Work Text:
The sun was already low when Link finally reached the edge of Hateno Village. The path leading down from the hills felt longer than usual, every step sending dull throbs of pain through his legs, his shoulders, and his back. His spine ached in that deep, familiar way that came from pushing himself too far for too long. He adjusted the strap of his sword out of habit, though the blade hadn’t left its sheath all day, and exhaled slowly, breath fogging faintly in the evening chill.
Rebuilding Hyrule was no easy task. He’d known going in that training the new Guard would be a particular challenge. The Hateno men who wanted to be a part of it were enthusiastic, but inexperienced. Discipline, posture, and repetition had been drilled into Link long before the Calamity, carved into his muscle memory by harsh voices and harsher expectations. Back then, there had been an entire Royal Guard fully equipped to train knights with intention and purpose. Commands echoed through stone courtyards. Mistakes were corrected immediately.
Now, it was just Link, standing in grassy fields and half-cleared training yards, struggling to replicate how he had been trained, but without the structure he once relied on.
He rolled his shoulders, grimacing as his tight muscles protested the movement.
His house came into view at last, tucked away neatly at the edge of the village. Warm lamplight glowed through the windows, spilling gold onto the path. The faint smell of cooking vegetables drifted toward him. Zelda must be home already.
She’s been waiting, Link thought tiredly.
Immediately, his posture corrected itself. Shoulders back. Chin level. Steps measured. He did not want to arrive home looking weak.
Link opened the door quietly, as though he might disturb the peace inside. The hinges barely creaked. The familiar scent of herbs and old wood greeted him, followed by the calm soft sound of pages turning. The small house was calm, orderly, and lived-in, made cozy by Zelda’s large collection of books and the colorful woven blankets she made. Theirs.
Zelda sat at the table in the kitchen, book open in front of her. Notes were scattered beside it in neat, deliberate handwriting. Her yellow hair glowed in the soft lamplight, loose from its ribbon, reflecting warm highlights as she moved. Her slender fingers grasped a pen, her brow furrowed with concentration. She looked up as Link entered.
Her eyes softened when she saw him, then, a heartbeat later, sharpened again.
That shift made Link’s stomach tighten.
“Link,” she said, rising, smiling. Her voice was soft, happy. She was glad to see him.
Link straightened further without realizing it, as though pulled upward by invisible strings. He smiled back at her, some of the day’s tension melting away.
Zelda crossed the room in quick, precise steps, stopping directly in front of him. She didn’t touch him. She just looked, closely and carefully, and Link felt the weight of her attention settle over him.
“You’re limping,” she said quietly.
“I’m not.”
She simply stared at him, and he sighed, then corrected himself. “Maybe I am. I hadn’t noticed.”
Her gaze lingered on his shoulders, the stiffness in his stance, the way he held himself too carefully, too rigidly. She took in the faint hitch in his breathing, the subtle way he favored one side. He felt suddenly like a brand-new knight again, standing before his superior officer, painfully aware of every flaw in his posture, his attire, his expression.
“Sit,” Zelda said suddenly, gesturing to her chair.
The word was gentle, but underneath it was a tone that Link hadn’t heard for a while. A tone of authority. This wasn’t Zelda talking to him, he realized. It was the Princess, speaking to her knight. His pulse jumped.
He hesitated, only for a fraction of a second. His instincts warred inside him. The Princess was giving him an order, one that he knew well from his time on the Royal Guard. Sit meant submit. Sit meant he was going to be examined.
That wasn’t what he wanted. But an order was an order.
He moved to the chair and sat, placing his feet flat on the floor, hands on his knees, back straight enough to ache. The wood creaked faintly beneath him.
Proper posture. Don’t fidget.
Zelda blinked, then smiled faintly. “You didn’t even argue.”
Link flushed and looked away, ears warming. “Old habits.
She considered him for a moment longer, then nodded, the corners of her lips quirking upward teasingly. “Good. Because I expect you to be my obedient knight this evening.”
Her voice was playful. That made him nervous. His fingers curled slightly against his knees. He tensed, unsure whether he was meant to remain at attention or relax.
Zelda noticed.
“You don’t need to sit at attention,” she said.
“I’m not,” he replied quickly. Too quickly.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him the same way she studied ancient texts. Patient, analytical, intent on uncovering what lay beneath the surface.
“Link,” she said, softer now, “I’m not testing you.”
The words did nothing to ease the knot in his chest.
“This feels like an inspection,” he muttered weakly. “Like I’m on the Guard again, waiting for the Captain. Or the King. Someone important, deciding if I pass.”
She hummed thoughtfully, then stepped behind him, out of his line of sight. His shoulders tensed further despite his effort to keep his posture steady.
“Relax,” Zelda murmured. “You’re all right.”
Her hands came to rest on his shoulders then, light but intentional. The contact sent a jolt through him, not unpleasant, but startling, warmth against muscle gone too long without gentleness. He stiffened immediately.
Don’t react. Don’t flinch. Don’t disobey.
“Zelda—”
“Hold still,” she said, and there it was again. The tone. The authority she rarely used, but never lost.
Link froze.
She pressed her thumbs gently into the muscles at the base of his neck. Pain erupted, sharp and immediate, radiating down his spine.
He hissed and nearly pulled away on instinct, hands gripping the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening.
“Easy,” Zelda said. “You’re wound tight. That’s why it hurts.”
“Princess—” Link started, then stopped himself. He pressed his lips together, unsure what he was even asking for. Mercy? Forgiveness? Permission?
Zelda ignored him, and her hands pressed firmly into his shoulders. Pain flared again. His body trembled as he fought it, fought to remain sitting still. He half-rose from the chair for a moment, reacting before thinking, before remembering himself and sinking back down.
“Good,” Zelda said quietly. “Stay seated.”
Stern. Certain. Gentle. Somehow all at once.
How does she do that?
He obeyed, though his breath shook as he did. Zelda adjusted her grip, careful but thorough, her hands leaving no room for argument or negotiation.
“You’re carrying too much tension,” she said, gently touching Link’s left shoulder, then his upper back. “Here. And here.”
Each point she touched felt exposed, as though she were pressing directly into years of habit and restraint.
“I’m not injured,” Link said, jaw tight. “I’m okay.”
“I know,” Zelda said gently. “I’m not questioning your capability.”
Her thumbs pressed again, firmer this time. He winced, shoulders drawing up despite himself.
“Link,” she said softly, “calm down.”
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
She paused, easing the pressure slightly, then removing her hands. She moved to stand in front of Link again, bending down so he could see her face. Her expression was calm but serious, focused in a way that made his heart pound.
“This isn’t a punishment,” she said firmly. “This is me taking care of you, because I love you.”
Everything in him rebelled. Knights endured. Knights did not receive comfort. Knights did not falter under gentle hands. He had been taught to accept pain silently, to regard care as unnecessary at best and dangerous at worst.
“I don’t need to be taken care of,” he said, almost pleading. “I was trained not to need it.”
Please don’t make me accept this.
Zelda leaned closer, her voice low and steady. “You were trained to endure without complaint. That does not mean you were trained correctly.”
She took her place behind him again, and her hands resumed their work.
The pain returned, then slowly shifted into something warmer, deeper, almost pleasurable. Link clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to resist, to stand up, to pull away, to reclaim control.
“Breathe,” Zelda instructed, sensing his rising panic.
He inhaled shakily, chest rising too fast.
“Again.”
He obeyed.
Each breath felt like an act of surrender. His shoulders trembled as he tried, failed, then tried again to let them lower, to stop bracing for blows that weren’t coming.
“That’s it,” Zelda said softly. “Good. You’re doing well.”
Praise. His chest tightened.
She continued, working slowly, deliberately, massaging deep into his muscles and narrating her observations as she went like a scholar presenting her findings.
“These muscles are overworked. You favor your right side. You’re compensating for an old injury here.” Her fingers traced carefully along his shoulder blade. “And you’ve been carrying tension here for a very long time.”
He swallowed. “How can you tell?”
She paused. “Because I know you.”
That simple truth settled into him like an anchor.
Minutes passed. He wasn’t sure how many. The world narrowed to the rhythm of her hands and the rise and fall of his breathing. The ache faded into a dull throb, then into something like relief.
Finally, his shoulders sagged. His head dipped forward. His mind drifted, slightly dazed.
Zelda steadied him, one hand firm between his shoulder blades.
“There,” she murmured. “That’s better.”
He exhaled, long and unsteady, his resistance finally ebbing.
Zelda noticed immediately. “Link?”
“I’m still listening,” he said instantly, voice thick.
She laughed softly. “Good. Because I’m not finished with you yet.”
The words should have made him tense again. Instead, they grounded him. He nodded once.
“Yes, Princess.”
The title slipped out again unbidden, a relic of another life.
Zelda stilled. Her hands rested on his shoulders, no longer moving.
“Look at me,” she said.
He did, turning his head just enough to meet her gaze.
Her expression was serious, but not displeased. “When you say that,” she said carefully, “it’s not because you think you have to, is it?”
He hesitated, then answered truthfully. “No. It’s because I want to.”
She considered that, then nodded. “Very well.”
She resumed her massage, gentler now, as though the conversation had settled something between them.
“If you wish to serve,” she continued, “then you must also learn to accept care. That’s an order.”
His heart skipped.
“Yes, Princess,” he breathed.
When Zelda finally finished, she withdrew her hands slowly, as though trying not to startle him. Link’s body felt heavy and light all at once. He sat slumped in the chair, breathing slowly, aware of every place Zelda’s hands had been.
“Lift your head,” she said.
He did.
She leaned over and met his eyes, searching his face with quiet intensity.
“You passed,” she said gently.
He blinked. “Passed?”
Her smile was small but warm. “You were approaching this as an inspection, were you not? Well, you listened, you trusted me, and you followed orders. You passed.”
His throat tightened. He bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, Princess.”
Zelda regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “You’re welcome.”
She took his hand, grounding him again.
“Now,” she added, lighter, “you will eat dinner, take a bath, and sleep.”
He allowed himself a faint smile.
“Yes, Princess,” he replied.
And for the first time in a long while, obeying felt like being allowed to lay his sword down.