Work Text:
“Hm. That’s not right.”
The warmth of minish magic fades to a soft buzz, ensuring you land on your feet.
“Link, how do you feel?” Ezlo’s voice is soft, hesitating, calculating—he’s testing the waters. This tone is for serious things, like his relationship with Vaati, or when he’s so worried about you he forgets his ornery schtick.
“What?” you say, only a bit annoyed.
It’s frustrating, really. You’re twelve years old; that’s two whole digits and almost a teenager! You can take care of yourself just fine. The White Sword, humming on your back infused with three elements, proves it.
Your tail flicks behind you. After a moment, Ezlo peeks at your face, waiting for you to realize something.
…Tail?
Something fluffy furls out from under your tunic. You snatch it and feel a tug up your spine. When you bring it in front of you, you realize it looks exactly like a minish feather.
You’re a minish?
“I’m a minish,” you breathe out. Whatever Ezlo tries to say is drowned out by you cheering, “I’m a minish!”
You paw at your face (because wow, you have paws now) and a fuzzy muzzle greets you. Your claws clack against the stone floor. Moving like this is natural.
“This is so cool,” you inform Ezlo, grinning wide.
After one too many spins, enraptured by the feeling of your tail trailing behind you, Ezlo demands you stop. He says he’s dizzy, and that’s the end of that.
It’s over too fast.
You and Zelda watch as Ezlo departs through the minish door. You mess with the hem of your brand new hat, hoping you’ll get it to sit right. You try your best not to cry—you’re a big kid now.
“He’s a big jerk,” you mutter, your eyes stinging.
Zelda wheezes out a laugh. “He’s small,” she protests, “they’re called the minish for a reason.”
That's Zelda, alright: only she knows how to twist your words into things she can tease you about. You realize just how much you missed her—and just how much you'll miss Ezlo.
She catches you when you fall to your knees, bawling. Her skirt cushions her landing. Your tears are infectious; soon she’s crying, too. You embrace each other, too afraid to let go.
Later, Zelda knocks on your front door, her other hand occupied by yours. Your grandfather, fresh from the forge, takes one glance at the two of you—windswept and trembling—and then he’s ushering you in. You inform him Zelda’s sleeping over tonight.
Your grandfather softens, and welcomes you both home.
Your height’s not something you pay attention to.
You’re too busy with the dregs of your adventure: Vaati may be sealed, but monsters still roam Hyrule. There’s no Picori Blade to rebind the Bound Chest, but there is you (and your sword), which is just as good.
(The Four Sword sleeps in the Elemental Sanctuary. It was never your sword, anyway.)
Weeks turn to months as you clear out the stragglers. Ezlo taught you the shrinking spell before he left, so you slip into minish villages to make sure everyone’s okay after Vaati’s defeat. They thank you with kinstone fusions and smiles.
When you’re home, your grandfather makes your favorite—the mug of hot cocoa’s warmth seeps into your hands—and whisks you into the forge to continue your apprenticeship. He trusts you with more complicated commissions as you grow more practiced. You soon graduate to a sword forged entirely by yourself—it’s made for you, by you, and whenever you swing your blade it fills you with indescribable pride.
Your minish body, over time, becomes yours the same way your hylian body is. You don’t mind the town cats as long as they stay far away from you. Gradually, you start to slip familiar charms into your blacksmithing: for sturdiness, for a clean cut, for luck.
It’s a year or so before your grandfather hums and asks to check your height.
You carefully tuck your heels against the doorframe. There’s a gentle pressure along the top of your head as he checks where to mark its place with charcoal, but—
“You haven’t grown,” comes the voice above you.
Indignant, you try to stand just a bit taller.
Your grandfather checks again, just to be sure, but shakes his head.
As if to spite you, Zelda shoots up like a beanstalk; it’s like you blinked and she’s now a head taller than you. When she isn’t teasing you, she promises you’ll catch up someday.
Zelda is your best friend, but she still changes and you don’t know how to feel about that. She loses free time to her increasing workload as a princess the same way you lose time to the forge, but the two of you work it out like always.
Expectations change as the two of you get closer to adulthood. Zelda stretches herself to fit what’s expected of her while you shrug it off like a duck does water—you hate it when people boss you around.
You knew since you were little you were going to become a blacksmith and you’re not backing out now. The forge is a welcome constant that keeps you going as things change around you.
No, that’s not right: the minish stay the same, too.
You don’t grow any taller after all.
The king passes in his sleep. The minish tell you he died of “old age”, whatever that means; you decide you’re not going to die of old age if it means leaving Zelda behind.
In the days leading up to the coronation, you lose count of the people who wish Zelda well in her new stage of life. You think you’re the only one who cares about your best friend losing her father over her ascending the throne—everyone else lost a king.
The new queen’s coronation is as casual as the courts could be convinced. This isn’t helped by you crowning her during the ceremony: as her childhood best friend, she couldn't think of anyone better than you.
An orchestra backs Zelda’s movements as she approaches, her spine straight and her head tall. When she spins on her heel, her skirts flow with her. The music peters out slowly and a hush falls over the crowd. When the room is silent, Zelda begins her speech.
You don’t pay attention to the words: Zelda practiced with you enough times you could recite the lines in your sleep. The coronation attendees eye you strangely—you make a game of sticking your tongue out at the people you catch staring.
“...Link?”
That’s your cue. You retrieve the crown from the pocket of your smithing apron and tap it gently to rid it of dust. You ignore the gasps.
She kneels. You try not to leave a footprint on her skirts as you reach up and place the crown on her head. The orchestra’s music swells.
It’s still Zelda; she’s just wearing a crown now. You don’t get it.
After the party, you and Zelda cozy up in her bedroom for a sleepover. Sleepy eyed and droopy, she confesses, “It’s too early.”
You glance up at her and tilt your head.
“We were waiting until I turned seventeen for him to abdicate,” Zelda elaborates, her eyes glittering in the soft light of the hearth. “...I miss him.”
You hum in acknowledgement, no words of comfort rising to your tongue. She seems satisfied, anyway, and her breaths give way to snores.
You know her: Zelda’s scared. She knows you: you have faith in her.
If this is what adulthood is, you don’t think you want to be an adult anymore.
Zelda makes a good queen, just like you thought she’d be. You don’t care if you’re biased.
You finish your apprenticeship soon after Zelda is crowned. Your grandfather retires, complaining of creaky bones and shaking hands, but he promises you he’s not going anywhere. You thought your grandfather would be in the forge forever.
It’s an easy decision: you’ll be an adult however you want.
The title of royal smith is more a formality with how close you and Zelda are. You don’t care as long as you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.
You wish Ezlo could see you now.
You remain the way you were when you were twelve, but your nimble feet and eagerness to climb make up for your height in spades. Your forge—yes, it’s yours, now—is decked out in ladders and dangling cord switches that hit your grandfather in the head. The stepstool in the kitchen is worn down from years of use, but the wheels and locking mechanism still work like a charm.
There's less you can do about your "chubby cheeks" (Pita's words) or the way every stranger mistakes you for a child.
You find you actually don’t mind being small, you just don’t like it when people coddle you. You’re certain that that mother of two couldn’t forge a spear in an afternoon; that’s why she’s in your forge in the first place. You give her a flat look, put on your best customer service voice, and tell her to scram. Politely.
“Wish they’d stop looking at me like that. I’m the best smith in Hyrule,” you complain halfheartedly to the minish busy reorganizing your rupee register. She glances up at you and shrugs.
The bell over the door chimes, signaling your next customer. They tip you generously with a warm smile, and you remember why you forge in the first place.
You know Zelda doesn’t like fancy parties, so you’re not sure why she let the court plan an evening ball for her seventeenth. She doesn't seem to mind: she navigates the ballroom with ease and knows exactly what to say to get foreign nobles off her back. You don't know how she does it. The intricacies of how others act go over your head—Zelda has to step in for you more than once. You try not to feel embarrassed. You're supposed to be there for her.
The first chance you get, you whisk her away and bring her home to the smithy.
You retrieve the cake you baked earlier: crisp at the edges and decorated with sloppy buttercream and chopped strawberries. You think it’s silly that batter requires such low temperatures compared to metal, but surely the minish-style frosting will make up for it. One of the minish on the kitchen counter wishes you luck as you pass by.
A true Zelda smile returns with a single bite of cake. She digs in and sings your praises, not bothering to chew, with crumbs and frosting sticking to her cheeks. Her warmth is infectious.
“The minish helped,” you say, not wanting to take all the credit.
She finishes her slice with your words. You reach for the knife to cut two more slices: one for yourself, and another for her.
“Yes, the minish!” You glance back at her: she leans on the dining table, clasping her hands, eyes pinned somewhere near the cake. “Thanks for helping.”
You go very still. Her eyes are pinned on empty air.
The knife glides through the cake with ease—you upkeep every blade you own—and the slice is flipped onto Zelda’s plate. You don’t cut another slice. You’ve lost your appetite.
“Link? Did you want cake?” She knows your favorite are strawberries; it’s because they remind you of her freckles.
“Nah, I…” You notice the knife shaking in your grip and set it down. “I had plenty of berries earlier,” you lie.
You insist Zelda take the leftovers.
The first thing you do once Zelda leaves is rush to Minish Village, aiming for Festari’s Abbey.
Festari whirls around, startled by the click click click of your claws against stone. When he sees you, he tries for an eager smile, adjusting his glasses. “Link, what are you doing here? It’s quite late.”
Your fluffed up tail flicks in agitation behind you. Your eyes sting. You force your tail flat. You feel so, so small, and it’s not because Festari is several heads taller than you.
You hate it when people coddle you. You stand up straight and meet his eyes when you demand, “Why can’t Zelda see the minish anymore?” Your voice cracks.
Festari’s face crumples. He examines you, the way adults do when they know more than you. You recognize the look on his face for what it is by now: pity.
These are the softest words you will ever hear Festari say. “Link, she’s an adult now. Did you really think she’d be exempt?”
That’s not an answer. That is not an answer.
That’s…not the answer you wanted.
If Zelda can’t see the minish anymore, what does that mean for you?
Festari sets a paw on your shoulder, making you jolt. You hiss and shove it away, your tail bristling. Festari startles, but he gets the hint and steps away. Defeat shows on his face. “I’m sorry, Link.”
“Shut up!” you snap.
You cover your ears to muffle his voice, but that doesn’t feel like enough. You muss up your hair. You claw your hat off your head. You pull on your hair; your scalp stings. You leave red marks on your cheeks.
“Link,” Festari tries.
“Shut up,” you repeat, and it’s more a whine, really. Your legs give out and you flop to the floor. Your hands fall into your lap, your claws suddenly unappealing. You shut your eyes tight enough it aches.
You hear a shuffling, and the familiar weight of your hat is placed back on your head.
You don’t say thanks. What you do say is this: “How long until I can’t see you anymore?” Your voice is quiet enough you don’t know if he hears you; the silence is palpable. You refuse to open your eyes to check.
There’s a rustling of robes. You let yourself peek: through your bangs, you can see Festari sitting cross-legged on the stone in front of you.
“You will always see me,” he says simply.
No wave of relief crashes into you. You feel numb. You let yourself open your eyes all the way—Festari’s still there. He doesn’t shimmer like a mirage. Real.
He takes your flat stare as indication to continue. “You’re filled with minish magic.” He takes one of your paws and turns it over to examine your paw pads. Your refusal dies in your mouth. You try not to squirm. “That’s one of the things I found so fascinating about humans: your adaptability.”
You jerk your paw away from his and let it fall back into your lap. “...Okay? What does that mean?” Your voice is guarded, hesitant. You’re curious now.
“Magic changes humans. You start full of golden light, but influence alters you.” A thread of glee weaves into his voice. You try not to be sick. “You will always be able to see the minish. There's too much minish magic in you for you to not.”
Your throat drops into your stomach. You know what that means. “I’m not a kid,” you say weakly. “I’m not a kid, I swear.”
“No,” Festari agrees, light and airy, as if the idea was ridiculous. “You’re not a child.”
“So why…?” Your voice trails off.
“For all the rules of minish magic, however, you might as well be.”
The words take a moment to sink in. Once they do, you shake your head rapidly. “No. No way.”
Festari stays quiet, and it’s somehow worse. You swallow thickly. It makes too much sense to refute.
You pivot. “Why me? What about Zelda?” Vaati used to be a minish, and he turned Zelda into stone. If that’s how minish magic works, then surely…
“The Light Force within Zelda is stronger than whatever amalgamation of minish magic Vaati was wielding,” Festari says, and disgust creeps into his voice with the mention of Vaati. “A week is not enough time. She’d need years.
“But you? No Light Force resides in you, and regardless, you’ve had years.” He reaches for your paws again, sending wriggling worms down your spine, and grips them with an assuring smile. “Minish magic is a part of you now.”
He keels over with your strong kick. “Stop touching me!” you exclaim, and promptly burst into tears.
Festari scrambles away, blood dripping from the scratches on his cheek. “Oh,” he says, voice strangled. “Sorry.”
“Just shut up!” you wail. Your claws find their way back to your hair.
The worst part is, you think he means that apology.
Your claws curl into your scalp, but not enough to hurt. Your breath hitches and your vision is so blurry you can’t see. You rub at your nose: your sleeve comes away wet and covered in gunk. Snot drips down your face, excruciatingly slow. When you try to rub it away it smears all over your muzzle. The discomfort sends new tears down your cheeks.
Zelda’s grown up now. You know this. You can’t help but wish she didn’t grow up. You want it to be you and her forever.
You let out a whine. You shut your eyes. Your head throbs.
You know Zelda is all grown up, now, but you can’t help but wish she stayed behind with you. For you.
You were supposed to grow up together, but you didn’t grow up.
How much time does your grandfather have left until he dies? How much time does Zelda have left until she dies? How much time do you have left?
You didn’t grow up.
You can’t breathe. You can’t think. Everything burns.
You’ll never be what everyone wants you to be.
Your ears ring. You think you scream.
The next thing you know is this:
Zelda's bare hand in yours, your gloves long discarded. The sound of her laughter, chiming like bells. Her untied hair flowing in the spring breeze as she runs; her casual clothes—nowhere near a princess dress—stained with grass and dirt.
Her hand slips from yours. She races ahead without a word. Your hand remains outstretched.
Zelda whirls around, her skirts flowing, her golden hair blazing behind her and shimmering in the sunlight. She calls for you to follow, her words indistinct, but you can't move. She shakes her head and keeps going, fading from view.
…That's not Zelda. She wouldn't leave you behind.
She wouldn't leave you behind. But you didn't grow up.
That's not Zelda.
The Zelda you know wouldn't care. The Zelda you love returns your love in tenfold, and wants you to be you.
Faintly, you realize: that Zelda never left.
The forest clearing fades like it was never there—and it never was.
Reality crashes back in. You can hear frogs croaking in the marshland, their calls uncomfortably loud. Festari hovers over you, looking uncomfortable.
You’re covered in snot and tears and there’s too much pressure in your head to string your thoughts together. You think your claws and neck are sticky with something warm. You’re keenly aware of your own heartbeat. You crave a bath.
You breath in, and out. Slow and trembling. Your throat is raw. The fresh air tastes of spring.
Despite it all, a small smile comes to grace your face.
You feel clearer than you have in ages. You realize: nothing else has to change.
Festari offers you a paw. You let him help you pull yourself up. You sniffle quietly as he leads you outside to the water. For lack of a better tissue, you blow your nose into your hat. You don't think Ezlo would mind, he'd just pretend he does—the thought makes you tremble, and you think it's laughter.
Festari helps clean your clothes while you clean yourself, and not a single word passes between the two of you. You prefer it that way. You feel lighter even before your fur dries.
You choose to spend the night in the village in borrowed pajamas. The last thought you have before falling asleep is this: you might just be okay.