Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He had always admired her, but for most of his life it had been from afar. Though his father served as a member of the Royal Guard, he was never allowed near her as a young boy—and yet she was always there, bathing the northern horizon in brilliant golden light, so far out of reach from his uncle’s humble home in Deya Village. None of his cousins or other relations in the little town ever seemed to notice that Light, perhaps immune to the sanctity and wonder of it on account of living in such close proximity for most of their lives—or perhaps, they didn’t even perceive it in the same way that he did. But to Link, it was a holy beacon. A divine call. He would sit, legs dangling off the ancient Deku roots that rotted on the hills overlooking Lake Hylia, and lose himself in daydreams.

Perhaps one day, if he behaved himself very well—if he worked very hard to be good at what he did, to stay pure of heart like the Sister taught and be brave and strong like his father—perhaps then they would let him approach that sacred citadel, allow him to worship there. To protect her.

In time, he would learn that his dreams always had a rather unsettling way of becoming reality.

He may have still been fresh of face and young in years, but by sixteen he had accomplished what most men would never achieve in their entire working careers. He was exactly where he wanted to be, fulfilling not only what everyone told him was his destiny, but almost every bit of his dearest fantasies, as well. Because he could reach out and touch her, now—and he did, though not in the plain light of day. That sort of precious activity was reserved for the dead of night, when he could take his time exploring every inch of her, committing every beautiful angle and curve to memory.

Of course, even good things must eventually come to an end.

The first telltale sign that his nightmares were dreams, too—and thus bound to become reality—came one not particularly eventful summer’s day, a few weeks prior to his seventeenth birthday. The Princess was exactly three paces ahead of him, leading the way as usual as she made her rounds around the ancient and expansive Castle proper. Link was being careful, of course, to keep his eyes trained where they should be—on his duty, and not openly admiring the charming aspect of his nightly devotions as she caught the light of the noonday sun—when suddenly, out of nowhere, a chunk of masonry about the size of a hydromelon tumbled down from the upper parapets with an eye for depriving Her Royal Highness of a perfectly good brain in her head.

She didn’t notice, of course—how could she, with her nose buried in that Slate of hers, and her mouth running about a mile a minute?—and so, Link shoved her aside with as much care and respect as the dire situation would allow, only just catching the crumbling wedge with his shield as he spun to the side to dodge. He grunted from the impact, stumbling as a roughened corner scraped against his leg as it fell and went careening down the sloping path.

He steadied himself and watched, jaw slack and eyes wide, as the heavy block of chiseled stone crashed into the backside of the rampart that bordered the main road, cracking off a piece of the foundation. A shrill, tortured sort of squeaking reached his ears, and it was only belatedly that he realized it was coming from his own throat.

Calm yourself, Link. She’s fine. It’s only stone and mortar, these things can be repaired—that’s what the castle has an entire crew of stonemasons for, isn’t it? Relax. Is there any other damage? It was as his eyes were tracing the path of the debris that they chanced upon the Princess sprawled unceremoniously in the dirt, and his mind immediately clocked the error in his behavior.

He had spoken something. Aloud.

What was it he had said?

“What was that?” the Princess echoed, sitting up with barely a grimace and brushing bits of dirt and grit from her sleeves.

No worse for wear, then. “It came from the wall,” he grumbled quietly, offering her a hand and hoisting her up from the ground. But why had it come? Disrepair? Sabotage? He fixed his eyes on the structures above, scanning for anything that seemed suspicious, and signaled to a guard upon the wall walk. They nodded curtly and turned about to investigate.

The Princess had said something again, and he turned to face her, hands planted upon his hips. “Pardon?”

She huffed at him, blowing out her cheeks like an aggravated pufferfish. “No, not that—What was it that you said?”

Oh. Oh, no.

She’d suss him out.

She might start asking questions.

…He should definitely play dumb.

“‘That I said,’ Your Highness?”

“You made this sort of pained noise as that stone went tumbling and said something like ‘cobble’ or ‘horrible’ or … something.” She waved her hand about in the air rather vaguely, voice trailing off as she did so and cheeks taking on a rather pretty color—like the walls of the Sanctum when the evening sun shone in through the cranberry glass tucked between the tracery. “And—thank you, for saving my life. Again.”

Was she blushing? She was blushing. Was he staring? Yes, yes he was. He dipped his head in acknowledgment, embarrassed by the turn of his thoughts and clearing his throat gruffly as he cast about for something less dangerous to focus on. But it was no use—he couldn’t think fast enough—blast it, he was too stupid to play dumb. “Uh…‘corbel,’ maybe. That stone came from the corbels that support the battlement.”

“Oh?” She paused, hand rising to cup her chin thoughtfully as she considered him for a moment. “I must admit, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that term.” She turned on her heel, resuming their journey toward the first gatehouse without further ado—though at a much slower pace—and he fell back in step behind her. “I suppose as a soldier you must be well acquainted with the structure of our castle's fortifications. Or do you take a special interest in architecture?”

“N-not really.” Hylia help him—he did not want to enter into an academic discussion with anyone, let alone the Princess. Things like that made him want to run away and crawl in a hole, which was very unbecoming for someone who was supposed to be as courageous and role-modeling as he was.

“‘Not really’?” She swivelled back around to glance at him in surprise. “You’re usually more direct in your denials. Are you perhaps—oh. Link, you’re leaving a trail.”

He was beginning to feel a little faint. “What?”

“Your leg is bleeding! Profusely!”

He looked down. “Oh. So it is.” The ol’ castle did that to him, did she? Clever girl. That was more blood from him with a single strike than the goblin folk had managed in a quarantine—a thought which pleased him immensely, though he wasn't used to losing so much at once. He couldn’t help the dopey grin that plastered itself onto his face as he once again met the Princess’ befuddled stare. What a fortunate distraction. “Sorry for the mess.”

It was some thirteen hours later, well past the bell that signalled the midnight rotation of the guard, that Link found himself struggling to get a grip. He’d seen the Princess to bed much earlier than usual—only mildly suspicious of how eager she was to say goodnight, given their strenuous activities that evening—and had decided that, given the newness of the moon and the relative accompanying darkness, tonight was a fine night to test the integrity of the castle’s structural defenses.

Not that he didn’t have full faith in the fortress’ constitution; but, having now spent some time in service here, he had come to understand an unfortunate truth: Flawless as the original blueprints might have been, there was yet a certain amount of negligence that must have occurred during the castle’s long and storied lifetime. The incident that afternoon had only reinforced his desire to fully investigate and pin down any of her acquired flaws.

That’s why the corner of his boot was currently wedged into the crotch of an obliging tree that cuddled up against the castle facade below the Princess’ bedroom, fresh stitches in his leg threatening to pop against the binding wrap as he strained, fingers scrabbling against the meager crimps in the stonework.

Again, he was incredibly gratified at the level of difficulty in scaling the wall’s surface, despite its narrow ledges and other ornamental features. If it were anyone else making the attempt, they would certainly be on the ground.

“Are you after a particularly nimble intruder? Or do I need protection from Hylia’s Chosen, now, as well?”

Link’s other foot slipped from the wall, and things wound up taking a rather literal turn as he fully lost his hold on the smooth stone. Rather than submit to the minor twenty-foot fall, he managed to hook the limb of the tree with his other leg and came swinging upside-down like some sort of monkey, head cracking lightly against the wall in the process. He dangled there for a moment, dazed but maintaining his leg’s death-clamp on the bough perfectly well, as his surprise visitor gaped at him from below.

“Hylia’s hand!” The Princess had a palm up to her face, wincing as she beheld his mortifying state—thank the Goddess he’d tucked in his undershirt today, as his tunic was well up into his armpits. “I’m sorry for startling you! Do you…do you need help getting down?”

He answered her with an impressive display of acrobatics (absolutely necessary after such a pathetic scene), deftly launching himself from the tree, executing a single somersault in the air, and landing in front of her with a soft thud. He rose up gingerly from his crouch, smacking his hands against his pants to dislodge the climber’s chalk, and crossed his arms. “That’s alright, Your Highness. What are you doing?”

She bristled at his tone. “Excuse me?”

Link fixed her with a reproachful glower, waving one hand demonstratively at the empty space around them. “Why are you out of your room in the dead of night without a guard?”

The Princess huffed regally at him, turning her head to answer the courtyard instead of his face. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I—I-I… I snuck out. To the library, if you must know.” She glanced over at him, eyes wandering to the unhappy twist in his mouth before meeting his gaze with a heavy pout of her own. “Hardly a life-threatening excursion, with the castle as well-fortified as it is,” she insisted.

The castle was well-fortified, of course, and the Princess’ confidence in her security left him feeling pleasantly warm—but the girl herself was a force to be reckoned with, and he wouldn’t put it past her to somehow get into trouble regardless. “Not doing a very good job, then.”

“Excuse me, again?”

“At sneaking.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “I admit, my intention was to steal quietly back into my room without being detected, but when I saw you scaling the wall outside my bedroom window my curiosity got the better of me.” She clutched the stack of books she was holding tightly to her chest, pointing an accusatory chin at him. “What exactly were your intentions, Sir Knight?”

“Honorable, Your Highness.”

“That’s hardly an answer.”

“It’s hard to answer.”

“Is it?”

How could he explain what he was up to without sounding like a crazy person? Pardon me, Princess, but I find the bond pattern of the castle’s masonry so incredibly fascinating, I’ve lately made it my nightly mission to inspect every vertical and horizontal inch of it. The ingenuity of her wall’s weep holes almost brings me to tears. Everything about your ancestral home is an inspired work of art—the proportions, the scale, the attention to detail whether small or great. The flying buttresses that flank the central keep are more grand and captivating than anything I’ve ever seen and—

“Link?”

“What?”

The Princess bit her lip, lanternlight flickering on her face. She looked… uncertain.

Oh. She’d asked him to clarify his intentions, and he’d just zoned out on her like a total creep. That was exactly not the impression he’d prefer to give. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms, aiming for an air of authority and professionalism. “I’m under orders from your father the King to ensure your safety. The integrity of the castle’s fortifications is therefore part of my purview, as are any unsanctioned and unattended nighttime excursions.” There. That sounded normal and official. “Why did you go to the library?”

She looked annoyed again. Good. “For books. Obviously.”

He scrutinized one of the titles she held clasped against her, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at the binding: Design, Structure, and Layout by Franson Brigo. Huh. One of the classics. “Books on architecture?”

“Books on—!” The Princess gawped at him, glancing down at the exposed volume in question and wavering for a moment, as if snagged by the obvious truth. “Yes,” she finally admitted—though why she should hesitate was anyone’s guess. “Architecture. Among other things, of course.”

“Of course. And why couldn’t that wait ‘til tomorrow?”

“I… I have my reasons.” She was avoiding his eyes again. Something about the tone in her voice made the hair on his skin stand straight, and he shivered despite himself.

He really didn’t understand her—as a matter of fact, she drove him absolutely batty. He thought that after that incident in the desert they were beyond this—that she understood the need for a constant guard on her person. Apparently, he hadn’t given her insatiable curiosity and thirst for independence nearly enough credit.

He sighed, uncrossing his arms and gesturing at her beseechingly. “Your Highness, your safety is my highest priority. Please, please allow me or one of your guards to accompany you next time. I’ll even make an exception after hours, if it really can’t wait.”

“It would have to be you. The other guards won’t dare defy my father’s instructions.”

“Then summon me. I don’t mind.”

“...Summon you to my quarters? No matter how late?”

Ah. Perhaps that would be a little improper. Despite himself, and the fact that the Princess would never conceive of summoning him to do improper things, he felt his cheeks growing hot. “Well—I-I mean, if you explain to the guard on duty—”

“Explain how, exactly? ‘Oh, excuse me, Sir Knight, but would you fetch Sir Link for me? No, I shan’t explain why. When he arrives, please leave us to our devices and do not question whether we are staying in my quarters or leaving, or where we are going if we depart—as I know the answers would surely have you bringing a most unfortunate report to my father. Also, you needn’t worry on account of my chastity, as there is nothing untoward or scandalous occurring between me and my personal knight as we go about our business alone and in the dark—’”

Her voice was beginning to carry, echoing through the courtyard and earning a few turning heads from the watchmen on duty. What kind of scene was she trying to make? He leaned in, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper in hopes she would follow suit, nearly choking on his embarrassment. “Please, Your Highness, keep your voice down if you’re going to say such things—”

“What? You won’t reprimand me for saying them?”

He couldn’t fathom what had gotten into her, but at least she had lowered her voice. “Well, no—I mean, you make a good point, but—”

“You’d rather I say them for your ears alone, is that it?”

“No, I—I… huh?”

She must have been advancing slowly on him, for suddenly he found himself pressing up against the wall he’d been falling from only minutes before, back flat against the meticulous masonry as the Princess leaned much, much too far into his personal bubble. Her face was a mask cast in shadow, features almost imperceptible with the lanternlight at her back—her voice nearly a whisper, low and even. Neutral. Unsettling. “The idea of us alone, together… in the dark, with nowhere to be and nothing… else… to do. Does it… appeal to you?”

There. The ghost of a smile, and not a seductive one. If not for her devastating closeness and the meager illumination in the courtyard, he might have missed it and thought she was being serious. She was messing with him.

So, it was like that, was it? Well. Two could play at that game.

He bit his lip, shrinking down beneath her looming gaze. “Your Highness,” he breathed lowly, casting his eyes meekly to the side and making sure to pitch his voice so that only she could hear. “If that’s really what you want… I’m yours to command.”

Silence. For a brief, terrifying moment, the thought crossed his mind that she might have actually been serious—but the strangled, feeble whimper that escaped her did much to alleviate his sudden dread. He peered up at her, plastering on his most devilish smile.

“Y—you!” she gasped, lightly backhanding his chest in protest and taking a decent step away. He couldn’t be sure on account of all those skirts, but she might have even stomped her foot a little.

“Me!” he answered triumphantly, pushing away from the wall and drawing himself back to his full height with only a small amount of swagger. “That’s right, I win! What’s my prize—do I get a kiss?”

“You’re awful!”

“You started it.”

“‘You started it, Your Highness.’”

He swept an exaggerated bow, schooling his expression into something a bit less cheeky. “Yes, Your Highness. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Indeed! I think I’ve learned something very important here, Sir Link.” There was a smile in her voice, but she didn’t elaborate any further on that rather ominous point. “And I really ought to… I truly do apologize. You are perfectly correct, of course—I should not be making your job any more difficult than it already is. It’s just that I—well. I’m afraid I’m quite used to behaving selfishly. I promise to make more of an effort in considering you and your position.”

He’d been feeling lighter than he had in some time with the ease of their (wholly inappropriate) banter, but her harsh self-criticism had his heart dropping again. Selfish? How could she call herself that? A beat of awkward silence passed as he struggled with putting his thoughts into words. “Your Highness—”

“It’s getting rather late. I should be returning to my quarters. Will you escort me, Sir Link? You can distract Sir Bodrick.”

“They’re quite beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Hhwah!—huh-gh?!” Not many people could take him so utterly by surprise, even when he was daydreaming about the comely proportions of his favorite stronghold. The wrought iron chains of one of the dining hall’s chandeliers creaked and jangled under his sudden weight, swinging violently as he gripped the sturdy arms of the fixture with all four limbs.

Maid of Heaven, they had to stop meeting like this. Those sneaky Sheikah must be rubbing off on her or something.

The Princess blinked at him from her vantage point below, watching him and the chandelier sway gently from the force of his surprise attachment. “Great Goddess! You must really have no match in all of Hyrule—your strength and speed are truly on another level! The way you jumped straight up in the air like that—! Would you mind very much if I—oh.” She seemed to remember herself, lowering the Slate that she’d unclipped from her belt. “Pardon me, Sir Link. Would you like to come down?”

At this point, he really wouldn’t. She had been acting so strangely for more than a fortnight now, popping up out of nowhere when he was supposed to be off duty, peppering him with questions that she actually seemed to expect answers to when he was just trying to do his job. Not that he didn’t prefer this newfound congeniality over the frank harassment she used to subject him to on a daily basis, but—well, that is—he just didn’t know what to do with such constant, earnest examination. She didn’t badger the other knights this way!

Of course, the other knights didn’t quite share the particular destiny that he and the Princess did. Maybe that was it.

He hoped that’s all that it was. He could think of another explanation, quite reasonable considering her age and her—expanding horizons, and he didn’t like the thought of that at all.

He closed his eyes and sighed, loosing his legs from the chandelier and letting himself drop to the floor. Her Highness approached as he landed with ease, beaming at him as he picked cobwebs from himself and straightened his belts and baldric.

That old zealot Bodrick was posted up by the door, presumably ready to escort Her Highness back to her room after breakfast. It seemed the Princess was keeping her promise—she hadn’t escaped her guards since the night she’d caught Link climbing up her tower.

Hrm. That would sound very strange indeed, outside of context.

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

“Good morning, Sir Link!” she chirruped back, fidgeting with that Slate again as she fixed him with an overeager smirk but said exactly nothing else, leaning toward him in what was clearly an expectant manner but giving no clues as to what exactly she was expecting.

He felt that uncomfortable heat rising from his collar again—also a relatively new development, and one he didn’t care to attribute to anything at all; such honesty would require dissecting his own thoughts, and he was already quite weary of that diverting little pastime. He cleared his throat daintily. “Um. Did you need something, Princess?”

“Yes, I need you!” she answered excitedly. She seemed to think better of her phrasing in the same breath, leaning away from him a bit as she backpedaled furiously. “That is, I—I came to borrow you! I—I mean—would you like to accompany me to the Sanctum today?”

He was mystified. “Why?”

She gestured to the arched windows facing the narrow courtyard—the very same he had been idly admiring when she entered from the corridor and scared the ever-loving Light out of him—and gripped the Slate against her chest. “It seems the leading around the stained glass in the mezzanine has weakened, and they’re beginning restoration on it today. I thought you might like to have a look?”

Why—why did she think that? She was right, but why? “Oh. Well, I—um.” He wasn’t really keen to engage in such a fascinating activity with his liege and commander, but he also didn’t really have a worthy excuse. She had already uncovered via her persistent questioning that his days off were spent doing “as little as possible”—nothing beyond training and his other necessary tasks. Of course—unbeknownst to her—that’s because he usually spent those days fully out of sight, exploring the castle’s ancient foundations. He’d run into some truly curious things down there, though he had a feeling he hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface.

Still. Stained glass. The castle’s many, many windows, usually arched and detailed quite tastefully, were one of his favorite features of the entire capital—and the Sanctum’s were easily the most arresting, infused with gold powder and other expensive elements. He’d always wanted to examine that glass up close, as doing so was leagues better than simply reading about it in books—but shimmying up the outside walls of the throne room wasn’t exactly something he could hope to do without earning a very critical eye from His Majesty, at the very least. However… if they were removing the panes for repairs, and the Princess was there to give him a reasonable excuse for being so interested in examining them…

“Sure. I mean, if you’d like the company, Your Highness.”

“LIZARD TAILS!”

Link jumped a little in his boots, despite the background noise that was already clanking and buzzing behind the odd expletive. The Sheikah were busy at work in one of the castle’s open-air training yards, readying a squad of mid-level Guardian Scouts for a demonstration to the King’s generals. That nutty lead scientist of theirs, Purah, claimed that all the kinks had been worked out of the automatons’ programming, but Link remained unassailably skeptical, every sense and nerve on high alert.

The mad woman was shaking something that looked like a glowing screwdriver at one of her assistants as they crouched before a Scout, kicking the ground at their feet in a harshly punctuating manner. “I spent sixty-seven minutes of my life getting this unit to link up properly, and you undo all my hard work with a single idiot press of a single idiot button—?! You think I’m made of minutes? I’m never getting that time back! Get back on gopher duty before I figure out how to siphon it from you!”

The unfortunate junior scientist made haste in scrambling away, leaving their boss to stew over the mess they’d apparently made. “Oh, hey Princess,” the woman greeted them sourly, squatting down before an open panel in the body of the Scout and beginning to poke around inside. “Thanks for showing up. I’m afraid the show’s gonna be delayed a bit.”

“I’m sorry, Purah,” the Princess replied empathetically, wandering over to get a better look. “Would you like any help? I could handle this unit if you have other things to attend to.”

Purah was silent for a moment, only grunting as she made some considerable effort adjusting something in the belly of the beast. Link tensed from his position behind the Princess, ready to spring into action should the Sheikah’s tinkering trigger some unholy demon mode. “I think you better not, sweetie,” she finally replied, rocking back on her heels with a sigh. She tilted her bespectacled face up with a regretful smile. “Too many prying eyes.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Her Highness’ ready agreement was spoken rather too amiably, and not for the first time Link’s heart did something funny in his chest, amorphous and wretched and almost certainly treasonous feelings about her father the King twisting around in a way he absolutely wouldn’t allow to fully take shape.

It wasn’t his place. It wasn’t his place.

He was therefore only minorly distracted, haphazardly forcing said feelings back into their box and firmly stowing them away, when the very predictable happened.

He knew those spidery-looking things couldn’t be trusted.

As Purah was turning back to her work, the Guardian’s unnerving head swivelled around to stare at her, a bright light forming with alarming speed around its glassy, apathetic eye. She didn’t have time to fully utter another one of her creative oaths before Link was shoving both her and the Princess aside, Master Sword already in his hand—already through the mechanical marvel’s nonsensical face just as the women were shouting in alarm—

He heard Purah and the Princess hit the dirt as nine other deadly creations rose as one and skittered around to face him, startling the other scientists, who scurried away from the unexpected activation. He quickly assessed formation and intent as the automatons drew their curious glowing weapons and advanced—Okay, then. Good. They were only targeting the guy who slew their friend, ignoring the scientists and the guards on duty who scrambled to assist. Link shouted at the other soldiers to stand down—they would only get in the way—and raised his shield to deflect the first volley.

The squad fired in unison as they moved with efficiency to surround him, then seemed to take his measure, spinning their armed midsections this way and that to gauge his reaction, feinting forward and falling back. They seemed to have some understanding of their enemy, which unnerved him greatly—he knew they were in possession of a certain level of intelligence, but was startled at just how shrewd they were.

Before he could ponder that further, though, two of the Scouts came at him at once—one from the right and the other from the left, while a third at his six began rapidly charging its laser. He dodged right, laser flashing past where his left shoulder had been, and impaled that Guardian cleanly through the eye, mindful of doing only minimal damage.

The sound of exploding rock and crumbling debris brought him up short as the other machines quickly fell back a pace to reassess their target, and his head whipped around, following the trajectory of that laser fire to its accidental victim. The castle wall that bordered the training yard had been hit, and the already-abused masonry was no match for the powerful blast. A charred, gaping hole in the ashlar exposed the rubble core of the lower wall, bits of unbound sand and stone tumbling from the wound.

She was bleeding.

His temple was bleeding.

The world around him went dark as everything beyond the mechanical murder machines faded into black—it was just him, his teeth, and those things. The blasted devils spun in unison as they finished their calculations and began a different approach, weapons flashing as they entered a fresh configuration—but for Link, time was already slowing to a crawl. He moved between moments, sword and body piercing the space separating him from his enemies like a bolt of lightning. There, a leg—hack it off. A spear inching through the quantum molasses—easily dodged, its wielder messily dismembered without restraint. Lasers fired, sun glinting off holy steel as it severed joints and skewered cores and slung out glistening shrapnel, and Link was the link that joined them all in a trail of mechanical gore and exploding circuitry.

Time and space were a fluidic, torpid blur—his mind was a blur—and then, as quickly as the massacre began, it was over.

People were shouting from the edge of the yard and upon the ramparts—confused, despairing, astounded, angry. Link stood alone on the battlefield, lungs screaming like he’d been running a marathon without bothering to breathe, vision clearing as the righteous fury bled from his body and the savage trance faded away.

He looked around as if seeing the scene for the first time, and then stared down at himself; his tunic was charred from where it had caught sparks and blue flame, and there was… oil, black oil, dripping from his blade—from his hands, from his hair, running down his cheek into his mouth—. He spit it out, wiping at his face with the back of his wrist. At least it wasn’t blood, this time.

It didn’t feel so different from blood, he thought. It tasted similar, too. Metallic. More sweet than salty.

All at once, the reality of what had actually happened slapped against him like a brick on wet mortar. He had—oh, for the love of Hylia, what had he done? He looked up.

The Princess was advancing. Swiftly.

“LINK!” she shrieked, any regard for image or decorum flung entirely out the window as she bore down on him with all the grace and rage of a woman really, really put out.

He backed up.

“How DARE you?!” Her Highness demanded in a tone so irate and menacing it could probably induce labor—even in him—her long legs closing the distance between them faster than he could possibly escape on pins suddenly made of chu-chu jelly. Her hand shot out to grab him by the front of his tunic and he stumbled, yelping in alarm as she yanked him up to confront her face-to-face.

“What did you think this was, target practice?!” Her mouth was twisted in a vicious snarl, and her other hand flung out to gesticulate wildly at the carnage around them. “Have you completely lost all sense? Or are you so brutally animalistic that you’ll take any excuse to wreak unnecessary havoc?”

“Th-they were threatening you, th-they—the wall—”

“CURSE the wall!” she wailed, releasing him to grab at her head with both hands, pulling at the roots of her hair in wretched misery and despair. “Do you have any idea how many months of work, what priceless artifacts you have just managed to hopelessly ruin? You left shrapnel, Link! Bolts and wires—who knows if we can manage to piece together even one unit from all of this wreckage—” She had begun to spin, pulling at the skin below her eyes with splayed fingers as she ranted furiously, but she suddenly rounded on him, pleading at him with her hands. “It was only their programming! They’re not evil, Link, you could have simply disabled them—why, Link? Why?!”

“Because that’s my programming!” he bellowed back, pulse pounding in his ears at the Princess’ verbal onslaught, blood turning to fire in his veins as she lambasted him ruthlessly. His hostile outburst startled even himself, and as the Princess reeled back, shock replacing the madness in her features, he registered his fierce grip on the hilt of the Sword, the defensive stance his feet were grinding into the dirt.

All at once, the fire in his blood turned to ice, and he roared a wordless cry, flinging the blade onto the ground at his commander’s feet and dropping to his knees. He followed suit with his hands, grabbing fistfuls of pebbles and soil as he grovelled before her. He should have declared his life forfeit, as well—but he found his throat had finally closed, blocking off any attempts he could have made to verbally submit.

Silence hung heavy in the air, not even a murmur from their surrounding audience breaking through the palpable chill. After a moment, he heard the Princess’ skirts shifting as she bent over, his weapon whispering against the stony fragments of Guardian shells as she drew it up from the ground.

Link tensed, ready to receive whatever retribution she thought fitting—

—but it was the ground, rather than his neck, that received the punishing point of his blade. The Princess drove the Sword into the earth not two inches from his skull, hands sliding from the grip as she finished, voice dripping with venom before she turned and walked away.

“Take better care of your weapon, Hero.”

Chapter Text

She wasn’t nice. She wasn't funny. She wasn't even pretty—nope! Not pretty at all. Petty, maybe. Pretty petty. Yeah!

Sigh. No—no, she wasn’t. Her slights and jibes may have been targeted and cruel, but it wasn’t meanness of spirit or anything inconsequential that had driven her to her present treatment of him. She absolutely deserved to stay angry, after what he had done, even long past the week it had already been since the… incident. And he was sure he deserved the abuse.

(She’s also pretty funny, a quiet, rebellious part of him whispered in one of the darker corners of his mind. Shut up, he told it. And pretty, and smart, it added helpfully. He pretended not to hear that.)

Still. Flies in his morning porridge was a little—how best to put it—

…He didn’t know how best to put it.

He wondered where she even got the poor buggers. Were they failed experiments from her lab? Brushed from an obliging windowsill? How did she even sneak them in there? Distract a parlour maid while she sprinkled them in from her sleeve?

He had to admit, it was a pretty clever trick. The flies were about the same size and color as the imported raisins nestled appealingly amongst the spiced milk and steaming grain, and anybody might've dove right in without a second thought—he was just on high alert about everything lately. The Princess was being an outright pestilence, and his nightmares kept getting worse.

But what an absolute tragedy. He hated to let a good bowl of porridge go to waste—the very idea hurt him on an almost spiritual level. And, of course, the Princess—nosy little nugget that she was—had discovered this weakness for food very early on.

…Maybe the flies wouldn’t taste so bad? He’d eaten much, much worse.

Sure. Yeah, yeah—they were just bugs, after all. What was a little extra protein?

The spoon was halfway to his mouth when he heard a muted, horrified gasp and clocked the Princess staring at him from behind a glossy-looking fern near the fireplace. She shifted slightly to better conceal herself behind a frond, apparently unaware that he had detected her presence.

Hm… She would have seen him hesitate and examine the food. So she didn't like the idea that he would just eat it anyway, huh?

He really shouldn't poke the bear. He deserved everything she could throw at him, after all. And yet… and yet…

He let his gaze slide past her to linger on the fire crackling merrily in the hearth, and—after a moment’s waffling on propriety versus schadenfreude vs disgusting culinary experiences—finally gave in. He brought the spoon to his lips slowly, savoring the Princess’ anticipatory silence, and took a long, deliberate taste of his poisoned porridge.

The Princess squealed. Loudly. He made a show of chewing, closing his eyes as he bravely considered what the crispy critters brought to the table—not much of anything good, as it happened. The crunch and texture were mildly unpleasant, cognizant as he was that it was some buggy little bodies he was popping between his teeth, and though the spice mostly overrode the interesting flavor of the flies’ insides, they were decidedly bitter. He swallowed. Ran his tongue over his teeth to dislodge the wings.

Really not the worst he’d ever eaten, to be completely honest. The fuzz was the most off-putting part about it. Food shouldn’t be fuzzy.

If that muffled, nauseated squeal was anything to go by, Her Highness suffered much worse than he did from the unexpected treat. And there she was—still peering out at him, foliage vibrating as she clutched it with nervous fingers. He raised a hand to his lips, meeting her gaze with a winning smile. “Delicious,” he signed—and, though it took a moment for her to realize that yes, he did indeed see her, his reward was swift and sweet. The Princess paled, blushed, flushed crimson with renewed fury—my, he’d never seen a person's skin run the gamut so swiftly—and nearly knocked over the fern in her haste to exit the hall.

Yep, worth it. Goddess help him, he’d do it again.

That evening, as he was bidding her goodnight—having escorted her to and from Castle Town Cathedral for evening vespers—she passed him a note before slamming her bedroom door rudely in his face. He rubbed his nose—she’d gotten him, the little vixen—and turned it over in his hands to examine the message scrawled hastily in violet ink:

“They were bred in captivity, and I cooked them thoroughly, so you won’t get sick. I just wanted you to know because I don’t want you to think I’m the sort of person who would actually poison someone. You probably didn’t even think about the potential for contracting some horrible disease, did you? You should really be more careful.”

He should… he should be more careful?

Suddenly, something felt very off about his legs. He leaned a shoulder against the cold stone of her doorframe, perusing the message once more to be sure he wasn’t just imagining things—no, that was genuine concern, wasn’t it? Concern for him?

She didn’t hate him?

Almost more affecting than this shocking revelation was his own reaction to it. Why should his legs grow weak just because the Princess didn’t want him dead—didn’t want him to think ill of her—spared enough thought for him that she bred a bunch of flies and cooked them and snuck them into his food and watched for his reaction in secret?

Hylia preserve him—she got him. She got him good.

Another week passed—two. Nearly three. They had made their way to and from the Springs of Courage and Power—journeys he very much wished he could erase from his memory, particularly that dreadful night in Akkala—and were once again idling away their days within the castle proper, waiting for the return of an evil that felt very much present already but seemed strangely reluctant to rear its ugly head.

Not that he was in a particular hurry to witness the depths of despair to which the Princess would plummet if Ganon arrived and her powers still failed to manifest. The King had fully tightened his grip on her activities, and Link spent his time on duty guarding her door or escorting her to the castle’s inner chapel—or to the town cathedral, or to the many altars and artificial springs about the fortified city where statues of Hylia had been erected. Anywhere and anything that vaguely smacked of devotion to the Goddess was shoehorned into her agenda, filling all the time she could have otherwise devoted to her crucial research.

While Her Highness prayed and prostrated herself on the stone and submersed herself in waters blessed by the chief priestesses, Link examined the detailed carvings that overhung the chilly pools, the engravings on the walls and the surrounding pillars: broad-beaked birds that flew nowhere in the skies of Hyrule yet seemed unfathomably familiar; the triangular crest of the royal family, depicted with and without the symbols of the Golden Three; other swirling designs and cryptic runes long cherished as holy mysteries. He really tried his best to distract himself from the disturbing reality of their situation, to quash the bitter feelings that welled within his heart at the apparent futility of Her Highness’ efforts, but contemplating the beauty and serenity of Hyrule’s sacred architecture only left him feeling even more lost and empty.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

Even his relationship with the Princess was an ever-present source of gloom. Before the upset at the training yard, he had actually considered the possibility of the two of them becoming friends—or, at least, friendly co-workers. Well—friendly master and servant. Then the note she had passed him about the flies had revived the timid notion that she didn’t actually hate his guts, and his hopes had risen that she might finally forgive him for being a person-shaped murder machine blessed by the gods for reasons unknown.

But no such relationship blossomed—since the flies, they had simply entered a sort of stalemate, neither back on speaking terms nor trading punishments. It’s not like he yearned to be friends with her—despite his admiration for her efforts, she still drove him up a wall, and even before the Guardian incident had subjected him to some of the meanest treatment of his working career—but…he’d simply thought… he’d thought…

“I thought things would be different between us,” the Princess spoke into the evening air, voice quiet as she trailed along the sheltered path from her tower to the castle library. Link came to an abrupt halt, startled by the sudden address and even further taken aback by the emotional weight of it. He stood frozen to the ground, gaping like a fish as Her Highness turned to look over her shoulder, the light of dusk streaming in through the breezeway’s many arches to cast her figure in hues of orange and pink.

Her hair. It was like a flame, falling in bright, golden waves around her shoulders.

So beautiful.

“I—I suppose you—you probably don’t bother yourself with such concerns.” She’d turned away again, and the injury in her tone jarred him from his momentary distraction.

“Of course, I do.” His own voice was full of gravel, having sat unused all day. He cleared his throat roughly. “It’s just that I—” What could he say? What was too much?

Where to begin? “...I never know where I stand with you—Your Highness.”

“‘Where you stand’?”

He gestured vaguely at the space between them. “One month you seem to despise me, and then the next you’re reading books about my favorite things and bringing me cake and—a-and then I go and ruin everything and you poison my breakfast and get after me for being careless and I—Goddess, Zelda, I don’t know. Do you—” He was fairly certain he knew what she wanted—or, at least, what she had wanted once. Oh, just out with it already. “Do you wanna be friends, or—or not?”

By Din, he must have regressed more than he’d realized into his wordless ways, if the dryness in his voice was anything to go by—his throat really didn't appreciate the sudden sermon.

“You want to be friends?” She spoke the question more to the air in front of her, softly, reverently, as if awed by the very idea.

Oh, Heaven—he wasn't really ready to answer that. Not yet. “I asked you first.”

“I—I don’t know.” Her flawless posture deflated slightly. She sounded weary. Defeated.

He wasn't much phased by her jaded reply. It matched his expectations. “What about… not enemies?” he ventured. Perhaps a truce wasn't too much to hope for.

“I don’t see you as my enemy, Link.”

“Well… good.” He was immensely relieved to hear her say so, and yet he hesitated, scuffing his boot against some wayward green in the cobblestones like a petulant child. Memories of her gleeful face bubbled up in his mind’s eye, of only weeks ago when he was beginning to suspect the Princess of some rather warm, rather inappropriate regards. He didn't want her to get the wrong idea again, but he definitely didn't want to shut her out, either. “The feeling’s mutual,” he finally muttered.

Her Highness turned again to face him—straight-on this time, clasping her hands at her stomach as she looked him squarely in the eye. The weight of the moment and the courage in her gaze were almost too much to bear. “Link. Do you want to be friends?”

How could he answer when he had no idea what he really wanted? How could he not when he had no desire to hurt her?

As it happened, his silence spoke volumes for him.

“I see.” The pain in her voice was raw and awful.

“No, Princess, it's just—” He floundered around for something neutral to say that wouldn’t wound her any further. “It’s just that it hasn’t really worked out, so far,” he finished lamely, wincing even as he said it.

“I know.” Well, of course, she knew—she was the one putting forth monumental effort to make amends before. If not for his psychotic behavior, they could've been knee-deep in slumber parties by now.

N-not literally. Metaphorical slumber parties. Gods, you're an idiot, he chided himself. Listen to her, she's saying things!

“—and you are hardly to blame for any of it, regardless of… of what I've insinuated in the past. It's just that every time I look at you, I'm still reminded of my own shortcomings—I see that cursed Sword on your back and I—oh, I’m… I’m sorry, Link. It’s not cursed. I apologize.”

“I’m not offended,” he offered quickly.

“I’m sure the Sisters would call it blasphemy. I could only guess at what the Goddess thinks, seeing as she’s so loath to communicate with me.”

That poison had entered her blood a long time ago, and at this point he was achingly familiar with it. He hadn't any antidote. “...I’m so sorry, Princess.”

“It’s not your fault, Link! Oh, I’m—!” She shook head in frustration, covering her face with one hand in a rare display of discomfiture. “I’m sorry I even brought it up, I’ve probably embarrassed you!”

“No.”

She considered him through the veil of her fingers, though whether or not she believed him was beyond his ability to read. He was in earnest—he considered his burden as Hylia's Chosen an undeniable honor, but he didn't feel lucky to bear it—and he already had a decent idea how his presence only exacerbated her own insecurities.

She dropped her hand, cradling one arm in the other. Hugging herself. “In any case, I… I realize that I’ve been… that my behavior, my attitude toward you has been… difficult to deal with, and—and none of it is your fault. Not my feelings, not the Sword—even your recent violence against the Guardians must be considered beyond reproach, given your… your…” Her eyes flicked between him and the wall, and she hugged herself tighter. “...your programming.”

Was she afraid of him?

He couldn't blame her if she was.

“...Your silence grieves me.”

“I’m sorry.” His apology was cold and clipped, and much louder than her broken admission—all completely unintentional, but he had his own complicated feelings about his innate skills, and the complaint about his silence struck a bitter chord as well. He’d clammed up in the face of overwhelm ever since he was a child—been bullied for it, misunderstood on account of it. And still, he couldn't do anything about it. It's just how he was.

The Princess was staring at him, teeth clenched in a way that suggested she knew she’d misstepped. “That’s not—forgive me, I simply meant that it pains me, how I’ve—how I've driven you back to it.” She stepped toward him, and it took a considerable effort not to back away. “After the desert, when we had that talk and I realized what a fool I’d been, making those assumptions about you—oh, Link, you don’t know how relieved I was to be so wrong! To hear you open up, to learn what your laughter sounded like, I—” She blinked, blushing prettily as her mind caught up with her mouth, and glanced away. “And then I… I went and overreacted, and now we’re back to where we started.”

He didn't know what to say—or rather, how to say it. Despite her firm absolution of his guilt, he knew his rampage at the training yard was his own fault—it was his penchant for violence, his obsession with the castle that set him off, his inability to stay rational and restrain himself. He couldn't judge whether or not she had overreacted, but she had every right and reason to be furious with him. He attempted to funnel these thoughts and feelings into words, but they got stuck in his throat and clogged up the works. “...I’m sorry,” he finally managed weakly, unable to even look her in the eye.

“Link!” She grabbed hold of his hands and he yanked his head up, startled to see her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Crying? No. Please don't cry.

“Please, Link, no more apologies. I simply wish—I wish we could undo these past few weeks—go back to before, when we were finally starting to get along.” Her hands were trembling, mouth stretched into a line halfway between a sob and a smile. “Remember that day, when we helped the conservators with the glass? I’ve never seen you so happy.”

He never could abide someone’s tears. Not because he saw it as a show of weakness, like his father did—but seeing the evidence of their grief, and being powerless to fix it—no, he needed to fix it. He needed them to be whole, and he would do whatever it took to save them from such deep despair.

He flipped their hands around so he was the one doing the holding, squeezing her as tightly as he dared squeeze a woman ten times above his station. He thought of the day with the glass—he had been happier with her that afternoon than on any day in recent memory. He thought she had, too, remembering her giddy laughter as she nearly fumbled their precious cargo. Thank Heaven they hadn't broken anything.

It took some effort to smile, but he forced it onto his stubborn face. “I’m not sure you can really call that ‘helping’.”

Her eyes sparkled, the tears only magnifying their brilliance as they caught the light of the setting sun—it reminded him of that precious crystal, the way it gleamed and glittered like finished gems when viewed from the proper angle. She squeezed him back. “But you were amazing, Link! I had no idea your talents extended so far beyond your calling!”

“I guess we’re all multifaceted,” he commented idly, watching one of those tears as it overflowed and slipped down her cheek, its borrowed light fading like a falling star.

He reached up to catch it.

“I suppose you’re right,” she allowed, growing suddenly still as his finger grazed her skin. “Though… though some of us have very little fire.” Her voice dwindled to a whisper, and when he looked into her eyes again, he saw something new there. It was genuine, like surprise or wonder, but he didn't have a name for it.

What was it she had said?

…She was putting herself down, again, wasn't she?

It wasn't his place to tell her she was doing a good job. She didn't need his approval, his sanction, his blessing. As he’d gradually borne witness to her perseverance, her loyalty, her love for her Kingdom and her dedication to its salvation—and watched as her father and the people around her tore her down time and again for shortcomings she could do nothing about—he had longed to give them to her anyway.

He was confident she had the Goddess’ blessing, as well. He had longed to tell her since he’d come to understand the depths of her despair—but he had always feared the admission would only wound her further, on account of the reason he was so absolutely certain. He wasn’t only blessed to bear the sacred weapon of Hylia—he was burdened with the ability to see spirits, as well, and to perceive the Light of the divine in a way that others apparently couldn't. He could see it descending from Heaven when she prayed—could see it reflected in the radiance of her own spirit at all times.

He knew.

He could only imagine the flock of people that would descend upon him should these other gifts of his become public knowledge—folks eager to gauge their own holiness or commune with their dead. That alone would have been enough to keep his mouth shut—but when he learned of the Princess’ supposed inability to harness her own bloodline—and then, when he overheard her confession at the Spring, of how her grandmother could hear spirits but even that was beyond the Princess’ pitiful reach—

No, it—it was simply too close.

Those tears were still glistening on the apples of Zelda’s cheeks, falling in slow, steady rivulets to drip unheeded from her chin. And she was still gazing at him as he grappled with his thoughts, her brows knit together gently now, like he had become some riddle she couldn’t quite puzzle out.

What was it she had said—”some of us have very little fire”?

How long had he been silent, letting a statement like that go unanswered?

“Couldn’t be you,” he managed softly, voice barely above a whisper as he brute-forced the words past the ball of emotion in the back of his throat. She started as if brought back from somewhere very far away, and her hands—which he now realized he hadn’t yet relinquished—drew back reflexively.

He held them fast, though, bringing them to his chest, needing to tell her at least some of what he knew. “I see it in you always. That fire.” And that was true in more ways than one, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just some borrowed holy flame that blazed within her—her own spirit, her own self, was always alight with purpose and determined focus. When she saw a need, some way in which she could be useful, she turned her hand toward it—and eventually, she succeeded.

Perhaps, in the end, that’s all it would take for her to harness Hylia's power.

“Zelda… There has never been a doubt in my mind that you are exactly who you need to be.”

Smoke, thick and caustic, choking him—choking her—burning embers sizzling against his skin, thousands of scorching brands falling toward the sky like so many hellish snowflakes—holy rags caked in filth clinging to the both of them in the harsh, stinging rain, muddy waters at their feet dyed crimson with the blood that cascaded from wounds too innumerable to survive—his wounds—or her wounds—?

—Guardian—stand up! Stand! Blast it, legs—work—!

It was no use; he couldn’t force them even a single step—too tired, too broken—and as Death bore down upon the pair of them, Link found his arms equally drained, busted, full of lead. He couldn’t drag the point of his blade from the ground—either that, or the Sword was finally refusing to be drawn, choosing instead to hold him upright—one last ditch effort to keep him between Zelda and her imminent demise—

Suddenly, something was shoving him aside. He stumbled back, reeling, despairing—failing, he’d failed her—no—

Zelda—!?

The world was begging to go black, but as he finally fell—as the ligaments in his knees screamed and snapped and his legs buckled under him and sent him crumpling into the squelching mud—the world went red with a blinding Light that showed him what the inside of his eyelids looked like.

Then it went black.

He must have fallen unconscious—who knew for how long. He heard crying—felt smooth, bare skin against his bloodied neck, wondered idly if the rain on his face was really the rain or if the Princess was showering him with her tears—he wanted to see—needed to—needed to see for himself what it looked like when she went on a rampage—

He opened his eyes. Barely.

He couldn’t turn his head. He could see beyond her shoulder, though his vision kept coming in and out of focus, like his brain did. Through his lashes he beheld the empty shells of goblinfolk and Sheikah tech, lifeless husks hunched over in the bog. He’d skewer and smash and reduce to quarters, but she just wished their souls away.

It was really no surprise that she’d find a nicer way of killing things.

She was talking—talking to the Sword. Finally, he wasn’t the only one that could hear its voice. Maybe she could tell it to stop badgering him about his obsession with the castle. A guy deserved a break from training every now and then, right? Someone to love and fuss over?

She looked different from this angle. He didn’t often get to see her sideways like this, let alone from below. The line of her lips—two delicate arches overlaid upon each other, but he—hgh, he couldn’t appreciate them properly. She wouldn’t hold still. Typical.

Her hair was charred, covered in soot and grime. It lay slick against her face, and for a moment he wondered how it had managed to catch fire in all this rain. It didn’t make her any less beautiful. Her shaking lips, her grieving eyes, her ruddy cheeks, her gorgeous, crazy hair—and behind her a golden halo, blossoming from the heavens above, baptizing her in the Light of its blessing like it always did when she knelt to pray. Was she praying?

No. She was still talking. She was still bleeding.

She was bleeding. That was blood. It was—it was everywhere. Why was she bleeding?!

The warmth from above soothed his frantic heart. It was Hylia, he was sure, tendrils of her Light reaching out to caress his soul through the loving arms of her Scion. Through the haze of his fragmented thoughts he understood perfectly the meaning in that soft embrace. Calm yourself, Link. Zelda’s fine. Mipha will heal her if need be—just relax. F-focus on your breathing. It's… it's time to… die…

Zelda… why… why are you b-bleed…ing…

He didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know why he'd woken up in that bowl full of viscous blue soup, or why he’d kicked that rusty chest open with bare feet like a total idiot and broken three toes. He didn't know why he’d been bathing in his underpants, which just struck him as incorrect, somehow.

He didn't even know the word “underpants,” not until he spotted it handily catalogued for him in the Sheikah Slate’s inventory screen. That was at once elucidating and highly embarrassing, though he puzzled too over the heat that rose to his cheeks. Why should he be embarrassed about underpants?

That was also curious—how the Slate knew about everything he was holding, how it would sort of confiscate anything he got his hands on if he thought about it just right. Why did it do that? How did it do that? And how did it know what he wanted—was it some kind of spirit? A fairy?

…Eh? What’s a fairy?

He racked his brain, but came up with precious little. He thought it might be blue, maybe, whatever it was. Blue and annoying. And gone. Missing? It was definitely missing—he couldn’t even remember its face.

He remembered the Voice—not the fairy’s voice, but the Other One. Well, ‘remember’ was a stretch, but he knew that he knew it, though he couldn’t say why, or how. He couldn’t put a face to it any more than he could picture the fairy, either, but the sound of it was soothing and familiar, like a mother's voice—like a lullaby. (‘Mother’? Yes…. he knew that word. Did he have a mother, once? The question, as it occurred to him, unlocked a flood of nonsense in his mind—too many faces, too many loving embraces. He had to physically sit down, even halfway up the tower as he was. Those weird stone ledges were lifesavers.)

Perhaps the Voice was his mother’s? No—that immediately felt wrong. His sister’s?—No, definitely not. It was something more—something better—something worse. It needed him—she needed him. She’d told him as much—but he felt it, too. Intrinsically.

He needed her.

His handy perch was facing northward, the floor beneath him beginning to bake in the dry heat of the afternoon, the burns on his skin smarting under the withering sun. The view wasn’t quite as good as from the top of the tower, but he could still make out that ominous structure in the distance—Hyrule Castle, the old man had called it—could still perceive the second sun that shone from its depths, that soothed him rather than burned, that spoke with the Voice and beckoned him to Come! Please, Link—you must hurry!

…He needed to get to her. Maybe, if he could find a way off this lonely Plateau—find something better than a sharpened stick to stab the demons with, survive the wilderness long enough to make his way to that accursed citadel (because he could feel it reaching for his bones, that malevolent power screaming to devour him—to devour everything—)

Maybe then, he’d be able to reach her.

To save her.