelda asked nervously.

“Yes. With the prisoners. They always came back…different. Or not at all. I was young enough to be spared the worst of it.”

“But not all of it.”

“Not all of it,” Impa agreed. There was something small and thin about her voice that made Zelda step forward to wrap her arms around the woman who’d raised her, who—in some ways—remained a mystery. Link was like that too. It didn’t stop Zelda from loving either of them.

Impa hugged her close, then let go and hopped the small gap to the ferry. “Play your lullaby,” she said as she helped Zelda across, pointing at the Triforce inscribed on the deck.

“Why…would I do that?”

“I don’t know.” Impa was staring off into the gloom, her face white as a sheet. “But it was the one good thing about this place.”

Not much of an answer, but Zelda wouldn’t pry. She raised the Ocarina to her lips and started to play. The familiar melody didn’t erase the fear, but it certainly came as a comfort—and under her feet, the ferry jolted forward.

Two Stalfos dropped down out of nowhere, the deck rocking under their weight. They were no challenge for Zelda’s magic and years of training, but again she was wondering how much Link could have possibly learned in that little Kokiri practice yard.

The ferry lurched to a halt—then, horrifyingly, began to sink. Zelda stumbled after Impa and leapt through the shadows, landing on the stone dock just in time for the ferry to disappear into the void below. She brushed a hand over her pocket, where the Ocarina rested beside Link’s letter, and thanked all three Goddesses that she and Impa had an escape route.

There was a door to the right, another abyss ahead. Zelda studied both and found a cluster of bomb flowers growing beneath a pillar across the way. She was sorry to destroy the first sign of natural life she’d seen, but not sorry enough to delve through more of the temple than necessary. One well-aimed arrow ignited the flowers and sent the pillar plummeting down to span the abyss.

Impa was first to cross. Zelda followed, trying to watch her feet across the narrow walkway. She kept catching movement in her peripheral vision—shapes writhing beneath the pale fog that filled the abyss—but everything was quiet and still and dead whenever she turned to look.

That was when the voices assaulted her, rising from everywhere and nowhere: whispering, wailing, begging for mercy in a cacophony that made her stop cold in the center of the column. Zelda. Zelda. She clapped her hands over her ears. There were snatches of familiarity—her father, her husband—but that was impossible. They’re gone, I saw them buried, no one can hurt them anymore. Shuddering, she managed another step.

Zelda.

Her knees locked. Only a decade of Sheikah training kept her from tumbling into the abyss at the sound of that voice, so lost and lonely.

Zelda, Link repeated, barely whispering. You can’t fix death. I’ve tried. Don’t make me try again. Just come down here and rest. Don’t you want to rest?

She remembered floating beside him in the Zora River, watching the clouds drift by, talking of everything and nothing. The fog seethed below her feet. The world seemed brutally cold, but the future could be warm; she could find him at long last, and they could both be safe again.

“Keep walking,” commanded another voice, clear and unmistakably real.

Her eyes flashed to Impa, waiting at the end of the pillar, the same way Zelda’s daughter and the entire kingdom were waiting. But Link—what if that was really him? What if he’d been trapped here all these years, desperate for help?

No, Zelda realized sadly. He wouldn’t drag me down with him. That’s why he left in the first place. And we weren’t meant to rest. We were meant to heal the wounds of this world.

Besides, Link would never allow himself to be caged. That was one of the first things she’d loved about him.

By the time she reached the other side and fell into Impa’s arms, Zelda was finally crying—for Link, for Owen, for every person who had suffered in this place. “What was that?” she gasped.

Impa squeezed her shoulders. “Just another illusion, little bird.”

“I heard Link. That was…how are you so calm? What did you hear?”

“Only the dead. There’s no one alive they can torment me with, apart from you.”

Zelda pulled back, wanting to protest—Impa had friends, she had her troops—but it was a conversation for sunshine and warm tea, not for this place. Magic got them through one locked door, then a second, until they stood in a small, circular chamber with a hole at its center. Utter darkness waited below.

Impa wiped sweat from her forehead, despite how cold it was so deep beneath the earth. “What lies down there…it can only be the shadow spirit. Let’s rest a moment.”

They sat against the wall, sipping from their waterskins and triple-checking the Mind’s Eye spell. Zelda drummed restless fingers on her bow, trying not to contemplate how far underground they were, how many levels of bloody history they’d descended through.

“My people’s best guess is that the spirit was always here in some form,” Impa said after a while. “But that it…fed on the suffering we caused. As it grew stronger, so did its hold on this place. That’s what causes the illusions and keeps the dead awake. Things grew so volatile that we abandoned the temple before the war even ended.”

“I should never have put Ganondorf here,” Zelda muttered. “That beast inside him being so close to the shadow spirit…”

“A dozen Sheikah placed that seal using magic we’ve safeguarded and developed for all our history. I never imagined it would weaken. But I suppose my people aren’t anything to be proud of.”

“I feel the same way about mine right now. But you’ve done so much, Impa. You’ve kept going after all you’ve lost.” Zelda thought of the silence where Owen’s pulse should have been, of the empty chambers she’d be returning to, of their daughter growing up fatherless. Her voice sounded small when she added, “How?”

Impa stood, her eyes red as truth under the spell-light. “Save what you can. Set the rest of it free. This temple, my clan, your family—it’s a tangled mess far older than we can possibly understand. You were right that it’s your responsibility, but it’s not your fault.”

Zelda recalled looking into Ganondorf’s eyes and sensing the net that bound her and him and Link together. But perhaps it was wider than that. Perhaps it had killed countless people in the war and withered the survivors with grief and fear. Perhaps it had planted Ganondorf’s craving for revenge and forced Link through hell to stop him.

All she knew for certain was that she stood at the net’s center. More trapped than anyone—and in the best position to cut through.

She got to her feet and peered into the dark abyss, reaching for Impa, who took her hand without another word. They stepped off the platform and into suffocating darkness.

The Mind’s Eye gave her a glimpse of sharp vertebrae jutting out from under grey flesh, and a scream caught in Zelda’s throat as they plummeted past the shadow spirit’s warped body, nearly as long as the chamber was tall. Be like Link, she reminded herself, preparing to break their fall with magic.

The ground heaved up to meet them, nonsensically; Zelda and Impa both stumbled, but kept their feet. An enormous hand with gnarled knuckles and dark scars in place of fingernails slammed down in front of them. When the platform jolted again, Zelda realized they stood atop the massive drum that had given Bongo Bongo his name—and then the only thing in the world was a bloodred eye, sprouting from the spirit’s severed neck and fixing on Zelda with so much hate that she reached for an arrow instinctively, unable to bear his gaze.

His right hand swatted the arrow aside and hurtled towards Impa, who dodged and used the bounce of the drum to jump, landing on the hand and sinking her twin blades into its mottled flesh. Bongo Bongo gave an awful, warbling moan, shaking her off like she was no more than an insect. Zelda darted to Impa’s side as the spirit barreled towards them, bracing her feet to unleash a wave of golden magic.

Bongo Bongo collapsed, his ruined fingers scrabbling at the surface of the drum in his attempt to rise. Zelda nocked another arrow—it would take more than that to kill him, but she wasn’t afraid anymore. Link had won this fight with only a fairy and a short supply of magic no one had trained him to use. She and Impa could do the same.

But something stayed her hand. Sparks of her magic still drifted through the air, glittering on the drum’s surface and in the putrid water surrounding it. The spirit moaned again, piteous and empty, and his gaze was no longer fixed on Zelda—he was watching the magic, watching the closest thing to sunlight he’d seen in decades, perhaps in his lifetime.

Her eyes stung. Though she had to end this scourge for Hyrule’s sake, she felt none of the righteous fury that had fueled her fight against Ganondorf. She cast her power wider and tried to understand the being before her.

It didn’t feel like he’d feasted on suffering to grow stronger. It felt like he’d absorbed all that pain with no choice in the matter, the way earth absorbs rain.  Perhaps the Shadow Temple had begun as a place of true worship; perhaps Bongo Bongo had been its guardian. Perhaps it didn’t matter what he’d once been—just that he was twisted and tainted by the atrocities Zelda’s family had committed.

She took a cautious step forward.

“What are you doing?” Impa whispered.

“It’s all right,” Zelda said, both to her and to the spirit, who watched her approach with his wide crimson eye. Magic glowed under her skin and rippled through the air around them. She could sense everything in the way only wisdom could—the heavy horror of the temple above their heads, the hammering beat of Impa’s fear, the hollow place where the spirit’s heart had once been. If he hated her, it was because he’d forgotten how to do anything else.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for all of it. I should have come sooner.”

Bongo Bongo stared back at her, unblinking, unforgiving. But he was done fighting. She could see it in his gaze: an exhaustion older than time.

“I can’t heal you. I can only give you peace.”

He shuddered, and she knew that peace was all he wanted, more than he’d ever hoped to receive. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Impa stepped to her side, steady and silent. Save what you can. Set the rest of it free.

The spirit closed his eye. She lifted her hands and guided him away in a calm river of light, bright as a spring morning, gentle as rocking her daughter to sleep. He slid quietly into his welcome end.

Zelda felt it the moment his remains began to wisp away: a shift in the air, an unraveling of the curse he and the temple had languished under. Far above her head, the illusions were fading; the undead were finally permitted to sleep; the trapped souls were rising towards freedom. She tried to let her losses go with them. Her father, her unknown mother, all the people who had died to build the kingdom she now ruled—and Owen, the unexpected light that fate had snuffed out far too early.

Impa’s daggers thudded to the surface of the drum as she buried her face in her hands and sobbed with relief. Zelda gathered her into an embrace, returning the gift Impa had given her so many times—and all around them, the Shadow Temple fell silent for the first time since Hyrule had raised its banners for war.

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Chapter Text

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The room has been silent for too long. Link is staring out the glass door to her balcony, hugging his middle like a child with a stomachache. Her daughter provided a welcome distraction by bursting into tears twenty minutes ago, but even now that she’s fallen asleep in Zelda’s arms, Link still hasn’t uttered a word.

“It was a good thing for Hyrule,” she says when she can’t stand it anymore. “We needed to confront what happened in the Shadow Temple.”

“Was it a good thing for you?” Link asks very quietly.

Zelda flinches at the memory of the rusted evidence of torture, the voices in the abyss, the shadow spirit’s pitiful end. “The souls that haunted that place are at rest now. I’m glad I gave them that, if nothing else.”

“That’s not an answer. Did…did you…” He trails off for so long that she’s surprised to hear him finish the sentence. “…fight the Dead Hand?”

“I…don’t believe so? I’ve never heard that name.”

Link drops his arms—though his nails are still digging into his palms—and announces abruptly, “I’m going for a walk.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but between the sleeping baby in her arms and the distant look on his face, she knows she has to stay behind. It’s pitch dark and the castle is still blanketed in snow and ice, but she’s not worried for the Hero of Time’s safety. She’s worried for his heart.

Zelda tries to pick up a book, but after rereading the same sentence countless times, resigns herself to sleep. She’s so preoccupied with trying not to wake the baby as she rises from the sofa that her foot catches on the strap of Link’s rucksack, knocking it to the floor.

The baby wakes, grasping Zelda’s nightgown while she steadies herself. “Good instincts,” Zelda tells her proudly, shifting her hold to reach for some paper-wrapped object that fell from the pack.

The shiver of power comes as no surprise; Link’s been carrying old magic around since they were children. What takes her aback is the grief that surges up her fingertips. Flashes of darkness and twisting pathways and gnarled roots. She misses her father with a sudden desperation, misses her home—which makes no sense at all, because she’s standing in it right now.

Curiosity will be the death of her someday, but she can’t stop herself from pulling the paper aside and moving closer to the fireplace for a better look. It takes her a moment to recognize the object as a mask, so disturbingly lifelike that she knows human hands didn’t carve it. There aren’t even holes cut out for the wearer’s eyes. The mask stares back at her with a soft orange gaze, so desolate that it almost seems—

It’s wrenched from her grasp before she can notice anything else. Zelda blinks away tears, looking up at Link’s bone-white face. She didn’t even hear him enter the room.

“That’s mine,” he says in a strained voice.

“I know. I’m sorry. It fell out of your pack.”

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t leave it out where anyone could—” He falters. “You’re crying. Did…did you feel—”

“I’m not sure what I felt. What is that thing?”

Link clutches the mask to his chest the same way Zelda’s cradling her daughter. “He’s not a thing!”

“He?” she repeats. That one word is all it takes to multiply her horror tenfold, all it takes for Link to back away from her, locking himself up like a vault.

The baby squirms restlessly. Zelda relaxes her grip but doesn’t dare put her down; she would fall apart without something to hold onto right now. Link retrieves the fallen paper, his hands shaking as he wraps the mask and buries it in his pack.

“When you said you defeated Twinrova with something you got your first time in Termina—”

“Zelda,” he interrupts without turning around, “it’s late. I’m tired.”

I know, she nearly tells him. You’ve been tired since you were ten years old. How long can you keep going? How long until I lose you again—to a quick death, or to the slow erosion of time?

But they’re still standing on opposite sides of that gulf. She can’t cross until he lets her.

“I’ll, um…I’ll move the masks somewhere else.” Link’s voice is so small. “I never meant…”

“I know you didn’t.” Zelda retreats to bed before the plural masks can make her cry. She lies staring up at the canopy for a long time, listening to Link toss and turn on the sofa. Sleep arrives as a gentle relief.

Deep in the night, she opens her eyes, unsure of what woke her—the baby’s sound asleep for once, and she would see candlelight under the door if someone was here to fetch her. Zelda’s falling asleep again when she hears it: a strangled cry that drags her heart and mind years into the past.

But her body’s already moving, rekindling the fireplace with a burst of hasty magic as she stumbles to the sofa. Link is tangled in the blankets, breathing in frantic gasps. His left hand scrabbles along the side of the sofa in search of something—a sword, a mask, a latch to the door that will let him out of the nightmare. Zelda can’t look at his face without crumbling. She never could.

He chokes out another terrified sob, and then she’s on her knees, shaking his shoulder, saying his name as many times as it takes. Link flinches awake all at once, kicking the blankets away.

“Link,” Zelda says desperately. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

He’s clutching his temples, digging his fingers in as though questioning his own skin. Just like when they were children, she presses her palm to his thundering heart.

His chest heaves under her touch. “Zelda—”

“Link. You’re safe.”

His hands slide down—one to cover hers, one to grip the compass he still wears around his neck. There’s something practiced about the way he wraps his fingers around it, something precious. He’s holding her hand the same way. Like everything he needs is there in his grasp. Like nothing matters outside this room, and the shadows are only shadows, free from masks and crowns and the cruel churning of time. Zelda never wants to let go.

Link’s pulse slows down under their joined hands, and after a while, he mumbles out, “Sorry.”

She reaches up to adjust his bandage, which has slid down enough to reveal that his skin is chafed and red from the linen. With a sigh, Zelda lets her fingers trail down his cheek and murmurs, “I hope someday you’ll stop apologizing for what the world did to you.”

He swallows hard, and she’s expecting an argument, but he just studies her intently. In the gentle orange firelight, his eye is bright with a longing he’s not ready to voice.

“Now, if you’d woken the baby, that would be a different story,” Zelda jokes, making him huff out a laugh despite himself. “Link, if it will help, you can come sleep in my bed.”

He blinks in surprise, like she’s just handed him something fragile and he’s desperately afraid of dropping it. “Are you sure?”

“Only if it’s what you want. At the very least, it would be more comfortable.” She adds the last part with a rush of girlish insecurity—still flustered by that devotion in his face, after all these years—and retreats beneath her covers, leaving the decision in his hands.

Just before she drifts back to sleep, the mattress dips beneath Link’s weight.

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Chapter Text

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The harvest moon hung over fields of yellowed grass and drifting fog. Link squinted through the ranch house’s window, struggling to discern the distance as he often did these days. At least he could tell the moon was safely nestled among the stars. The days were growing shorter; if snow arrived, it could keep him in Termina for weeks.

That would have terrified him not so long ago. Yet in the time he’d spent allowing his eye to heal, slowly picking up the chores he could manage, he found that he didn’t mind being here. The routine was predictable, the people were kind, and there were moments like this—with everyone crowded in the kitchen after a good meal—that a part of him didn’t want to give up.

He and Romani were washing dishes in quiet harmony. Cremia was pouring tea for Skull Kid, who stared up at her with adoring eyes. Link couldn’t love this land after everything he’d done, but he could love its people. And that changed everything.

There was a knock at the door—one of the workers, probably. Cremia answered it with a polite greeting, and Link didn’t even glance up until the visitor’s familiar voice crept into the room: “I came to see the Hero.”

The plate Link was scrubbing slipped from his numb fingers and clattered to the bottom of the sink. The Happy Mask Salesman stood smiling in the doorway.

“You? I told you to stay away!” Tatl snapped, springing into the air indignantly with Tael at her side. Even Skull Kid slid down from his chair and stood beneath the fairies, planting his hands on his hips like a fearsome little scarecrow.

Cremia raised her chin. “If Link and Tatl don’t want you here, I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”

Romani shifted ever so slightly, reentering Link’s field of vision, and he realized what was in front of him: a defensive line. These people knew nothing about the Salesman and next to nothing about Link himself—but they didn’t hesitate to protect him. He reached blindly for Romani’s hand, grateful beyond words.

“Very well,” the Salesman replied with a short bow. “The time has come for me to leave this world. I merely came to offer the Hero a gift before I depart.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Link said in a hollow voice.

The Salesman studied him over Cremia’s shoulder. “And what if I could tell you the way home?”

“You said that last time. I destroyed the Garo King’s mask. I’m not giving you anything else.”

“I ask for nothing in return, Hero, except your discretion. And to borrow that compass for a few minutes.”

Link closed his fingers around Zelda’s last gift. No. Never.

“I will not damage it. I have no reason to deceive you.” The Salesman sighed. “That deal of ours—I never expected it to become what it became.”

Link’s eye flashed to Tatl. For a moment, it felt like they were the only ones in the room: a boy who’d lost his face and a fairy who’d lost her brother, standing together at the base of the Clock Tower while the unbearable cycle began anew.

“Do you want this?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” he confessed, nearly choking on the word, on all the longing it contained.

Tatl turned back to the Salesman and promised solemnly, “If you try anything, I will fly into your ear and buzz around your brain forever.”

Link crossed the room, lifting the string over his head and holding the compass out reluctantly. He’d only ever seen the Salesman wearing a grin or a mask of rage. Without either, he looked smaller somehow, almost ordinary—though there was nothing ordinary about the blue-green light that gathered in his palms as he held the compass.

“This magic is a long-held secret,” the Salesman said. “But I suppose if I can entrust it to anyone, it’s you.”

He handed the compass back. Link turned it this way and that, watching the needle react for the first time since he’d departed Hyrule. “This doesn’t make sense. It’s saying Woodfall is north of here.”

“It doesn’t point north. It points to where you want to go.”

Link swallowed down his disappointment. He should have known better than to trust this man. “If getting through the Lost Woods was just about wanting, I—”

“You must know your exact purpose and destination to resist the call. Have you ever lost sight of those things?”

After leaving Termina the first time, all Link had wanted was safety and Zelda. The Woods had led him back to Hyrule without much trouble. He compared that to all his journeys since—searching for a fairy he’d never truly expected to find, turning for home but fearing he’d still be alone and ruined when he arrived.

But his mind felt clearer than it had in years. The compass needle had stopped wavering, and Link knew what he wanted, knew where he belonged. Was that really all it took?

His old enemy was gazing at him with ageless eyes. “Do you recall what I said the last time we found ourselves in Termina? Whenever there is a meeting, a parting is sure to follow. Whether that parting be forever or merely for a short time…”

“…that is up to you,” Link finished quietly.

“Quite so. It may be a long and lonesome road, but…” the Salesman’s smile returned, and for once, it didn’t seem like a mockery. “You’re still young. You still have tremendous courage. And I taught you the Song of Healing for a reason.”

Link pressed the compass to his heart, speechless with hope.  

The Salesman hefted his backpack and stepped through the doorway, pausing to give him one last look. “I truly did expect it to take three days, Hero.”

“I believe you,” Link said slowly. “I—I can’t forgive you. But I believe you.”

With a final nod, the Salesman turned away. Link watched him fade into the moonlight and held the compass in shaking hands. Dear Zelda—

No more letters. He’d see her soon enough.

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Epona was restless as he led her out of the barn, her ears pricked towards the gate of Romani Ranch and whatever lay beyond. It was anticipation, not anxiety—she was ready to try again, just like he was.

Link ducked into the house to get his pack, pausing to survey the neat kitchen, the futon the sisters had bought for him, the doormat that was always a little dirty from people’s work boots. It wasn’t easy to cross that threshold now, or to look out on everything he was about to lose. Pamela and Skull Kid were trying to coax the ancient terrier into a game of fetch, while Romani leaned against the gate with a smile on her face. Losing an eye had dimmed Link’s world, yet more and more, he was noticing the light in a way he hadn’t done since drawing the Master Sword.

“Here,” Cremia said, emerging from the barn to hand him a bag of grain for Epona. “That should last her a while, if you balance it out with grass.”

Link smiled at her. “Thank you. For everything.”

"You’re sure you don’t need anything else? More food? Another blanket? Some Chateau Romani?”

“I’m okay. You’ve done so much already.”

“You’ve done so much. For the ranch, for Pamela and her father, for my sister.” She sighed, studying him closely. “Link…have you ever let anyone take care of you?"

His face flooded with heat. "I—don't really need—"

"Everyone does from time to time. Especially people like you, who are so willing to give and so reluctant to receive." Cremia cleared her throat, watching him fiddle with his saddlebags. "I know Romani’s told you this, but it bears repeating—you have a place here, if you want it."

"Oh. Um, thanks, but..."

But Zelda had offered him a place too, and that fact stood above the rushing current of time. What she did or didn't remember seemed so immaterial now—because Link remembered everything.

Zelda in the flower garden, trying to save a world that didn't take her seriously. Zelda in Sheikah leathers, vanishing from his campfire before the sun rose. Zelda at ten years old again, turning his impossible story into a weapon against Ganondorf's lies and her father's inaction. And in the aftermath, she’d taken Link's shaking hands—barely knowing who he was or what he'd lost—and pierced straight through to his core with those keen blue eyes.

I’m with you, she had promised. Stay as long as you need.

The children’s laughter rang out from across the field. Cremia inclined her head towards the sound, her eyes still on Link. "That's what you saved. I'll look after them, I swear it. I just hope you let someone do the same for you."

“I—I’ll try,” Link replied, struggling to keep his voice steady. When Cremia embraced him, he couldn’t help but remember another hug, a crucial kindness she showed him when he was ten and trapped and terrified. “Thank you,” he said one more time, because she deserved to know how much it had meant.

“Yeah, yeah.” Cremia released him with a smile. “Go on before I get all misty-eyed.”

He turned Epona towards the gate, pausing to lift Skull Kid into the saddle; he and the fairies would accompany Link a little further. Pamela wavered, looking up at him in the tall yellow grass. She and her father were moving onto the ranch for good, and lately she seemed younger and happier than he’d ever seen her—but just now, the ancient expression on her face reminded him of Saria, and that made her even harder to leave behind.

“I know you don’t like to be thanked, but—could you make an exception?” Pamela pleaded. “Just this once?”

“Just this once,” Link allowed.

She threw her skinny arms around his waist. “Thank you for getting me out of Ikana.”

The old instinct to brush her off still tugged at him, but a much larger part of him was glad to hold her for as long as she wanted. Link had spent so long drifting through world after world without leaving a single footprint behind—this was different. He was departing Termina knowing that he’d mattered.

“Be happy,” he told Pamela, ruffling her hair before he stepped away.

She beamed at him. “You too, Link.”

As he walked towards Romani, something in him quailed at the thought of this parting. He remembered her as a child, stubbornly defending her home; remembered the tears in her eyes when she told him, I knew you right away, Grasshopper. She’d kept him warm, saved his life, left behind marks that he never wanted to erase. The second Link reached her, everything he’d been planning to say fled his mind.

Romani looked just as unsure, avoiding his gaze as she reached out to stroke Epona’s neck. “Confession: I wanted to steal your horse the first time she wandered onto the ranch.”

“She’d probably make you regret it,” Link said with a chuckle.

She laughed too, reaching up to wipe her eyes, and finally looked up at him. “I’m going to miss you, Grasshopper.”

“I’ll—I’ll miss you too.”

“You were right, you know. Before the next Carnival, I’m going to tell Cremia about the ghosts. I’m going to tell her I don’t want to face them alone anymore.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“And I’ll tell her about you.” Romani raised her chin. “How you helped me without hesitation. How you taught me to be brave.”

“You’ve always been brave,” Link said fiercely, drawing her into his arms. They clung together for a moment while he gathered his words. “You said once that you don’t know who I am. I—I think you know what counts, but Romani…you deserve everything. I’m sorry I can’t give it to you.”

“Oh, Link.” Romani braced her hands on his shoulders so she could stand on tiptoe to kiss his forehead. He already had a feeling that when he recalled this chapter of his life years down the road, this memory would be closest to his heart: the morning sun turning her hair the color of flame, the familiar smile spreading across her face, the certainty in her voice when she said, “You’ve given all of us more than enough.”

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Link halted Epona at the edge of the Lost Woods. The mare lifted her head and scented the air, and Link ran his fingers through her mane, watching the curling wisps of fog. The compass around his neck pointed straight into the endless trees.

“Ready?” Tatl asked. She was sitting between Epona’s ears, stroking the horse’s forelock to say goodbye. Link turned to catch Skull Kid as he slid down from the saddle and into his arms.

“Maybe that friend you were looking for made it home too,” Tael said hopefully. “Navi, right?”

Link remembered opening his eyes in the Temple of Time with Zelda’s kiss still lingering on his lips, watching Navi disappear—at the time, it had felt like watching the final nail get hammered into his own coffin. For three endless days, he’d mourned her—but in his heart of hearts, he’d let her go as the new dawn broke over Clock Town, forgiving her the same way Skull Kid forgave the giants.

Navi always had answers to every question: how to kill monsters, how to talk to princesses, how to keep his heart intact despite the world’s attempts to break it. That was what Link had been searching for—someone who could tell him how to reclaim what he’d lost the day he stepped into the Great Deku Tree’s dying body. It had taken him this long to understand that nameless thing was never coming back.

But home, and safety, and Zelda—he still had a chance at finding those again.

“No,” Link told Tael at last. “I don’t think I’ll see her again.”

“Oh. I’m…I’m sorry, Link.”

“It’s okay. She did her best. She gave me everything she could.”

“Friends are a nice thing to have,” Skull Kid declared as Link set him down gently. “Remember—no more masks.”

“No more masks,” Link echoed, though he still had four of them in his pack. He’d briefly considered bringing them back to their tribes, but explaining how they’d come into his possession would be like rubbing salt in a wound—both for him and for their loved ones. He would have to carry them a little farther, until he could figure out how to put them down.

“Link,” Tatl said quietly. He held out his hand, letting her land in his open palm. “You know…it was kind of fun.”

He chuckled, remembering those words from their last parting. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It really wasn’t. But I still hate saying goodbye.”

So did Link. He gave her a lopsided smile, trying to make it fast for both their sakes. “Thanks for teaching me how to swear.”

She giggled, pressing her tiny palms to his in farewell. He could feel her tears drip onto his scarred skin, and they were precious to him. More cellmates than friends, he’d thought when he first returned to Termina, but maybe he’d just been shielding himself from the inevitability of this goodbye. Between the falling moon and the terror of time, he and Tatl had forged something unbreakable.

“Find what you’re looking for, Link,” Tatl said fiercely. “And hold onto it.”

He nodded, pulling himself into the saddle and pausing one moment to memorize her golden glow, the fond look in Skull Kid’s eyes, the way Tael clung to the brim of his hat. They would take care of each other. He could live the rest of his life knowing he’d done that right.

“Goodbye,” Link whispered, pressing his heels to Epona’s sides.

She leapt into a canter. He felt the shift in the air as the trees closed in around them and the fog settled in. All at once, Termina—the land of nightmares and dreams—was behind him, and his friends were gone from view.

But he had Epona, steady and brave, and he had the compass resting against his heart. At the center of a restless volcano, Sheik had told him something about threads that grow stronger over time, about how they would show him which way to go. Link couldn’t remember the precise words, but he felt them beating in his heart now, guiding him and his horse forward.

He checked the compass over and over, expecting the needle to freeze, expecting the glass to crack. Maybe a part of him would always be waiting for everything to break. Maybe a few pieces of light would shine through anyway, becoming all the more precious to him.

The compass held true. Link knew which way to go.

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The sudden absence of green jolted him into awareness. He was exhausted from rationing his dwindling supplies, and starting to fear his own bones again—but now the sun was warm on his skin. Link tipped his head back, soaking it in for a long minute.

He didn’t recognize the rocky highlands that waited at the end of the trees. The idea that this might be yet another foreign world twisted his stomach into knots, but the compass needle was insistent.

Link spent the next week scrambling through crag and cave, eventually finding that he had only one path forward: a narrow pass half-buried by a rockslide. He chucked bombs at it until even Epona—who he’d exposed to all sorts of lunacy—was shying away from the ruckus. Link coaxed her through the detritus patiently, eye lowered against the dust that drifted through the air.

When he made it around the bend, he looked up for his first clear view of the eastern horizon since he’d left the Lost Woods. The sky was a beautiful, unbroken blue—and there, standing like a beacon across miles of snowy field, was a volcano crowned with a ring of clouds.

Link’s knees gave out. A strange sound quaked through him—laughter, giddy and cathartic. When Epona nosed at his hair, he laughed again, stroking her cheek with a trembling hand.

Home, Zelda had promised him a lifetime ago, raising the Ocarina to her lips and enveloping him in her warm lullaby. Where you are supposed to be. The way you are supposed to be.

Link tilted his face up to the boundless sky and breathed in the scent of Hyrule.

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Chapter Text

Part 3: The Clear Water’s Surface

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When he wakes the next morning, Zelda has rolled to face him, hair escaping from the honey-colored braid that spills across her pillow. Sleep smooths down the sharpness that surprised him when he first came home, the strength she constructed for Hyrule’s sake. Right now, with her hands tucked under her chin, she just looks…cute.

It’s affecting Link’s heartrate, among other things.

Neither of them mentions the mask or the nightmare. It’s just another quiet breakfast without tension or demands. The baby keeps burbling up at Link with those adorable blue eyes, and he thinks: This could be every day. This could be my future.

He wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything.

The fear comes out of nowhere after Zelda leaves for her duties. He’s been as honest as he can bear about his time away. There are plenty of things he’s omitted, but she’s smart enough to grasp that something happened to him the first time he was in Termina—something that hangs over them both in a way Link can no longer ignore.

Yet even after putting the Clock Tower behind him and finding a measure of happiness with Romani and the others, he still can’t stomach the idea of explaining any of it. He can practically feel the masks glaring at him from across the room. At the memory of Zelda holding the Deku Scrub with tears in her eyes, Link snatches up his rucksack and leaves the room.

Epona’s too far away, and besides, he wants to keep his legs moving. He’s nearly free of the castle when he stumbles across Impa drilling a squadron of soldiers just inside the northern gate.

“Going somewhere?” Her voice is casual; her crimson eyes are anything but. Impa is a woman of few words and little outward warmth, but she’s always been good to Link in her way. Even so, there’s no doubt about where her allegiance lies. There will be hell to pay if he hurts Zelda again.

“Just for a walk,” he answers, trying to match her light tone.

Impa shrugs, her response gruff and inscrutable: “Stay warm.”

Link passes through the rarely-used northern gate. There’s not much up here, just a scraggly highland forest that eventually leads to the ocean. Unbroken snow blankets the ground. He scoured this whole area for Navi when he was about twelve and remembers it as a good place for solitude.

He walks until the sun is high and his feet start to ache, halting at the base of a huge old oak with leafless branches spreading out in every direction. There’s a nice view of the castle, and a stream trickling along nearby—Mikau would like that. Link sets his pack down in the oak’s roots.

He can tell without looking that his fingers close around Darmani’s mask first. The wind tugging at his clothes already had a bite to it, but it feels abruptly colder—and for a moment he’s falling, failing, leaving his people behind to freeze.

The masks terrified Link for a long time, fusing to his skin, pouring themselves inside, warping him into a shape that matched their pain. His nightmares still replicate the sensation with vivid accuracy. He told Skull Kid he’d never wear them again, and holding to that promise takes a great deal of the fear away. Now, the masks just feel heavy.

But what happens if he lets them go?

The ground is still frozen beneath the snow. He didn’t bring tools, didn’t think this through. Erosion or wild animals or intrepid treasure hunters might disturb the earth someday. Any of the masks would be dangerous enough in the wrong hands; the Fierce Deity is strong enough to cause another moonfall. Even someone well-intentioned could get hurt far worse than Zelda did.

It’s more than just the risk. Those three souls helped Link, even though he couldn’t save them. Is he going to repay that by leaving them behind in a cold grave? Is that the only way to protect Zelda and the life he wants to build with her?

The forest is cold. His missing eye aches. He wants Navi or Tatl or someone to tell him what to do. He wants his head to be clear for a day, an hour, a minute—the way he feels in battle.

Without anything to fight out here, a poor substitute will have to do. Link draws the Gilded Sword and starts to run through the forms he’s picked up over the years, usually from old people who live on mountains and say things like, Slay the griffin that plagues my village and I will bestow upon you the Way of the Dancing Lotus. If not for the Great Deku Tree’s teachings and Navi’s voice chiding him to be polite, Link would probably tell them to go kill it yourself, since you’re so talented.

That’s what he’s doing when Zelda finds him, practicing the Way of Some Weirdo whose name he doesn’t remember, as though he can cleave through his thoughts with each swing of the sword. Her horse is the same color as the snow, but her cloak is a stark black reminder in this world of muted whites and greys—a reminder of what she had and what she lost. The last thing she needs is something else to mourn.

“Hi,” Link greets lamely when she halts her horse beneath the oak.

“Impa told me where you went,” Zelda says, dismounting in the snow. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Just needed some air.”

She looks him up and down inscrutably, then releases the horse’s reins to dig something out of her cloak pocket. “Here, I made you something.”

Link sheathes the sword so she can place her gift in his waiting palm: a slender eyepatch the color of a deep summer forest. He cradles it between his palms, looking up at Zelda. “It’s green.”

“Is that okay? I—”

“It’s perfect, Zelda. Thank you.”

“Good. That bandage is chafing your skin; I noticed last night.”

Last night. When he woke her up because he can’t stop dreaming the same terrible dreams. The shame returns with a vengeance, burning like ash at the back of Link’s throat—and if he’s being honest with himself, that’s why he left Hyrule so many times. Even after he gave up on finding Navi, he never stopped trying to become someone worthy of Zelda, trying to become a fucking adult instead of a child masquerading as one.

But Link hasn’t changed in any way that matters. He can see it in the way her eyebrows knit together while she watches him. On the far side of all the time they’ve lost, he’s still the same mess, still clinging to that rock in the rushing river, still unable to find the words that might make up for it.

“What’s wrong?” Zelda asks finally.

He shakes his head.

“Link, if I could step inside your mind right now and vanquish whatever is making you afraid, I would do so in a heartbeat. But I can’t. I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”

“I don’t want you to worry about me,” Link says desperately. “If this is about my eye…it’s healed, I can show you, it’s as healed as it’s ever gonna—”

She heaves out a sigh that clouds the cold air. “It’s not about your eye, and we both know it.”

“I—there’s nothing wrong, you really don’t need to—”

“What if our positions were reversed?” Zelda demands. “Do you remember…when we were ten or eleven, I fell in that bramble bush as we were sneaking out of the garden? There was enough blood to make me start bawling. You, though…you were so calm and patient and kind, Link. But there were tears in your eyes too. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen you cry. When I asked why, you said…you said that my pain was your pain.”

The memory catches in Link’s throat: her little hands, torn and bloody after all his designs to keep them clean this time around. “That’s different,” he protests, hating the petulance that creeps into his voice.

“One thing is the same. Your pain is my pain, Link. It always has been. But you’d carry all of mine without giving me an ounce of yours.”

“That’s not true. I’ve given you too much. The way I dropped in and out of your life, when you were just a kid who deserved so much better—”

“Link,” she bursts out, “you were a child too!”

The words are loud enough that her horse looks up in alarm, loud enough to startle birds from the trees. Part of Link wants to run as far and fast as possible, but Zelda has a look of such heartbreak on her face—and maybe she’s right. The golden thread binds them together so tightly. When he bleeds, so does she.

And Link doesn’t know how to stop bleeding.

“Zelda…” he starts in a strangled voice. “I’m finally home. I really don’t want to ruin this.”

“Ruin what?” Her gaze doesn’t falter, but she’s patient, as patient as the old oak creaking above their heads.

“Us,” Link whispers.

A simple word for the impossibility he’s spent half his life craving. Zelda’s lips tremble, briefly, before she presses them into a wavering smile. That’s her answer. She’s waiting for his—and he’s made her wait long enough.

Link reaches for the bandage, fumbling with the knot until she draws closer. At his nod, her deft fingers unravel the problem easily.

The bandage slides away. Her chin comes up. The winter sunlight turns her hair to spun gold; the wind rustles a slow, lilting lullaby through the trees. Link holds her gaze with all the strength he has left.

Zelda takes his face between her hands and kisses him.

It’s like leaping off a waterfall—the brief plummet into terror and doubt, the dousing of certainty, the joyful surrender to the river’s flow. And then all he knows is her breath against his skin and her soft lips and the rough brush of her archer’s calluses as her fingers run through his hair. Link slides his arms around her waist to draw her closer. He can feel his heart hammering with life. He can feel the world turning under his feet.

They’re both breathless by the time she draws back. Link’s good eye is flooding with tears; his ruined one stings, but he wouldn’t trade the pain for anything. Zelda is smiling brilliantly. He makes a sound, half laugh and half sob, wondering if this is a dream.

She closes his fingers around the eyepatch and says, “I made this because I love you. I worry because I love you. The only way to ruin this is by leaving again, and even then, I would still love you.”

He’s grateful for her body against his; he might be shaking too hard to stand on his own. Sunlight catches on Zelda’s tears. Link brushes them away, memorizing everything: her clear blue eyes, her flushed cheeks, those little curls of golden hair that frame her face.

“And I love you,” Link breathes. “Since the garden, Zelda. Since always.”

Her answering smile holds nothing back. They could be back in that moment again, two children choosing to believe each other in a world that would never thank them. But Link never wanted to be thanked—only to share the weight with someone. And even when he thought he was alone, when he stopped noticing the stars and the laughter and the song of the earth, Zelda was his guide. The bright-eyed girl among the flowers, the warrior with the lyre, the compass showing him the way home.

It’s taken him so long to listen. But Link finds the path when he draws her closer, when he lowers his lips to hers—he finds it again, and again, and again.

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Chapter Text

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The sun brightens, the snow melts, and Zelda stops wearing black. Link wakes beside her every morning and spends most days at Lon Lon Ranch, picking up the same chores that brought him comfort at a different ranch, with a different red-haired girl.

On the last morning of every week, Zelda clears her schedule and allows herself to sleep past dawn. Rest day, she calls it, though from the way she’s eyeing her stack of paperwork right now, she doesn’t plan to enjoy it the way the rest of the castle does. Still—she gives her people the gift of time. It makes Link proud to know her.

The maid is setting a bowl of oranges on the breakfast table, the first of the season. She glances furtively at this mysterious stranger who’s been sharing the queen’s bed as she leaves the room, but Link barely notices—his attention is on the fruit, on a sudden memory of being very young, the juice sticky on his fingers and the tang of citrus filling the air as Saria guided his hands.

“They’re grown in the south, where your father was from,” Zelda is telling her daughter. “The castle bakers rise long before dawn to make the sourdough. Malon and her father deliver cartloads of milk and butter every week. It’s important to understand how much work goes into every meal, you know.”

Link wrestles his hair into a ponytail and slips the eyepatch on, listening to her wax poetic about the breakfast table, of all things. Part of him wants to ask her to come back to bed. Draw the covers over their heads and never leave.

“Hey,” he says instead. “I was thinking I’d go see Saria.”

“Oh! That’s good.”

Zelda is tousled and beautiful in the morning light, beaming up at Link while she bounces the baby in her arms. He imagines this moment growing around him like vines, reaching towards the sun, towards forever. It’s so easy to get used to happiness. So easy to forget that it can be stolen away by blade, by fever, by an ocarina and a ticking clock.

“Link?” Her smile falters. “Is something the matter?”

The old instinct to lie simmers under his skin, but she’s got a keen look on her face that makes it clear the Triforce of Wisdom chose well. And he’s not here to keep things from her, not anymore. Link pulls on his boots with far more focus than necessary and replies evenly, “She might not remember me.”

“Why…why wouldn’t she? You spent half your life there.”

“That doesn't mean much to the Kokiri.”

“Then neither does your time away.” Zelda’s tone is more bewildered than reproachful. “She certainly remembered you when I met her; I doubt that’s changed in the past year.”

She’s right. She’s always right. But she hasn’t considered that the walls and the rules holding this world together are nothing more than a bedtime story, and all it takes to tear them down is one little melody. Link learned the falsity of that story a long time ago.

Even so, he knows he’s being ridiculous. It won’t be the first time he’s disappeared from the forest and returned an adult. Saria recognized him in the Other Hyrule, even when the other Kokiri did not. Yet somehow, absurdly, the fear remains.

“Would it help if I came with you?” Zelda asks, coming to stand in front of him.

Link raises his head in surprise. She meets his gaze, brow furrowed, with that look on her face like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. The baby in her arms is also peering up at him with great interest. Another Zelda, as easy to love as the others—she’ll probably end up with all her mother’s curiosity and half her restraint, and Link will have to find a way to deal with it.

“It would help,” he admits. “Thank you.”

The baby interrupts by grabbing his sharp nose and making a sound of delight. Zelda bursts into giggles, dropping her head onto Link’s shoulder, and soon enough he’s holding them both and laughing until his sides hurt—the best pain in the world.

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He doesn’t hesitate until he’s halfway across the lonely bridge that separates Hyrule from Kokiri Forest. Ahead, the village takes shape just past the mouth of the hollow tree. Behind, Epona and Zelda’s gelding search for grass at the edge of the field. Grey clouds blot out the sun. It’s far too cold to be standing still without a fire. But Link can’t make his feet move in either direction.

Zelda moves in front of him, taking his closed fists and prying his fingers apart to massage the warmth back into them. “We can turn back, you know.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I just…thanks for being here.”

She keeps hold of one of his hands as they walk forward. Time has not touched Kokiri Forest. Not the old creaking trees, not the houses dappled in green-gold shade. Everything is so small. The training yard and the maze that so intimidated Link’s younger self just look comical now.

He always knew deep down that this wasn’t his place, but he did have happiness here. He was safe; he knew who he was; the world asked very little of him. The glow of a fairy in his peripheral vision reminds him of that brief, breathtaking moment when Navi’s arrival allowed him to belong. A blessing that descended so quickly into a nightmare.

“Hey! Big people!”

The warning sends children scampering all around—climbing trees, ducking behind bushes, dragging each other into doorways. They’re not very good hiders, though; none of them can resist peeking out at the scene of Mido marching up to Link and Zelda like some four-foot-tall emperor.

He jabs a finger at them. “I’m the boss of the Kokiri, and you’re disturbing the peace! Why are there more of you? One was enough!”

“How nice to see you again, too,” Zelda greets dryly.

Link crouches down until he’s eye-level with the boy who used to make him feel so small. Now it’s the opposite. He’s a giant in his own skin. Too old for this place, too strange, too sad.

“It’s me,” he says. “Link.”

Mido’s eyes widen, and for a moment there’s regret before it’s shrouded by disbelief. “That can’t be. You’re a big person.”

Link was expecting this, but he still finds himself flinching back to his feet, away from the blankness in Mido’s eyes. No matter how many cycles he repeated in Termina, it hurt every single time Romani asked for his name.

Zelda touches his shoulder and asks, “Where can we find Saria?”

Mido folds his arms over his chest, looking up at them skeptically. “She let you in last time,” he tells her begrudgingly. “So I guess it’s okay. I think she’s in her house.”

Zelda thanks him politely and takes Link’s hand, leading him along like he’s still the same child who lived here. Wide eyes and not-so-quiet whispers follow them down the path. The sight of his old treehouse fills him with a phantom comfort that belongs in the past. He tried to reclaim his life here once or twice after returning to this timeline—it never lasted long.

They’re nearing Saria’s home when he spots two girls hiding just around the bend. One of them pokes her head out to gawk at Link. “Why are you so tall?”

“Golden Goddesses, Fado, you can’t just ask someone why they’re tall,” the other complains, tugging on her arm.

He opens his mouth to remind Rela that she taught him to skip rocks over the pond, remind Fado that she used to tell him stories of the Lost Woods—but there’s no point. The girls are already scampering away, and he’s nothing to them; he’s a ghost carrying other ghosts.

“Link,” Zelda says, squeezing his hand.

There’s a flicker of movement overhead: a fairy peeking out from the treehouse’s open doorway, followed by a head of green hair. A shudder rips through Link at the memory of laughter, of music, of quiet understanding.

Saria inches towards the edge of the platform. Goddesses, she’s so small. Yet she made up so much of his world for so long.

Link’s insides are turning to water. This isn’t like Mido or Impa or anyone else. If he had the Ocarina, he’d go back, jump forward, freeze the current, anything to stop what’s coming. Because he’s not ready. He’s never been ready for any of it.

He doesn’t realize he’s backing away until Zelda catches his shoulders. Twisting to meet her alarmed eyes, he gasps out, “I can’t do this, not with her, I can’t—”

“Link,” she insists, holding him still, “just look at her.”

And because it’s Zelda, he listens. Saria is staring down at him in disbelief, tears rolling down her cheeks, and when Link’s gaze collides with hers, she drops off the platform so suddenly that the fairy tumbles off her shoulder with an indignant squeak.

Link’s oldest instincts overrule the shock. He opens his arms to catch her, but the impact is less stunning than what Saria is saying: “Link, I missed you, I missed you so much…”

The breath goes out of him in a shaking exhale. He can feel Zelda still gripping his shoulders from behind, holding him while he holds Saria. The fairy flutters around them in happy circles, and Link’s best friend is crying into his shirt, and even though he’s nothing like the boy who left her behind on that bridge, Saria remembers him—because there are things stronger than time.

“I missed you too,” Link manages, and it’s true; he missed her so much more than he realized until this moment.

By the time Saria’s tears subside, cold raindrops have begun to patter down over the forest. She pulls back to touch his face the way she did when he was little, her gaze lingering on the eyepatch. “You’ve grown up.”

“Took me long enough,” Link replies wryly, lowering her gently to the ground.

“I think you’re just right. Come on—let’s get out of the rain.”

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Zelda offers. He starts to protest, but she’s already letting go of his shoulders. “You’ve been apart for years, Link. I don’t mind.”

“Well…okay.” With a glance at the grey clouds, he gestures towards his old treehouse. “You…can wait in there if you want.”

Zelda kisses his cheek and sets off down the path. Saria peers up at Link, a knowing grin on her face.

“You love her, don’t you?” she asks mischievously.

It’s Link’s turn to smile. There’s warmth in his chest, spreading outwards; all he can do is nod. Saria giggles, a bell-clear sound he remembers so fondly, and leads him into the warmth of her house.

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The bed is barely five feet long, built for a child who never planned to grow up. There’s a table, a dresser, an open doorway overlooking the forest—and that’s all. The castle has powder rooms larger than this entire treehouse.

While the rain grows heavier outside, Zelda occupies herself with casting spells to clear the dust away. She can’t help but imagine what it was like to grow up here: close to the earth, far from duty and strife. It’s the kind of life she might want for her daughter, under different circumstances. She only wishes Link was permitted to keep it for longer than ten years.

She hears his footsteps on the ladder not much later. He pauses in the doorway, brushing rainwater from his face and surveying the room with an unreadable expression. When his gaze settles on Zelda, Link says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Coming with me. I’m—I’m really glad I saw Saria.”

“Me too,” she says, though she can’t help but recall the deadened look in his eye when the Kokiri treated him like a stranger, the way he expected Saria to do the same.

Maybe it shows in her face, for Link looks away, pulling off his damp cloak and draping it over the table. “I guess we should wait out the rain.”

“Would you rather go to Saria’s?”

“No, this is…” His gaze sweeps the house again. Zelda still can’t read his expression as he sinks down onto the uncovered bed and props open the window to watch the rain.

“What are you thinking about?” she wonders.

“How short I used to be.”

She sighs, the old wooden frame creaking beneath her added weight. Link allows her to take his hand and keep them both warm with her magic, but his face stays far away. Zelda hopes their horses found an overhang for shelter. She hopes the downpour doesn’t keep her daughter awake through naptime. She hopes Impa isn’t making the recruits run laps in the mud for what she calls character building and everyone else calls misery.

None of the distractions work for long.

“I just want to say one thing,” Zelda begins. “My counterpart sent you back in time with the help of six newly awakened Sages at the height of their power. I couldn’t do the same even if I had reason to—and I don’t. Ganondorf is gone. The Ocarina is safe.”

“I know,” Link says defensively.

“But the look on your face when you saw Saria, when you saw Impa and Malon—even me.” For a moment she’s back in the dungeons under Hyrule Castle, meeting his gaze for the first time in six years through the bars of a prison cell. “I spent years missing you, dreaming of you, and you thought I would forget. I’m only trying to tell you that what you fear will never happen again.”

He turns his face away sharply, spitting the words out with sudden venom: “It did happen again, Zelda.”

She tries not to flinch, but inside she’s fourteen again, and he’s shoving the Ocarina into her hands as he leaves her behind. She didn’t understand then; she doesn’t understand now. Silence stretches between them. Zelda doesn’t break it, no matter how much she longs to; what comes next isn’t up to her.

“I’m sorry. I—” Link gets no further. He just pulls his legs up and hugs them to his chest.

To their right hangs a little sign, proudly scrawled with his high scores from the games they used to play in Castle Town. To their left is a mirror, propped up against the basin and cleared of dust by Zelda’s spells. Now she can see their dim reflections: two adults in a child’s bed, shoulder-to-shoulder and leagues apart.

Maybe there was never any hope. Maybe it ends right where it began. She’ll have his love, but never his trust, and she’ll be that helpless girl watching through a window for the rest of her life.

And then Link shocks her. His fingers are shaking, and his skin is rough and scarred, but he takes her hand and says, “It’s because of Termina.”

“Oh?” Zelda murmurs cautiously.

“Yeah. Well. You’re right that coming back to this time was hard. But if it was just that, I think I would’ve…”

He goes silent for a while, then reaches for a trunk at the foot of the bed and rifles through it. She waits quietly until he places something in her open palm: a gemstone shaped like a teardrop, turquoise and translucent.

“Beautiful,” Zelda remarks, pouring a bit of light into the stone until it scatters little blue shadows around the room.

“Like you,” Link agrees with a faint smile. “I always wanted to give it to you, but I knew you’d have a thousand questions, and…I wasn’t ready then. I—I think I’m ready now. But it’s not a happy story. Promise you’ll tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I will, if you do the same.” He nods, and she gives him back the gem, wrapping both her hands around his with slow caution—as though he’s a bird she could startle away at any moment. “All right, Link. Where did this come from?”

“From the moon. It was…falling towards Termina.”

Zelda opens her mouth, then closes it with lurching horror, recalling how preoccupied he was whenever they went stargazing as children. How his nightmares worsened with the waxing moon. They lean back against the wall, against each other, until Link continues speaking.

“I told you I had friends there. A Skull Kid and two fairies. Well—they weren’t friends at first. They found me in the Woods and stole Epona and the Ocarina. Chasing after them is how I ended up in Termina. It wasn’t Skull Kid’s fault. He…he was wearing this mask, and the soul inside it made him…do things. Like bringing down the moon and turning me into a Deku Scrub. So I—”

“Link, slow down.” She squeezes his hands, which have gone clammy and tremulous in her grasp. “You became a Deku Scrub?”

“Not for long,” he reassures her, like they’re speaking of a head cold. “Skull Kid stole that mask from this…Salesman. He found me, said he would fix me if I got it back for him. He gave me three days.” Link laughs humorlessly. “I tried. Got the Ocarina. Couldn’t get the mask. The moon was—I was almost too late. But then…you saved me, Zelda.”

“I did?”

“I remembered you teaching me the Song of Time. I only ever used it to open the Door, but—when I played it in Termina, it…it sent the moon back, sent everything back to the way it was the morning I arrived. Just like…just like…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. It did happen again—the same feat her counterpart accomplished when she sent him back to a Hyrule that wasn’t yet broken. Zelda has no idea how Link could manage something similar on his own, but right now, she doesn’t care. It’s all starting to make a sick sort of sense.

“I thought of you every time,” he mumbles.

“Every time? You traveled back more than once?”

Link closes his eye, leaning his head against the wall. It’s a while before he speaks. “I couldn’t go back any earlier than that first dawn. Three days wasn’t enough time. So I…I just…repeated them until I got what I needed to stop the moon.”

“How many times over?” Zelda asks quietly.

All he does is shudder, but it’s enough of an answer. One apocalypse flowing into another, and another—not just for Termina, but for Link personally, because every note of that song hammered down the nails that have been lodged inside him since he left the Temple of Time with no past, no future, and no fairy. Since he looked into Zelda’s oblivious eyes and found himself utterly alone.

Of course he believes every problem is his to solve. Of course he expects to be forgotten, expects everything to collapse around him. He’s never known anything else.

“Oh, Link.” Her voice sounds so small and useless. “I’m so sorry.”

He opens his eye to look at her, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and Zelda doesn’t realize she’s crying until his gentle fingers brush her tears away. “It’s okay, Zelda.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t make it less than what it was.”

“I’m—it wasn’t all bad. Especially now.”

“Link. The way you reacted to that mask—” She stops suddenly, remembering the wooden face with its orange eyes and round mouth. A Deku Scrub, like the form Link apparently took. “Wait. That was…”

She doesn’t even know what to ask. He looks away, pressing his back hard against the wall. Rain drums on the roof in a steady rhythm. It’s probably been half an hour since he walked through the door, but every second seems slower and colder. She’s about to ask if they should stop when Link continues all on his own.

“It’s called the Song of Healing. The mask you picked up…I…” His fingers are clenched tight around the gemstone, and with her hands enveloping his, Zelda can feel just how hard he’s trembling. “I never understood it, never wanted to, but he was dead, and he couldn’t move on until I played the Song. The mask is…whatever’s left of him. The Goron was dead too, but—the Zora was still alive when I found him, he had people waiting for him, and the Song didn’t heal him. It just—gave me another mask.”

She fights to keep her voice steady. “You carried three spirits around with you?”

“I think…only the bad parts of them stayed in the masks. The rest got to go free.” Link sounds wistful. “That’s what I always hoped. I know it didn’t hurt them, at least.”

“That’s—that’s not why I asked. How did it affect you, Link?”

The words turn him silent and rigid. He glances at the mirror, then away, and says in a brittle voice, “That doesn’t matter.”

“Those people had enough regrets to keep them tethered to the wrong plane until you healed them,” Zelda insists. “When you wore the masks…where did all that pain go?”

Link feels like stone beside her. Her heart thuds once, twice, and then she opens her fingers to let him pull away from her, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and burying his face in his hands.

“It went into me,” he manages, and the horror of realization catches in his throat, as though he never asked or answered that question until this moment. “It all went into me. It’s never coming out.”

Zelda’s first thought is abhorrent: I would trade that entire world to spare him this. It’s probably not true, considering whose blood she carries, and hearing her say it would break that golden heart Link has been giving away, piece by piece, for his entire life. But it feels brutally true right now as she watches his fingers dig into his hair, watches his whole body cave inwards.

“Link, come here,” she pleads, moving to his side.

“No.” He flinches away from her and chokes out the words frantically. “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry, I won’t do this, I won’t drown you like they drowned me—”

“Oh, Goddesses, Link.” Tears are rolling down Zelda’s cheeks. She’s freezing, and he’s shaking, and all she can do is grip the hard edge of the bed to keep herself still. “Is that really what you think? You were a child, you had no choice, and I am so sorry, and so angry on your behalf—but it’s not the same at all. I’m asking you to let me help. I’m not going to drown. You’re the one who taught me how to swim.”

He shudders at the memory. Laughter, a stretch of blue sky, her hands gripping his with absolute trust. For a brief stretch of heaven, the gentle current washed away the past and the future, washed away everything but Zelda and Link—and that was all they needed.

“Your pain is my pain,” she reminds him fiercely, her voice steady again. “Let me take care of you.”

Link lets out a sob, thin and strangled, and his voice breaks on the final word: “Okay.”

The moment she wraps her arms around him, he starts to cry, really cry, with all the titanic weight he’s never put down before. Zelda has spent her whole life carrying the hope of her battered kingdom, spent the past two years mourning her father and husband. But she doesn’t know grief like this—the kind that cuts deep enough to change your very marrow until you no longer recognize what remains.

When they were ten, Link could spend a whole day bringing her flowers and listening to her problems. He could spend a whole night drowning in dream after terrifying dream. The memories make Zelda tighten her embrace, closing every gap between them. He presses his face against her shoulder and hugs her back with desperate strength.

Time slows and softens, the rain keeps falling, and Link unravels in her arms. Zelda’s mind is usually pointed in a thousand directions at once, but right now she’s just here in the quiet, listening to his breathing even out, feeling all his love and relief in the way his body relaxes against hers.

At the end of it, he sits up, reaching under his patch to wipe away the tears—but Zelda slips it off and kisses the warped scar that seals his eyelid shut, kisses the bridge of his nose, kisses his starving lips.

“I understand so much now,” she says. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for listening,” Link murmurs, resting his forehead against hers.

“You said it didn’t matter how all of this has affected you—but of course it matters, Link. It always has. Saving the world is a job for all of us together, not for one little boy. I would take it all away if I could. I would give you the gentle beginning you deserve. That’s what she was trying to do when she sent you back in time, I’m sure of it. But some things simply cannot be undone.”

“I know. But…it’s okay. There’s so much I want to keep.” Link tucks a loose curl behind her ear and kisses her with something raw and tender that he’s never quite shown before—something that leaves her with no doubt of what he wants to keep. “I love you, Zelda.”

“I love you, Link. Please never think you’re alone.”

He presses something into her palm—the gemstone that fell from the moon, warm from the time it spent clutched in his grip. “Would you keep this for me? It matches your eyes.”

Zelda closes her fingers around the stone, holding it to her heart, and the miracle of a smile flickers across Link’s face—the first hint of sunlight in the wake of a long storm.

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The soil is damp and rich, smelling like home as they dig four small holes among the Great Deku Tree’s roots. Link learned his first lesson here at the base of his old guardian’s corpse: even the strongest souls can wither.

At the time, he blamed himself for being too late. But when he remembers creeping into that dark place in a fruitless attempt to stop the inevitable, all he can think about is how small he was, how overwhelmed. It was never in his power to fix everything, least of all death. The fault doesn’t lie with Link for trying anyway. It lies with a world that demanded so much of him at such a young age.

One by one, he lowers the masks into the embrace of the earth. The Deku Scrub, a lost child returning home; Darmani, a hero whose purpose is long fulfilled; Mikau, safe with the people he loves; the Fierce Deity, whose anger can finally grow into something new. It’s too early for flowers, but Zelda builds a small cairn of rocks before each grave, and Saria cuts five sprigs of holly—the last of which she places in Link’s hand.

“This is what I bring her in wintertime,” she says quietly.

He follows her gaze to the fifth grave, one he didn’t know existed until he learned the truth of himself in a different version of Hyrule. There’s no headstone, just a mossier cairn than the ones they just made—Link’s mother died without telling anyone her name.

He steps closer, but finds himself wavering; he’s never been sure of what to do here. The one time he tried playing the Song of Healing, there was no answer, no lingering spirit to ease into the restful beyond. Back then, the silence made Link desperately, irrationally angry with his mother for leaving him to fate’s monstrous plans.

Now, as he nestles the holly in a bed of grass before the cairn, he’s just thankful she died in peace.

“Were you there?” he asks, no longer scared of the answer. “Did she say anything?”

“Yes,” Saria replies, reaching for his hand. “She said, ‘I love you. Live well.’”

Zelda slides an arm around his waist, and Link closes his eye, listening to the wind rustle through the old forest. Those words are all he’ll ever have of his mother—and they've come at just the right time, when he’s finally ready to follow them.

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Chapter Text

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It’s the coldest winter Hyrule can remember, but Zelda spends the whole of it feeling warm. She floats around the castle, half-convinced she’s fallen into some giddy dream. It’s an absurd way to feel at this point in her life, but when she says as much to Impa, all she gets is an eyeroll and a tart question: If twenty is old, what does that make me?

As usual, Impa has a point. Not so long ago, Zelda thought it was her fate to pour everything she has into the bitter earth—her time, her love, her hope—and receive nothing in return. But even though the flow of time stole so much from her, it also carried Link back to her door. And when fear threatened to set him adrift again, Zelda made a difference. She brought him home.

For the first time ever, they have a future together. That possibility softens the hours she spends serving Hyrule, the meals they share at her table, the nights they spend curled up in each other’s arms. It softens the entire world.  

It doesn’t take long for them to bridge the last gap. In the gentle light of their chambers, Zelda lifts Link’s shirt over his head and studies the scarred loveliness underneath. He studies her in return—the hard muscles no one expects on a queen, the stretch marks from carrying her daughter, the bright starburst burn she earned in her fight against their oldest enemy.

Link’s fingers brush over the mark, trail up her back, tangle in her long hair. “My beautiful Zelda,” he says, and she surges up to kiss him passionately, making up for lost time.

When the first spring buds begin to sprout in Zelda’s favorite garden, she and Impa dig up a few flowerbeds and spend a quiet day replanting them around the Kakariko graveyard. Weeks later, they return to find it in full bloom—lilies for remembrance, tulips for a new beginning, all of them growing strong at the base of the Shadow Temple, guarding those who finally rest there.

Little Zelda has outgrown the hat that was Owen’s last gift, but he’s visible in her thick curls, in her strong brow. Inside their family tomb, Zelda takes her daughter’s tiny hand and presses it to the stone letters of Owen’s name.

“He was a safe place when I needed one most,” she says softly. “He loved you so much. And he deserved more time. I wish he could see you grow.”

Impa rests a hand on her shoulder—thanks to her, Zelda never has to confront this place alone. And sometimes she’ll walk along the gravestones outside, pausing before the Sheikah names and telling Zelda who they were, how they lived, how they died. Sometimes they weep together. Sometimes they find a way to laugh.

It takes Link months to join them, but he does, holding tight to Zelda’s hand as they walk past the well and into the graveyard. He stands there for a long time, gazing up at the temple that still haunts his dreams.

“It’s peaceful,” he says at last. “I never expected that here. It’s…you should be proud, Zelda.”

“I owed it to Hyrule. We can’t build a future if we ignore the past.”

Laughter drifts over from a patch of tulips across the way, where Impa sits with the baby in her lap. Zelda can’t help but smile at the sound. Link grins right back at her, his face softened by these months of safety, his eyes full of the same fateful clarity she found in the garden all those years ago. And she thinks about what Owen taught her—that even after good dreams die and bad ones come true, there’s always something new to be found. There’s always another story.

For now, Link picks a flower that matches her eyes, tucks it behind her ear, and tells her about the last time he stepped foot in this place: how Sheik waited for him to emerge from the long nightmare of that temple, how she taught him a lesson about fear that’s carried him all this way. And there—safe among the graves and the flowers—they remember the forgotten.

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There’s spring in the air as Link winds his way through Castle Town, sore and satisfied from a day’s work at the ranch. The sound of shouting one street over stirs up his old instincts, but when he turns the corner, all he finds is a brawl among children. Most of them scatter when Link wades into the fray, leaving him alone with two kids he recognizes: the dark-haired sisters from the orphanage.

“Ha!” one of them shouts at her retreating opponents. “Keep running, cowards!”

The younger girl blinks up at Link. “You’re the queen’s friend!”

He catches her sister’s shoulder before she can run off and holds a handkerchief to her bleeding nose. “Everyone all right?”

The older girl snorts scornfully, though that just bloodies his handkerchief even further. She accepts it with dramatic reluctance, like it’s some affront to her pride, and Link suppresses a smile.

“Come on, I’ll walk you home,” he says.

“They won’t come back,” the younger one declares. “And if they do, they don’t stand a chance!”

“I can tell. I’m more worried about what you’ll do to them.”

They grin at him impishly, leading him down the block without further argument. The door to the orphanage is propped open to welcome the warm air. It’s noisy, cluttered with bunk beds and toys and laughing children. A tantalizing smell wafts out of the kitchen, where a few of the older kids are shucking corn and peeling potatoes under Headmistress Rin’s watchful eyes.

She catches sight of the girls and plants her hands on her hips. “You two! What did I say about fighting?”

“They deserved it!” the older sister declares.

“For the love of—go get some ice for your bruises. We’ll talk about this later.” Rin smiles at Link apologetically. “Thanks for bringing them back.”

The girls wave to Link and scamper off, already boasting about their fight to the other children. Surely none of them have led easy lives, but they still seem so…unrestrained. So safe in the knowledge that someone older is around to protect them, make the hard decisions on their behalf. That’s exactly what they should expect from the world.

Rin is watching him with those red Sheikah eyes, sharp with understanding, and suddenly he remembers what she said about how hard it is to understand peace after a lifetime of war. About how they both deserve it anyway.

The question tumbles out before Link can stop it. “Do you need help here?”

“Always,” Rin replies. “Chores, supplies, looking after the little ones, bringing the older ones out for fun—we don’t pay much, though.”

“That’s okay. I…maybe I’ll come back someday.”

“We’d be happy to have you. I’d ask you not to bring that sword next time, though. It might scare the kids—or excite them, which is much worse.”

“Oh,” Link says, the word sticking in his throat for some reason. “Right. Thanks.”

The scabbard taps a familiar rhythm against his back as he sets off for the castle. Except for sparring with Zelda and Impa, Link hasn’t fought since Termina. Yet the Gilded Sword is part of him, as the Master Sword was before it. He’s carried a weapon since the day Mido said he needed one to visit the Great Deku Tree.

And that was only the beginning. He thinks of those sisters with their carefree smiles, fighting just for the thrill of it. At their age, Link was crawling through the mud at the bottom of Kakariko’s well, sobbing in desperate terror as he tried to escape the Dead Hand. And even then—when the hope of rescue was only a distant memory—he was telling himself, You’re a keeper of the world, be grateful for your fate, be grateful.

For so long, he thought all that pain was an enemy he had to conquer—like the shadow in the Water Temple, the soldier with no heart—in order to claw his way back to a version of himself that isn’t made of scars and sorrow. But Link’s enemies are dead and buried; all that remains is a forgotten little kid crouched in the dark. It’s past time to coax that boy to his feet and tell him, Let it go. Let it heal.

He's lost so much he’ll never get back—but he’s also made up of the kindness other people have shown him. He still has Navi perched on his shoulder, guiding him through the end of the world; there’s Tatl too, helping him make sense of the devastating aftermath. He still has the brush of Romani’s lips and the sunshine of her smile. Those are the memories Link takes with him, like a lantern to guide his path.

He can picture the first Zelda who touched his heart, a sly smirk tugging at her lips when he admits that she was right about everything—about time passing and people moving, about how you couldn’t get anywhere if you were fighting the current. About how growing up the right way, the hard way, was exactly what Link needed.

The Zelda he’s made a home with looks up from her book when he walks into their chambers, worry creasing her brow. “Link? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says with a laugh of disbelief, reaching up to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “I’m just—happy. I’m happy I’m still here.”

Zelda sweeps him into her arms, covering him in kisses until he’s breathless with laughter. “I’m happy too,” she says, tears shining in those blue eyes that he remembered when everything else seemed lost. “You were right on time.”

Link leaves his sword at the door that night, and every night that follows. Hyrule flourishes and falters and flourishes again. It’s no small task to unravel two tangled lifetimes of grief and weave them together, but they’re both stubborn enough to stay the course. Link never expected to view time as a gift, but Zelda always had a knack for guiding him to the deeper truth.

He still wakes some days expecting the clock to spin backwards and make all his worst fears come true. It never happens. The river carries him forward. And when the nightmares come, there’s always something good waiting when he wakes up.

On one of those nights, Link sits up in bed; the crying baby pulled him out of the dream before it got bad. Zelda groans, stirring reluctantly, but he puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get her.”

“I love you,” she mumbles, sinking back under the covers. The way she says it, unabashed and unquestioning, fills him with warmth.

He lifts the baby from her crib and starts to hum a lullaby he learned long ago. She goes quiet by the second verse, resting her head near the compass that still hangs over Link’s heart. The song worked on her mother too; Zelda’s already asleep, her hair spilling over the pillow like strands of golden thread. And he catches a glimpse of silver through the window: the moon, full and bright and almost beautiful, nestled over their slumbering kingdom.

Be grateful, Link tells himself, and for the first time since he can remember, the words ring true.

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