Archive of Our Own

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Haunted by the ghost of you
Oh, take me back to the night we met.”

-The Night We Met by Lord Huron

 

~~~

 

“A spirit has taken the form of this giant dragon inhabiting the upper reaches of the skies. It is named for its shining golden mane and gleaming scales. It looks divine as it soars through the sky, giving off a soft glow, and its presence is comforting somehow.”

-Hyrule compendium, Light Dragon entry

 

~~~

 

The sky stretched wide and endless, blue brushed with drifting clouds, all of it gilded in the soft gold of the sun.

A beautiful day.

Link sat in silence, watching the clouds pass slowly overhead.

The world below felt so small.

His hand moved gently through the soft white fur along the Light Dragon’s head, fingers threading through it with quiet care as he hummed—a fragile melody he only knew because of her.

The princess had been given countless music lessons as she grew up. The harp had always been her focus—something about it being the chosen instrument of the goddess. Though in private, she preferred singing.

She used to hum while they traveled together on horseback. Soft, absent-minded tunes while she studied ancient ruins, while she scribbled notes, while she lost herself in thought.

There had been a time when he’d forgotten those melodies.

But after rediscovering that quiet habit of hers, he had made a silent promise to himself—he would never forget them again.

He remembered coming home one evening, stepping lightly up the stairs, only to pause at the sound of her singing.

She hadn’t noticed him at first, too absorbed in her books and scattered notes.

When she finally looked up and saw him, she startled—cheeks flushing red as she huffed in embarrassment, scolding him for being too quiet. Saying she needed her own private study if he was going to keep sneaking up on her like that.

Despite the protest, there had been warmth in her voice.

He hadn’t thought of it as his house in a long time.

She had only meant to stay for a short while—just until her work on the school was complete. He had insisted on staying close, as her knight. It had been practical at first. Easier than paying for rooms at the inn night after night.

A few days became months.

Months became years.

And somewhere along the way, it had stopped being his house.

It became theirs.

Though many often referred to it as just hers.

In Hateno—his hometown, where he had grown up alongside many of its residents—the villagers had begun to call it the princess’s house, as though forgetting he had ever lived there. Not that he minded. He much preferred to be left alone.

It didn’t stand out much, perched quietly just beyond the small chasm the river had carved at the village’s edge.. An old cottage, once quiet and forgotten, now carried a subtle kind of prestige simply by her presence within it.

Some found it curious—that rather than restoring the grandeur of the castle, the princess had chosen to settle here, in their modest farming village. But Link understood. The castle had never truly been a home, not in the way this place could be.

Regardless of what the villagers said, it was theirs.

And he had never been able to deny her. Not even after she’d asked him—gently, almost pleadingly—not to indulge her simply because she was the princess. That distinction had stopped mattering to him a very long time ago.

So if she wanted a space of her own, a private study, he would give it to her.

Even if, once she had it, he found himself missing the quiet songs that used to drift through the space.

He had always liked music. He often hummed while he cooked.

Over time, her songs became part of that rhythm.

There had been one evening. She had just come in from working on lesson plans for her students.

“Smells good,” she had said, her voice warm, her smile easy.

He had returned the smile, gesturing toward the table, already set as it always was.

She sat.

He turned back to the pot, humming without thinking.

A melody he hadn’t realized he’d learned until she joined in—softly at first, then fully, singing the song he had been humming all along.

He had glanced back at her then, surprised.

Their eyes met.

He grinned.

She laughed.

And from that day on, it became something of a ritual—him humming, her singing, the quiet harmony of a shared life.

The memory caught in his throat.

His humming faltered, breaking apart as something sharp and burning rose in its place.

His hand stilled against the dragon’s fur.

Slowly, he looked down at her.

His vision blurred, his eyes stinging for what felt like the thousandth time in only a couple hours. He blinked hard, but it didn’t help.

With a quiet, shaky breath, he lowered himself, resting his cheek against the soft white fur.

His fingers curled tightly into it, clutching as though it might slip away.

They had said she was gone.

That becoming an immortal dragon meant losing oneself entirely.

That there was nothing left.

No memory. No Zelda.

The princess was gone.

And he had failed her.

A shudder ran through him, his body trembling as the grief he had been holding back broke free once more.

He had always made sure to keep his composure.

Being a knight—her knight—meant expectation. Eyes always watching. Judging.

Emotion was weakness. Fear, pain, grief… those were things he was never meant to show.

So he had trained himself not to.

To bury it. To carry it quietly.

He had borne everything in silence for what felt like his entire life.

And yet… over the past few years, the princess had found a way past that barrier.

He still didn’t know how she did it.

She noticed things no one else ever had—small shifts, subtle tells he hadn’t even realized he gave away.

The first time it happened had been only a few months after the fall of Calamity Ganon.

They had been traveling toward Hateno, the road quiet save for the wind through the grass. A group of bokoblins had ambushed them—not enough to be a real threat. He had dispatched them easily.

So when she asked, “Are you all right?” he had assumed she meant the fight.

He nodded. Of course he was fine. Not a scratch.

But she shook her head.

“No, Link,” she said gently. “Are you all right? You seem… upset about something.”

It had caught him completely off guard.

He had looked away, unsure how to answer.

How was he supposed to explain that this place—these trees, this stretch of land—was somewhere he and his sister had once played?

That the memory had struck him all at once, vivid and aching?

That it hurt?

That she was gone. That his father was gone. That he was all that was left of them, and he could hardly remember either of them.

That the bokoblins had simply been… there. Something to swing at. Something to pour everything into.

“...Link?” she prompted softly, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

He swallowed, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

Her eyes were warm. Patient. Unwavering.

“...a memory,” he managed, his voice quiet.

Understanding softened her expression immediately.

They stood like that for a while, side by side in the hush of the field.

“Was it a good memory?” she asked.

He nodded, his throat tightening.

He didn’t understand why it was so difficult. He had never struggled like this before.

And yet here she was, asking because she cared… and he could barely hold himself together.

“Will you tell me about it?” she asked.

They sat among the trees, surrounded by wildflowers, and he told her about his sister, about the memory, and about the ache that came with it.

More memories surfaced as he spoke, unfolding one after another until he found himself telling her everything.

He spoke of his mischievous little sister—how she would laugh as she stirred up trouble, somehow slipping free of consequences every time.

He spoke of his father, too. A large, imposing man (which was funny, considering Links opposing smaller stature), a high-ranking knight whose very presence commanded respect.

A man who had been deeply proud when his son chose to follow in his footsteps… and yet afraid as well. Afraid of the weight that title carried. Afraid of what it would demand of him.

He remembered how proud his father had been when he drew the Master Sword from its pedestal—how shock had flickered across his face at the realization that his son was the Goddess’s chosen hero.

And yet, at the same time, it hadn't been a surprise at all. Not when it came to his son—the same boy who had always run headlong toward danger without hesitation.

Blessed with Farore’s courage—or cursed with the kind of boldness that bordered on stupidity.

His sister, on the other hand, had been nothing short of thrilled when he was appointed as the princess’s personal knight. She had begged to meet her, practically brimming with excitement.

He found himself wondering, distantly, if she had ever been given the chance—but he didn’t need to ask.

Zelda, as though reading his thoughts, spoke softly, her voice warm as she told him she remembered the day she met Aryll.

And with her words, the memory returned to him.

He saw it clearly—the way his sister, for all her eagerness, had suddenly turned shy in the princess’s presence. How Zelda, ever gentle despite the quiet disdain she had once held for him, had smiled and spoken to her with easy kindness.

He remembered the way Aryll had slowly come out of her shell, drawn in by that warmth, until the two of them were whispering and giggling together as though they had known each other for years.

He had stood nearby, listening, faintly amused and quietly curious as to what secrets they might have been sharing.

Zelda had shown her pages from her research, and Aryll had eagerly leaned in, the two of them discussing birds and bugs and wildflowers with bright fascination.

And he had simply listened, content to be near them both.

He was grateful she had given the memory back to him.

He tried not to think about the unbearable truth that he would never see his little sister again.

That he had missed everything.

He hadn’t been there to watch her grow, to see who she became, what kind of life she lived. The thought hollowed him out if he let it linger too long. So he tried not to.

But the questions came anyway, slipping in through the cracks.

Had she known?

Had Aryll ever been told that he might return—that one day, a hundred years later, he would wake again? Had his father known?

Or had they simply been told he died in battle—fighting until he could no longer stand, that he gave his life to protect the princess?

Had they mourned him? The thought alone was painful, knowing the grief his death must have brought them.

Had his father even survived the Calamity?

The answer felt obvious, even without proof. His father had been a knight—a strong one—but so had countless others. Strength hadn’t saved them. Training hadn’t saved them. Nothing had. Lives ended for many that day, including Link's own.

It wasn’t likely his father had lived.

His chest tightened.

Had Aryll been alone?

Had she been forced to grow up without either of them, in a world still reeling from ruin?

He shoved the thoughts away, burying them before they could take root any deeper.

It was too much.

Too painful.

Some things… he simply couldn’t afford to think about.

Instead, he told Zelda about the home he grew up in. About the quiet farm where he had worked before he became a knight.

It hadn’t been easy to relive all those memories.

They came in waves—some warm and cherished, others heavy with grief.

Together, they revisited it all, the joy and the sorrow intertwined.

It helped, speaking the memories aloud as they returned. Helped anchor them, make them feel real—like they belonged to him, and not to some distant dream.

Zelda had listened without interruption, her presence steady and patient. Now and then, she would ask a gentle question when the memories tangled, or offer quiet reassurance when his voice began to falter—when it betrayed him in ways he wished it wouldn’t.

And though embarrassment crept in, sharp and insistent, she never once made him feel small for it.

After that, the walls had never quite been the same.

She could always see through him.

No one else had ever made it so difficult to hide.

Perhaps… he was simply comfortable with her.

Or perhaps she had always seen him more clearly than anyone else ever could.

Maybe it was something older than either of them—something carried across time. The remnants of lives long past. Of every hero and every princess who had found solace in one another before.
As though, once again, they were slipping into the roles the goddesses had woven for them—making it all too easy to let his guard fall, to open himself to her without even realizing he had done so.

So now, lying atop the dragon, he let himself cry.

Because it was her.

Even so, embarrassment still crept in—sharp and persistent.

The Master Sword rested against his back.

He knew she was there. Watching.

He had never wanted the blade to see him like this—fractured, unraveling. Weak.

What kind of chosen hero broke down like this?

What kind of knight was he, if he couldn’t even hold himself together?

But there was no judgment.

Only silence.

And within that silence, something else—something quiet and heavy.

Grief.

It settled around him like a presence of its own, thick and unmoving. It felt like mourning… as though she, too, understood.

As though she did not blame him.

He found himself grateful for her understanding.

He wondered, distantly, if she had witnessed the other heroes like this before. If she had felt them falter, felt them break beneath burdens too heavy to bear alone.

A faint hum answered him, soft and steady against his back.

Reassuring.

As if to say yes. She had.

As if to remind him that he was not alone. That it was alright—that it was human—to break when the weight became too much.

His breath shuddered as he sent his thanks, quiet and unspoken.

The sword hummed once more in gentle acknowledgment.

Zelda was… is… everything. His best friend, his partner, his other half. Whatever words others might choose, it all meant the same thing. His heart had always been hers.

That final geoglyph.

The truth.

Zelda swallowing the stone.

Her form shifting, changing—becoming something vast, something eternal.

Something lost.

She would forget herself. Everything she was—gone.

All so she could return to his era with a restored Master Sword.

So that he might stand a chance against Ganondorf. So that he could save everyone.

She had selflessly given up everything.

And here he was.

Curled against the Light Dragon’s head, mourning her for hours on end.

He had failed. Failed to catch her. Failed to protect her.

And now she was gone.

A broken sound left him as he buried his face deeper into her soft fur, his grip tightening as his shoulders shook.

It wasn’t fair.

She was alive. She was right here.

She had been with him this entire time.

And yet…

It wasn’t her.

And it would never be her again.

He cried—harder than he ever had before. Hard enough it hurt. Hard enough he couldn’t breathe around it.

He missed her.

He missed her so much it hurt.

Her voice—soft when she was thinking out loud, quick and bright when she got excited, sharp when she was frustrated. The way his name sounded when she said it.

Her laugh. Quiet at first, like she tried to hold it back—then bright and unrestrained when she couldn’t anymore.

He missed her teasing—the way her eyes would glint with mischief, her words lilting with playful challenge. The way she’d nudge him, daring him to prove her wrong. Insisting there was no way he could climb the rocky cliff face within a certain time.

And then the look on her face when he did exactly that—her grin, bright and knowing, as though she had never truly doubted him at all.

He missed the scratch of her ink pen as she eagerly jotted down notes on whatever she happened to be studying—bugs, flowers, ruins, observations drawn simply from watching him fight. Anything.

What could she possibly find worth noting in absolutely everything? The thought always left him quietly confused and curious.

He missed when she’d rant about her worst days, pacing, hands moving as she spoke. Trusting him with all of it.

He missed the way she sang—soft and absent when she thought no one was listening, or bright and unrestrained when she didn’t care who heard.
He missed cooking for her. Sharing something he loved with her. The way she’d light up at the first bite, as if every meal was new. As if it was the best thing she had ever tasted.
He missed riding beside her, their horses thundering across open paths. The way they’d race without warning, laughter and taunts tossed between them as they flew past travelers in a blur of dust and wind.

He missed the weight of her hand in his—the warmth of it, the comfort. The way it had felt so natural. As if they had been made to fit together.

Something so simple. And yet… something he now found himself aching for more than anything.

He missed waking beside her each morning. Whether in the gentle stillness of their bed at home, or beneath a vast, starlit sky, their bedrolls set just close enough to pretend the space between them wasn’t there at all.

He missed her eyes—that stunning green, bright with curiosity. The way they softened when they found him, filled with an affection that always left him breathless.

He missed her smile. Warm and absolutely beautiful.

He missed the way sunlight caught in her hair, turning golden strands into something almost ethereal.

She had always been beautiful.

And even now she still was.

The only feature she had kept in her draconic form was that same golden hair. The Light Dragon’s radiant mane, shimmering in the sky, the only lingering proof of who she had once been.

Of who she still might be.

A loud, broken sob tore from his throat, startling even himself.

The dragon’s ear twitched.

A low rumble followed as she climbed higher, carrying them into the clouds. Into a world of softened color, where the sky bled gold into crimson, and crimson into violet.

He rolled onto his back, staring upward through tear-blurred vision, his lashes clinging together, his breathing uneven and fragile in a pathetic show of weakness. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

He wondered if this place—high above the world—had become a refuge for her.

A sanctuary.

Something the Light Dragon needed.

Something Zelda needed.

Because it must have been lonely, all those years. All that time.

Though… perhaps time meant nothing to her now. Perhaps thousands of years passed in the blink of an eye for an immortal being.

His chest tightened.

He wondered if she had brought him here on purpose. If she had heard him and understood his grief. If this was her way of comforting him.

The thought felt foolish.

Still, he clung to it.

The dragon had brought him here once before.

When he had pulled the Master Sword from her head.

He winced at the memory.

The way she had thrashed—roaring, crying out—as she tore through the sky. He had clung to the blade with everything he had, fingers locked tight, eyes squeezed shut, refusing to let go no matter how violently she fought.

The sword had urged him on—humming her encouragement clear and unwavering. Her voice singing in his mind with something like joy at their reunion, hero and blade once more.

He had held on.

Even as every tug on the sword brought a cry of pain from the dragon.

Of course, he hadn’t known then. He still had geoglyphs left to find, still unaware of what fate had befallen his princess.

He only knew what the Great Deku Tree had told him—that he could still sense it. That the Master Sword still existed. That it was healed and fully restored. And somehow… it was moving.

Finding it embedded in the Light Dragon’s forehead had been a shock he hadn’t been prepared for.

His grip tightened slightly against her now, guilt twisting deep in his chest.

When he had finally freed the blade, the Light Dragon had let out one final, piercing cry before soaring above the clouds.

And when he had opened his eyes…

He had been left speechless.

The sky had been endless and beautiful.

Even now, as the last light of day stretched across the horizon.

His hand moved again, fingers threading gently through her fur.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling the need to apologize to her again.

He had already done so. Back before he knew who the dragon truly was. Even then, the guilt had clung to him, heavy and unrelenting, for daring to wound something so divine.

“For hurting you… for scaring you… for taking so long to find you.”

His voice wavered, soft and brittle, as if the words themselves might break under the weight of everything he carried.

The dragon’s ear flicked again. Another low rumble followed—quieter this time. Softer.

And he swore… he swore it almost sounded like understanding.

His breath caught.

Did she recognize him?

Did she know his voice?

Or was it something else entirely?

Something instinctual. Something deeper.

Like what he had felt the first time he had touched the Master Sword. That strange, undeniable pull. That sense of familiarity with something he had never known before.

Like a memory from a dream. Something meant for him.

Perhaps… that was what he was to her now.

Not Link.
Not her knight.

Just… something familiar. Something safe.

A presence she didn’t understand, but also didn’t fear.

He sniffed, lifting a hand to wipe at his eyes and cheeks. The tears had finally begun to subside, and he hoped that would be the end of it—for tonight, at least. Crying had drained him more than he wanted to admit, leaving his body heavy with exhaustion.

Maybe he could sleep here instead of bothering with a camp or renting a bed at a stable. He doubted Zelda would mind. The dragon had stopped moving, simply hovering in place, as though suspended between waking and rest.

He wondered if she, too, was tired.

Do dragons even sleep?

The others never seemed to.

The thought suddenly occurred to him that perhaps the other dragons hadn’t always been dragons either.

It was said they were elemental spirits—beings that took on draconic forms to guard the sacred springs of the goddesses. But what if that wasn’t the whole truth? What if they had once been mortal, like Zelda?

People who had swallowed their secret stones—whether out of devotion, desperation, or the promise of something greater—and became what they are now?

Naydra, spirit of ice, guardian of Nayru’s Spring of Wisdom.
Dinraal, spirit of fire, protector of Din’s Spring of Power.
Farosh, spirit of lightning, watcher over Farore’s Spring of Courage.

Then Zelda, in her draconic form, would likely serve Hylia. They shared blood, after all.

He wondered if somewhere, hidden across Hyrule, there was a spring devoted to Hylia—a place the Light Dragon might one day lead him to.

Above him, the sky deepened into night, stars beginning to pierce through the fading blue. The Light Dragon’s scales shimmered faintly, glowing soft and gold against the growing darkness.

A small smile found its way onto his face as he noticed a familiar pattern among the stars.

He pushed himself up slightly and reached forward, gently tapping the dragon’s head—hesitant, unsure if she’d even notice. Still, he pointed upward.

“See those stars?” he murmured. “If you connect them, they make a shape. That one’s called Hylia’s Bow. And just to the right…” He shifted his hand. “That’s the Hero’s Sword.”

A quiet grin tugged at his lips. Zelda would’ve been proud that he remembered.

“Though… honestly, it kind of just looks like any sword,” he added with a soft laugh. “And the bow is… well, bow-shaped, I guess.”

The dragon let out a low, gentle rumble.

He wasn’t sure if it meant anything—if she understood, or if she was simply responding to the rare sound of his voice.

“There are others too,” he continued, settling back on his hands. “Animals. People. Monsters…”

His gaze drifted downward, and he noticed her eyes—fixed in the direction he’d pointed.

“You taught me that,” he said quietly. “Do you remember?”

This time, there was no response. Only silence, and that steady, distant gaze.

He exhaled softly, looking back up at the sky. “That’s okay.”

He wasn’t sure why he said it. As if she needed reassurance. As if she could understand him at all.

They said she couldn’t. She's gone.

Maybe talking to her like this would only make things worse. Maybe it would drive him mad.

But right now… he didn’t care.

“I’ve lost my memory before too,” he said after a moment. “You were the one who helped me find it again.”

He paused—then straightened suddenly, something sparking in his chest.

“Maybe I can help you remember.”

The idea took hold quickly, warming him in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe this could work. Maybe sharing those memories—holding onto them, speaking them aloud—could bring her back.

Because she had to still be there.

Somewhere.

Zelda wasn’t just gone. She couldn’t be.

She just needed to be reminded.

A small, uncertain hum came from the sword at his back. A quiet warning. She wasn’t dismissing the idea—but urging caution. Don’t hope too much.

He understood. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t ignore it either.

His hand moved again, gently stroking along the dragon’s fur, fingers threading through her soft, silken strands.

“We set up camp one night,” he began softly. “You had your nose buried in a book as usual. And I was making curry.”

The memory came easily, vivid and warm.

“We were on our way to meet Purah and the others. Some ruins they wanted to study.”

Of course, Zelda had been thrilled.

She always was whenever there was something new to learn, something ancient to uncover.

Link had never really understood all of it. The technology, the texts, the ruins… it all blurred together in his mind.

Even after learning how to use the Sheikah Slate, it had always felt like he was following instructions rather than understanding them.

And when it came to Zonai devices, he wasn’t nearly clever enough to do anything extraordinary. Honestly, he just experimented until something finally clicked and worked in his favor.

But Zelda understood.

And more than that—she loved it.

And somehow, her excitement had always been enough to pull him in too.

“You were reading a book on astronomy since the ruins were some kind of ancient Sheikah star chart. And when dinner was ready,” he continued, his voice softening, “we sat together. You kept pointing up at the sky, naming every constellation you could spot.”

He smiled fondly.

“You were so excited about it.”

She remained silent, offering no sign that she had heard him at all. Still, he hoped she could. He rarely spoke as it was, and when he did, his voice was soft. Quiet even at the best of times. And lately, with all the crying, his throat felt raw, worn thin from grief. His voice broke more, and it was harder to push words out.

But she had responded earlier, and that was enough.

Night settled fully around them, darkness swallowing the world below. More stars emerged overhead, scattered across the sky in quiet brilliance. The Light Dragon glowed softly among the clouds.

And yet, despite the chill of the night air and the staggering height at which they soared, he felt warm.

Each dragon carried its own presence—its own element woven into the air around it.

Naydra’s domain was a biting cold, enough to make you freeze. Dinraal burned with relentless heat, flames curling and dancing along her path. Farosh crackled with restless electricity, the air alive and dangerous.

To approach them at all required caution. To ride them was something else entirely. Link was certain he was the only one who managed to do so in a very long time.

But the Light Dragon was different.

The warmth that surrounded her was gentle. Like sunlight spilling across the world at the break of day. It wasn’t oppressive or dangerous. It was comforting.

Being in her presence felt like lying in the tall grass of Hyrule Field, the earth soft beneath him, the endless blue sky stretching overhead. Like those quiet summer mornings where the sun rose slowly, brushing warmth across his skin. It was nice.

There were so many memories he could share with her. Too many for a single night. He would have to choose carefully—pick the ones worth telling first.

He hummed softly under his breath as he thought.

He could tell her about the time he taught her archery.

It had been a skill meant for the princess, traditionally—but in Zelda’s case, her father had insisted her time be spent pursuing her sealing power instead. Like so many other things, she had been forced to set it aside.

So when Link offered to teach her, she had been thrilled. Especially because it was him.

He remembered the way her eyes had lit up, how eager she had been to learn. And she had been good—naturally so.

Though… there had been that first day.

She had drawn back her bow, steady and confident—only to release the arrow completely off mark. It had sailed clean through a lit torch before striking somewhere behind it, igniting a small fire in the training hall.

The flames had been quickly extinguished, of course.

Link had found it unbearably funny.

He had tried—truly tried—to maintain his usual neutral expression. But she had caught it: the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Her face had gone bright red.

“That was not funny,” she had insisted, narrowing her eyes as she nudged his shoulder.

That had been it. He hadn’t been able to stop himself—he had laughed, quiet at first, then more openly.

And then she had laughed too.

The two of them, standing there in the training hall, laughing together despite the disapproving looks from the other knights.

She improved quickly after that. Before long, they were competing—keeping score, challenging each other with every shot. It escalated, as it always seemed to with them, until they were attempting the same challenges on horseback.

She had nearly rivaled him by the end of it.

He could tell her about the frog.

The ridiculous, terrible frog.

She had asked him—repeatedly—to lick one. For research, she had claimed. The oils secreted by hot-footed frogs could enhance speed, and with his physical condition, he would be the perfect subject.

He had been certain, at the time, that she was only doing it to amuse herself. Perhaps she had even conspired with Purah.

Eventually, he had given in.

The taste had been… awful.

His face had twisted instantly in disgust—and Zelda had burst into laughter. Not only that, but she had somehow managed to snap a photo of him at that exact moment using the Purah Pad.

“Perhaps he’ll turn into a handsome prince,” she had joked between breaths.

He had glared at her—though there had been no real anger behind it.

That only made her laugh harder.

Still… it had worked.

His speed had increased for a time, just as she had theorized. And once she refined the elixir using the frogs, it had improved even further.

And, thankfully, the elixir had actually tasted good.

She had made sure of that—carefully selecting ingredients that enhanced the flavor without interfering with the effect.

He had been grateful.

And then there was the dancing.

That had been just before the Calamity.

Her seventeenth birthday had been approaching, and preparations for a grand celebration were underway. Though the ball itself was to take place the day after—her actual birthday reserved for prayer at the Spring of Wisdom.

The celebration had never come due to the unfortunate timing of Calamity Ganon's return.

The day before her birthday, however, she had been in her study. He had stood at the doorway, as always, keeping watch.

She had approached him then—hesitant, uncharacteristically shy.

“Link…” she had said, her face flushed. “I was wondering… with the celebration so close, would you be willing to help me practice my dancing?”

He hadn’t known how to respond, his face reddening as warmth crept all the way to the tips of his pointed ears.

The request had startled him—his thoughts stalling completely for a moment. It felt… improper. He was her knight. She was the princess of Hyrule. A descendant of the goddess herself.

That was an honor not meant for someone like him.

“I just… I could use the practice,” she had added quickly. “It would be easier with a partner.”

His throat had gone dry. His heart had begun to pound—loud enough he was sure she could hear it, even if his expression gave nothing away.

If anyone were to see them, he’d be in serious trouble—not just with the captain of the guard (his father—embarrassing), but with the king himself (her father—terrifying).

And yet… if this was what she wanted… Who was he to deny the princess her request?

He gave a small, reluctant nod and stepped into the room.

She had already moved the stacks of books aside, clearing space across the floor. But when she took position, he realized something else—

He didn’t know how to dance.

Apparently, that had been more obvious than he thought.

She had laughed—soft and warm—as she gently guided him, placing his hands where they needed to be.

“Perhaps I should lead,” she teased. “I am taller, after all.”

He had rolled his eyes, though a small grin betrayed him.

She laughed again.

He couldn’t stop himself from staring at her. She was absolutely breathtaking.

“Truth be told,” she had said after a moment, her voice quieter now, her eyes softer—holding something he hadn’t understood then, “I would much rather have a small celebration with my friends. Like what we did for your birthday.”

His birthday.

A simple day off at home with his father and sister. And later, the surprise Zelda and Impa had prepared for him—a cake and small gifts.

It had meant more to him than he had ever been able to put into words.

He had considered then… doing the same for her. If he could find the time to make a fruitcake. He tried to think of something he could get her.

“Besides…” she had continued, her voice faltering slightly as her gaze dropped, “the only person I would want to dance with…”

She hesitated.

“…Father would throw a fit.”

He had wondered, then, who it was.

Who had managed to capture her attention like that.

Who was fortunate enough to be the one she wished to dance with.

Never had he considered the possibility that it might be him.

The idea that she could feel even a fraction of what he felt for her had seemed… impossible. Unthinkable.

And yet, it hadn’t been impossible at all. Far from it.

“Tell me, Knight,” Zelda continued, her cheeks flushed a soft rose as she swayed gently in his arms. “If you weren’t on duty… if you were simply the hero for the day—just Link—would there be anyone you’d choose to dance with?”

Link’s brows knit faintly, his gaze dropping to where their steps aligned.

I’m already dancing with her.

The thought came unbidden, immediate—and just as quickly, he buried it. He couldn’t say that.

If he were just Link… he doubted he would even be permitted into a gathering like that. He was no noble, no courtly figure. Just a boy from a distant village, shaped into something greater by fate alone. Though… perhaps being the Goddess’s chosen hero might have been enough to grant him entry.

But even then…

No. There was no one else. Only her.

He gave a small shake of his head before he caught himself and cleared his throat for a verbal reply. He had promised to be more open with her.
“No, Princess.”

Zelda tilted her head, studying him—really studying him—and for a fleeting, unsettling moment, he wondered if she could somehow hear the thoughts he kept so carefully guarded.
“…Not even Princess Mipha?” she asked at last, her voice soft, deliberate—carefully neutral, though something beneath it wavered.

He blinked, caught off guard.

Mipha?

He wasn’t sure why she would ask that. Would he dance with Mipha? Perhaps—if she asked, he wouldn’t refuse. They had always been close.
But…

He had never thought of her that way. To him, the Zora princess had always felt more like an older sister.

He'd still rather dance with Zelda.

He hesitated, offering a small, uncertain shrug as his gaze drifted.

But Zelda didn’t look away.

“…Maybe,” he said at last, more firmly this time, meeting her gaze. “If she asked me to. She’s a good friend, but… I wouldn’t want to dance with her in that way.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Zelda’s gaze lingered on his face, measuring something unspoken.

And then, slowly… something in her expression eased.

“Is that so,” she murmured.

Her hand shifted slightly in his, fingers curling just a touch more securely—as though testing the feeling, committing it to memory.

“Well,” she continued after a beat, her voice lighter now, though her eyes still held his, “I suppose that makes me rather fortunate tonight.”

Link’s breath caught. The implication that she might think herself the lucky one to be dancing with him, and not the other way around left him quietly, completely thrown.

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly at her waist, grounding himself in the motion of the dance, in the warmth of her presence.

Link had always learned quickly, and dancing proved no exception.

It hadn't taken long for them to find their rhythm—despite the lack of music in the study—and once they did, he found himself quietly savoring every second of it. The closeness. Her hand in his, his other resting carefully at her waist, her free hand light against his shoulder.

The soft look in her green eyes as she gazed at him, that small, fond smile meant only for him. The steady, unrelenting beat of his heart with every step.

Link found himself dreading the celebration to come—watching her dance with others. Noblemen her father had carefully chosen, invited for her birthday, each one there to meet her.

All while he stood silent and still along the walls, forced to watch it unfold.

It was selfish. Foolish. He knew his place—her knight, nothing more. To wish for anything beyond that was unrealistic.

And yet… he couldn’t help it.

The memory drew a soft laugh from him. His younger self would have been stunned to see how far they had come—how wrong he had been. It seemed almost ridiculous now, the certainty he’d once held that Zelda could never return his feelings. Granted, he had fallen first—and far faster—but still.

His throat burned again, and he cursed himself under his breath. He blinked rapidly, forcing the feeling down, then pushed himself to his feet before he could start crying again.

He stepped carefully down the Light Dragon’s snout, stopping at the very tip of her nose. He drew in a slow breath, filling his lungs with the cool, open night air.

The Light Dragon let out a low, gentle rumble at his movements.

He turned to face her, though from where he stood, she couldn’t quite meet his gaze—her eyes set wide on either side of her head.

“I miss you,” he said softly, so quiet he wasn’t entirely sure the words had left him at all.

She rumbled again in response.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

A yawn overtook him, exhaustion settling heavily into his bones. He needed to choose one memory to share for tonight—just one. And as he thought on it, the answer felt obvious.

“Maybe I’ll tell you about the night we met,” he murmured, a small smile forming.

The dragon shifted beneath him, and he faltered, adjusting his footing as she moved through the clouds. She began to slowly coil—her long body curling in on itself like a resting serpent. Her head dipped, nudging toward her tail, which had drawn close.

He glanced between them, uncertain—until she nudged him again, letting out a soft, coaxing rumble.

Carefully, he stepped from her nose onto her tail, gripping one of the glowing turquoise spines to steady himself. As she continued to coil, he made his way along her back, each step measured and cautious.

At last, she stilled.

Curled in the sky, suspended among drifting clouds.

And now she could see him.

He stood just across from her eye.

She blinked slowly, long golden lashes catching the wind. Her gaze—vast and distant, swirling with blues, purples, and greens—rested on him. Empty, and yet… not entirely. There was something there. Something faint. Something curious.

He smiled, lifting a hand in a small, tentative wave.

Then he lowered himself to sit, leaning back against one of her spines, his gaze never leaving hers.

She answered with a soft rumble—almost a coo.

“It was a long time ago,” he began quietly, “when we first met.”

She watched him in silence, one large, furred ear flicking once at his voice.

He hesitated, searching for the words to start.

“Your father—King Rhoam—had decided you needed a personal knight. Someone to remain at your side. To ensure your safety wherever you went.” His voice softened, distant with recollection. “Monster attacks had been increasing. Sightings growing more frequent. And the Yiga Clan…” He exhaled faintly. “They were becoming bolder. Stronger. And then there was the guardian incident…”

His fingers moved absently, fidgeting with the rings on his—Rauru’s—hand.

The memory rose around him, vivid as if he stood within it once more. Sunlight spilling warm across the castle courtyard, the sky an endless blue broken only by drifting clouds. The air had been calm. Peaceful.

Deceptively so.

Zelda had stood among the Sheikah researchers, their voices bright with curiosity as they worked around the Guardians. Link had been stationed nearby, silent, watchful. Just another knight among many.

“Something went wrong with one of the Guardians. I never learned if it was a malfunction… or the first sign of Calamity Ganon’s return. But it turned suddenly.”

He could still see it—the sudden, violent red glow locking onto its target as the ancient machine whirred and clicked.

The princess had been turned away, not noticing the laser taking aim at her back.

The Master Sword had reacted first.

She had hummed against his back, a sharp, urgent resonance that rang through his bones. A warning.

He moved before he could think.

There hadn’t been time to reach for anything proper. No shield, no plan. Just instinct. Just the nearest thing within reach—which unfortunately happened to be a meager pot lid.

He remembered the weight of it in his hand, the awkwardness of it. But he didn't have time to find anything else. He just had to hope that it would work. He leapt forward, holding the lid out in front of him.

The blast struck.

The force of it had rattled straight through his arm, a violent shock that should have thrown him back.

The redirected beam tore back into the Guardian itself, ancient metal splitting apart in a single, blinding strike. The machine collapsed in ruin, smoke curling into the air.

Silence had fallen over the courtyard.

“The knights. The researchers. Even you.” His voice softened, the words quieting as his gaze lifted to meet the dragon’s once more. “Everyone was staring.”

She did not move. That distant, unblinking eye remained fixed on him, empty and endless.

He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself against the weight of the memory, before continuing.

Word had spread quickly after that. Faster than he’d expected.

He had known his father would hear of it. The captain of the Royal Guard always did.

But the king?

That had been a surprise.

He was about to head home, the day’s duties finished at last. His thoughts had already drifted to dinner, something simple he could make for his sister. His father would join them later, as he always did.

Then a hand had landed on his shoulder.

“Ah, you aren't done yet today, Link. His Majesty wants you.”

Link had braced himself for reprimand. For some mistake he hadn’t realized he’d made.

But when he turned, his father had been smiling proudly at him.

They walked the castle halls together, their footsteps echoing softly against stone. His father spoke, but the words barely reached him. His pulse had been too loud in his ears, his thoughts racing too fast.

It wouldn't be the first time he stood before the king. The first was years ago—when he was knighted by the princess. The youngest knight the kingdom had ever seen. Then again, not long after, when he drew the Master Sword from its pedestal.

None of it made this any easier.

For all the battles he had fought, for all the monsters he faced without hesitation, standing before royalty still unsettled him in a way nothing else could. It was almost laughable, really—the way his pulse quickened here, in a quiet hall, compared to the steady calm he carried onto a battlefield.

Perhaps it was the weight of expectation he felt by being in their presence. A destiny he was given and expected to achieve whether he wanted it or not.

They stopped just outside the throne room.

“Good luck,” his father had said. “I’m proud of you.”

And then he was alone.

Link took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Inside, she was already there—standing before the king, arguing.

Her voice cut through the room, sharp and unwavering.

“I do not need protection, Father. And I certainly don’t need someone following me everywhere I go, watching everything I do.”

Link entered quietly, lowering himself to one knee behind her. He felt the king’s gaze before anything else—heavy, measuring, as though his worth could be judged in a single glance.

Then she turned, her eyes meeting his.

And everything else fell away.

He forgot how to breathe.

Heat rushed to his face so quickly it burned. He dropped his gaze at once, fixing it on the floor, painfully aware of the warmth flooding his ears and cheeks.

Her expression tightened, something like anger settling in its place as she turned back to the king.

“I do not need a knight, father.”

Her voice had been firm.

“I am not a child.”

“You are the Princess of Hyrule,” the king had replied, just as unyielding. “Your safety is not a matter of preference. Monster sightings are increasing. The Yiga grow bolder. And after the incident with the guardian today, I have made up my mind.”

The king had turned his attention once more to the young knight.

“Sir Link of Necluda.”

His name echoed through the chamber.

“You will serve as Princess Zelda’s appointed knight. Effective immediately.”

Link had only nodded. Words had failed him, as they so often did.

“I have heard much of you,” the king had continued. “I trust you will take this role seriously—as both her knight, and the Goddess’s chosen hero.”

Link had glanced up just long enough to catch the look the king gave his daughter—sharp, disappointed. A weight of expectation she had yet to fulfill.

Zelda said nothing, her head lowered.

“Dismissed.”

The princess turned without another word and strode from the room.

Link lingered only a moment longer, uncertain—caught between command and contradiction.

Effective immediately, the king had said.
And yet the princess had made her wishes just as clear.

He was still hungry. He had planned to go home, to sit down to dinner with his family as he always did. The thought suddenly felt strangely distant, like something already slipping out of reach.

“She will grow to appreciate your presence in time.”

The king’s voice cut cleanly through his thoughts.

“Follow her. I will have someone relieve you before the night grows too late. You are expected back first thing in the morning—and with your things. You will be staying in the room across from hers from now on.”

Link hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. Within the span of a single day, his life had shifted—decided for him in a handful of words. Tonight would be his last at home.

A great honor, he had reminded himself. A room in the castle, rather than the barracks like the other knights. Something to be grateful for.

He bowed his head once in acknowledgment, then turned sharply and hurried after the princess.

“I don’t think either of us had much of a choice,” Link said quietly to the dragon. “We were just outside your room when you finally stopped and turned to me.”

He remembered the way he froze, his heart hammering as she turned on him.

Her glare had been piercing. Strange, how someone so warm and radiant could look at him like that and feel so cold.

“You do not need to follow me,” she said.

Link said nothing. He wouldn’t argue with her, but he couldn’t disobey the king, either.

“I said you do not need to follow,” she repeated, sharper this time. “I do not require a babysitter.”

Still, he remained silent, unsure what to say. That only seemed to make her angrier.

“Are you not going to say anything, knight?” she snapped. If propriety didn’t restrain her, he thought she might have spat the words outright.

He opened his mouth, though he wasn’t sure what he intended to say. He had never been good with words. Even now… he was still learning.

None of this had been his choice, either.
He hadn’t asked to be her personal knight. Hadn’t asked for the Master Sword. Fate had simply chosen him. A destiny handed to him without question.

To save the world alongside the princess of Hyrule, the descendant of the goddess Hylia herself.

And yet that very princess looked at him now with nothing but anger.

His gaze faltered, slipping from her eyes to the floor. What was wrong with him? The chosen hero, blessed with courage—and he couldn’t even meet her gaze.

Link hesitated, then finally forced the words out, his voice quiet.

“Princess, I—”

“I do not need you,” she cut in, the words sharp and immediate. “So leave.”

Link lowered his gaze, the familiar weight of duty settling over his shoulders.

“I can’t do that.”

A beat of silence.

“…You can’t,” she echoed, incredulous.

“No, Princess. I… I apologize.”

Something in her expression shifted—frustration sharpening, edged now with something deeper. Something he didn’t yet understand.

“Fine,” she said at last, turning away. “Do as you wish.”

She opened her door, stepped inside, and slammed it shut in his face.

Link exhaled slowly, his breath leaving him in a long, controlled sigh.

Hylia help him.

How was he meant to fulfill a destiny like this—one spoken of in reverence and certainty—when the princess herself could barely stand the sight of him?

Their first meeting had gone… poorly.

He pushed himself upright again, spine straightening as duty settled back over him like armor. Whatever thoughts churned beneath the surface were buried just as quickly.

Even so, the tension lingered, coiled tight in his chest.

He took his place beside the door, silent and unmoving. He would remain there until another knight came to relieve him—until he was permitted to leave, to return home.

Spend one last dinner with his family.

The memory lingered and faded.

“And that,” he said softly, returning to the present, “was the night we met.”

The dragon tilted her head, a low rumble slipping from her chest.

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“I know. It doesn’t sound very promising.”

His gaze softened.

“But it got better.”

His fingers stilled against the rings on Rauru’s hand.

“We eventually became friends.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Best friends, even. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Some of his memories were still hazy, pieces he might never fully recover, but he was grateful to have most of them back.

“And you did apologize,” he added. “More than once.”

His voice softened further, something fragile threading through it.

“And then… it became something more.”

His throat tightened.

“I didn’t realize you felt the same way until…” He swallowed. “Until I was dying.”

The words came quieter now.

“That’s when your power awakened. When you saved me. Saved everyone”

His eyes stung, and he wiped at them quickly.

“You loved me. That was the key.”

Silence followed.

The dragon only watched him, distant and quiet, her soft rumble echoing into the sky.

He had to believe some part of her understood. He had to.

He cleared his throat, fighting to steady it, willing the tears not to come again.

His gaze lifted—drawn back to her despite himself.

Her eyes—once so bright, so alive—now swirled with distant, shifting color. Vast. Unreachable. There was nothing in them that knew him. Nothing that saw him.

It hurt. It hurt so much.

The ache in his chest sharpened until it was almost unbearable, like something splintering beneath his ribs.

“…You saved my life.” He said it again, but this time his voice trembled, fraying at the edges as he fought to keep it steady—fought not to break.

You saved me… and I threw that away.

The thought lodged itself deep, sharp and unrelenting, refusing to be ignored.

He could try to reason with it—had, countless times. He had saved her. A hundred years later, against impossible odds, he had found her again. Freed her. Fulfilled the destiny they had both been bound to.

But what did that matter?

Not here. Not now.

Not when it had been his hand that slipped.

Not when he hadn’t been fast enough—strong enough—to catch her.

His chest tightened, breath stuttering as the memory surged back, vivid and merciless. The feel of her fingers brushing his—almost there. The desperate reach. The empty air that followed.

He had her.

He lost her.

And now she drifted somewhere above the world, endless and unreachable. A being of light and instinct, stripped of memory, of self. Of her.

Never knowing who she had been.

Never remembering him.

A broken sound escaped him before he could stop it. He folded in on himself, shoulders curling inward as his hands came up to cover his face, as though he could hide from it—hide from the truth pressing in on all sides.

“I was supposed to—” His voice cracked, splintering apart. He couldn’t even finish the thought.

Protect her.

Stay by her side.

Save her.

That was his purpose. His oath. The very thing he had been chosen for.

But it wasn’t just that.

His fingers trembled where they pressed against his face.

She wasn’t just his princess. Not just a duty handed down by fate or the Goddess.

She was—

His breath hitched.

“She was my friend,” he whispered, the words fragile, as though speaking them might break something irreparable. “My… best friend.”

The truth of it settled heavy in his chest, aching and undeniable.

And more than that—

The next thought came quieter. More dangerous.

“I…” His voice faltered, barely there. “I loved her.”

The admission felt like a wound laid bare.

He dragged in a shaky breath, but it did nothing to steady him. If anything, it made everything worse—because it twisted the knife deeper, turned failure into something far more personal. Far more unforgivable.

It wasn’t just that he had failed his duty.

He had failed her.

Failed the person who had trusted him. Who had stood beside him. Who had looked at him—not as a weapon, not as a title—but as Link.

And he had let her fall.

A hollow, disbelieving laugh broke from him, sharp and uneven. His hands dropped just enough for him to stare down at them, as if he didn’t recognize them anymore.

What kind of person…

What kind of friend…

What kind of man lets the one he…

His throat tightened painfully.

“…Was I ever even worthy of that?” he murmured, voice barely audible now. “Of her trust… of her—”

He couldn’t say it again.

Couldn’t bring himself to claim it, not after this.

His fingers curled slowly into fists.

“I let her fall,” he said again, softer this time—final, certain, as if condemning himself.

And there was nothing he could do to take it back.

He found himself desperately wishing to go back to the night they met.

Back before the Calamity. Before the castle fell. Before a hundred years of silence had stolen so much from them.

Back when she had glared at him with that infuriating little scowl and told him, quite plainly, that she hated him.

He would give anything for it.

Anything to hear her voice again.

Anything to see that familiar smile.

Anything to simply have her beside him.

Anything but this.

Anything but watching her drift through the sky as a creature who no longer knew his name.

His eyes fell shut.

Surely the goddesses were disappointed in him.

Especially Hylia.

He had failed the princess she had entrusted to him. Failed the woman who had become his closest friend. Failed the person he had sworn, again and again, that he would protect.

But perhaps failure did not have to be the end.

His hands slowly lowered.

There had to be a way.

There had to be.

He had spent a hundred years waiting for Zelda once.

He could wait again.

He had crossed a ruined kingdom to find her. He had fought monsters, guardians, and a force that had nearly swallowed Hyrule whole. He had walked through the darkness for her once before.

He could do it again.

Even if it took the rest of his life.

His gaze lifted toward the dragon.

“I don't know if you can understand me,” he whispered. “But I'm going to bring you back.”

His voice shook.

“I don't know how. I don't know if it's even possible.”

He swallowed.

“But I'm going to try.”

The dragon shifted.

Link's breath caught.

For the briefest moment, he thought he saw something in her eyes.

Not quite recognition.

But it was something.

A flicker of warmth beneath all that ancient light.

Then it was gone.

Perhaps he had imagined it.

Perhaps grief was simply making him see what he desperately wanted to see.

But he smiled anyway.

It wasn't much.

It wasn't enough.

But it was something.

The dragon gave a low, mournful rumble.

It rolled across the mountainside like distant thunder.

Link's eyes burned again.

He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the ache there—the terrible, familiar ache that would probably never completely leave. At least not until she was safe in his arms. Not until she was home.

“I'll remember for both of us,” he promised.

His voice grew steadier.

“I'll remember every stupid argument. Every time you made me laugh. Every time you smiled at me.”

A small, broken smile crossed his face.

“I'll remember the night we met, too.”

He looked up at her.

“I'll remember you, Zelda.”

Somewhere beneath those ancient instincts and that unfamiliar form, he believed she was still there.

Somewhere, impossibly deep within her, was the girl who had once stood beside him.

The princess who had become his best friend.

The woman he had loved.

Perhaps she couldn't remember him, and maybe she never would.

But he could remember enough for both of them.

And if there truly was a part of Zelda still fighting to find her way back—

Then he would fight too.

He would find a way.

No matter how long it took.

And even though his hand had slipped from hers as she fell deep into the distant past…

He would spend the rest of his life reaching back.