Archive of Our Own

Sehnsucht: n. yearning; wistful longing.

The long eyes of the green crab stare back up at me unblinkingly. When I tilt my head to the side, it follows with its...eyeballs? Eyesticks? I pout—it looks nothing like the crab we eat for dinner, but I drop the stick I was holding to look closer.

It scuttles to the side with it’s spider-like feet, making me fall into the wet sand as the tide washes over my feet. The crab escapes and I struggle to find my bearings. 

“See?” Mama laughs gently behind me, “I told you it was cold.”

She has some sticks in her hands and a basket of yarn at her feet. I realize what she’s making and hobble back to her.

“For baby,” I say with a certain conviction, grunting in my attempts to climb into her lap. She puts down her things to scoop me up into a tight hug. I pull away to place my hands on her round tummy as I settle on her knees. Sometimes, if I’m a good boy, I can feel it kick!

“Yes, it is. A blanket to keep him or her warm,” Mama says, patting my head in a way I like. I pretend I don’t notice that she’s really trying to fix my hair. She’s mumbling about it being a “rat nest,” but Papa says the real rats live where the king is with teeth as big as my finger. I don’t think I ever want those to live on my head. “Are you ready to be a big brother, Link?”

I smile, excitement filling me. “The bestest brother!”

“Is that so, my little knight?” comes a familiar voice, and suddenly, I am in the air as strong hands grab my sides and lift me onto big shoulders. I giggle at the drop in my stomach.

“Papa!” I squeal, hugging the back of his head. He chuckles, gripping onto my feet and spinning around. I spread my arms like the Ritos do in my storybooks, flying high above everyone else. When he slows down, I laugh at how everything spins too and grab onto Papa’s hair and lay my cheek against it. “I miss you.”

“I missed you too,” he says, and I smile, though he probably can’t see it. “How’s my brave knight? Are you protecting Mama while I’m gone?”

I nod excitedly. “Like a r-ro," I try the word again, but it doesn't sound like how Papa says it. My face screws up.

"Royal guard?" Mama glances up at Papa.

I hiss out a loud affirmation that is quickly swallowed by giggles as he swings me to sit in his arm and holds me close. I grab onto his clothes—rough fabric of blue and red. He told me once that he wears it home to impress Mama. 

“Well, it sounds like you deserve a reward,” Papa says, and my grin makes my face hurt. From behind his back, he pulls out something long and wooden.

“A sword!” I squeal, reaching forward just as Papa brings it closer to me. I’ve already claimed it as my own before he says anything.

He laughs. “Yes, little knight. As a royal guard member, you will need a sword to protect your new little brother or sister.”

“Sister,” I say, looking at the wooden sword in awe. It’s light enough for me to swing around, and I can already imagine the dragons I will have to fight to save the princess like in Mama’s stories. I’m already wiggling out of his grasp with a daring grin. Daddy feigns surprise as the wooden sword bounces off of his calf.

His gaze is soft and blue like mine. “With that strength, it looks like the little princess might make a useful guard out of you, lad!”

Mama makes a light sound of surprise. “My, imagine that, our little boy guarding the princess! And dear...” she lowers her voice, “What news of the queen’s health?”

Papa parries my lame attempts to thwart his kneeling as he whispers something or other to Mama and then straightens. “The Princess is doing very well,” his smile is toothy as he musses up my hair. “Almost as pretty as Mama.”

I scowl at that. No one is prettier than Mama, but the thoughts don’t turn to words and I simply fall into Papa’s lap to tackle him.

“Look at you already preparing him for knighthood,” Mama sighs, but I see a smile forming on her lips.

He chuckles, lifting me into the air. “What can I say? He’s a natural.” 

That night, I bring the sword with me as I crawl into bed. I feel at awe at my new set of respons—responsby? Responsibly? Argh—new set of stuff to do to get ready for the baby. Papa taught me how to hold the sword correctly today, and seemed proud when my fingers fit the handle part just right. Papa always looks so cool in his uniform with his sword. I want to be just like him one day.

I breathe out loudly. All these thoughts are making my head hurt so I throw my pillow over my head to stop hearing them. It doesn't work very good but it keeps my ears warm and blocks out the light of the full moon.

It doesn’t block out the sudden shake of my bed.

The dishes clink downstairs and I hear Papa’s footsteps lead to the front door while Mama rushes up to my room. She bursts through the door and sweeps me into her arms. I'm not sure why but she seems panicked in the way she strokes my hair and tells me everything is fine. 

We stay like that until Papa comes to join us. He doesn’t look sad or happy or really anything at all, but then he sighs and sits on the edge of my bed. 

“Nothing seems out of the ordinary,” he says, likely more to Mama than to me. “It could have just been a small earthquake. Best to return to the castle in the morning just to be sure.” I feel Mama’s nod as her chin bumps into my head, and I push myself away.

“You just got here, my love,” Mama says. She sounds as sad as she is tired.

I pout when he looks at me. It’s not normal for him to leave right after getting back. For some reason, that pulls a smile from him and he ruffles my hair. I grimace in protest.

“I’ll be gone just a couple of days. I just need to make sure the king is okay. I’m his guardsman after all.” He winks at me and it makes me feel a little bit better because guarding the king is pretty amazing. 

“The midwives seem to think our little one will be here soon.” Mama goes to hold Papa’s hand, but they’re already hugging. She continues into his sleeve, “You’ll be back before then, yes?”

The quiet alarm in her voice makes me upset, but I don’t want to cry before he leaves. It would make her more sad.

“Knight’s honor,” he says suddenly to me and wraps his pinky around mine. Satisfied, I let Mama tuck me back into bed and bid them goodnight. Luckily, the light shining through the window has dimmed and sleep washes easily over me.

I’m two years old when I start dreaming of moons as red as blood.

By four, I’m already being taught basic sword formations and can compete against older kids and some adults. Papa is adamant that I’m more than capable and everyday I strive to prove myself. The Zora’s sword is my weapon of choice, a gift from King Dorephan and Princess Mipha. They say I am talented, say I will become a knight that will surpass all others. I think that means I will be very strong.

Which is really, really cool. I meet a lot of new people in Zora’s Domain, including a fish named Bazz—we even made a club! I try out a lot of new weapons I haven’t seen before and help the other kids learn too. In turn, they teach me how to swim. Papa says I’m as good as a fish now.

The absolute best part is that Princess Mipha has this power to heal me. My scraped knees and bruised elbows are instantly gone! It’s-It’s magical! Papa says to not “take advantage” of Princess Mipha, but she says she’s happy to heal me, and wouldn’t it be rude to make her unhappy by not getting hurt? 

Right now, she’s fixing up a scratch on my leg and I can’t help but be amazed every time I see the glow of her hands. “You’re very reckless, you know,” she says, but she’s smiling so it can’t be all that bad.

“Mama says that a lot,” I grin, “But you make all the pain go away!”

“And you’re always welcomed here to get your wounds healed,” she agrees gently. The princess always speaks so soft, much like Mama when Aryll and I aren’t fighting over toys. I think Mipha is pretty like Mama too.

I remember Papa saying that the princess at the castle is also pretty. Were all princesses pretty? 

“Are all princesses pretty like you, Mipha?”

She giggles. “Well, Link, princesses always have to look their best.”

I look down at my tattered pants, ripped from snagging on some rocks. I blow hair off my face. “I’m glad I’m not a princess.”

She pats my head. “Actually, I think you would make a very handsome prince.”

“Really?” I ask in wonderment. “Can I be your prince one day?”

She blinks and laughs even more, pulling me into a hug. “Oh my, aren’t you Hylians the sweetest?”

I’m not sure what that means, but I laugh anyway.

I think of something as I see the moon rise in the distance. It’s something I’ve talked to Papa and Mama about, but they think it’s just a silly thing I imagined. 

“Princess Mipha, is the moon ever red?”

She frowns, “No, I’ve never seen such a thing.”

But I see it often in my dreams. It makes the sky glow like fire and drips of sadness and hatred. Sometimes I wake up crying. Sometimes I feel like I’m crying for someone else. Papa said that knights should never cry.

I’m getting older. I need to act like it too.

“Are you alright, Link?” 

I look at my healed leg and my clean hands and there’s no more pain, so I nod.

At seven, I attend my first funeral. Father said the Queen suddenly passed due to an illness and we had to pay our respects. I don’t really understand everything, but I stand between Father and Ma as several carriages pass. Aryll is cradled in Father’s arms and everyone around us is very, very quiet.

Later, I’m standing in the grass outside the Temple of Time. Everyone is wearing black, and even Father’s uniform is different to match the event. It’s hot out—unbearably bright for the occasion that seems so colorless. I wander off to find a place to sit with shade.

I see the perfect tree, but someone is already standing under it. As I get closer, I see that it’s a girl around my age. Her bright, almost golden, blonde hair is veiled under a dark headpiece and her eyes are trained to ground. I think she looks cute, but also really sad, as if she wants to cry but for whatever reason, can’t.

I look around for something to cheer her up; Father always says it’s not good to leave a maiden upset, which is why he usually apologizes to Ma first when they argue. I spy a few blue flowers with white tips and pick one up. As I approach her, I feel a bit shy. With how elaborate her gown is, she is clearly someone of the upper class. Maybe my flower will be worthless in her eyes.

She catches sight of me before I can change my mind though, and I brace myself with the courage knights are supposed to have. Marching straight to her, I jut out my hand and present the flower. It actually smells nice, thankfully.

“For you,” I say, trying to hold my head high, or at least at eye-level. She looks stunned, but reaches out her small hand until it’s secure around the stem.

Green. Her eyes are green and wide as she stares between me and the flower. “Thank you,” she smiles, and my heart beats loudly in my ears. It’s not a very big smile, but it’s beautiful nonetheless.

But now I need some kind of response. Should I say, “You’re welcome”? Or “Anytime”? Should I ask what’s making her so sad? 

I’m saved from saying anything at all when I hear a soft voice call out to me. I turn to see Princess Mipha, and grin.

“Mipha!” I wave, not expecting to see her here, but I suppose I should have since it’s a royal event. It’s been a few years since I’ve last been to the Domain, but she hardly looks any different.

“Your father is looking all over for you, Link. You shouldn’t run off like that. What are you—Oh!” She notices the girl standing behind me and bows. “Your high—”

“Princess Mipha,” the girl interrupts in a tone too regal and too old for someone her age, “please keep his burdens away.”

Mipha kneels, though I’m not sure why. But all she says is, “Yes, of course,” before the girl walks past us and back to the temple. 

It’s only when she steps out from the shade do I notice that the flower seemed to have been glowing—and that she’s keeping it clutched tightly to her chest.

That night, we stay at an inn near the Dueling Peaks. The beds are small, but I share one with Father as Ma shares with Aryll. We’re all very tired, so sleep comes to us effortlessly.

In my dreams, I feel a kiss on my forehead. It’s lighter than that of my mother’s but warmer than the midsummer’s heat. A breeze brushes the hair from my face like a gentle caress, and I hear a hum—an angelic voice whispering something I can’t make out, but it doesn’t seem urgent. It’s rather comforting, if anything. 

It takes me a while to notice, but since then, I stop dreaming of blood moons.

At ten, I am proficient with daggers, spears, and bows. My father suggests an early knighthood. My mother disagrees. Aryll asks if that means I will be rescuing princesses. I don’t think it sounds bad. Sometimes, I imagine green eyes with that sad expression, and think she doesn’t even have to be a princess.

I am knighted at the age of twelve; the youngest ever to receive the denomination. I join my father at the castle, bashful but unafraid under the watchful gazes. More than anything, it’s excitement that tickles me. The Sanctum is humongous—bigger than our entire house, possibly even bigger than the mayor’s house! It takes a lot of self-control to keep my eyes from wandering. 

The King stands before us on the dais. I try not to fidget too much when he tells me to step forward and kneel. He recites his commands, I recite my oaths, and the tip of a sword descends on each of my shoulders, heavy despite the gentle manner of it.

I stand and melt into the background with my father. As we’re dismissed, I temper my dismay that the princess is not present. I’ve always wondered what she looked like. I’ve heard she is beautiful. 

As if on cue, a small procession of handmaidens enter the room. The queen is difficult to miss, immaculate in her poise and fineries. Next to her is a young girl, even younger than Aryll. Her dress matches the queen’s, so there’s no question as to who she is.

My head is down when they pass, and though I can barely glimpse her, my heart falls in disappointment.

Somehow, the princess is not what I expect.

Most of the knights are far older than me, the next youngest being Mags, who is sixteen years of age. While they all have a tendency to tease me, they are kind. Well, at least most of them are. It takes less than a day for the first guy to challenge me, and then the rest decide to forgo their turn. Father is very proud that day.

About a month in, the castle receives a visitor. His name is Revali, and he praises himself to be the best bowman in Hyrule. I try not to stare—he’s the first Rito I’ve ever seen—when he waltzes into the barracks demanding a contest with, well, me. So tall and blue and full of feathers—and so full of it. Even if I had wanted to decline, Mags wouldn’t have let me. 

Several archery courses are set up for the next day, three stages with progressing difficulty. Revali has a wooden bow with golden, winged tips strapped across his back, which admittedly looks much more formidable than the knight’s bow I currently hold. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned growing up, it’s that the weapon doesn’t make the warrior. 

There are more spectators than I thought there would be. Even the royal family is seated high on one of the balconies, shaded with possibly one of the best views of the events. It heightens my nerves, but in an adrenaline inducing way. I feel the rush of blood in my arteries, the warmth in my muscles, the tautness of the tendons tethered to my bones. I will not lose. Not with her watching.

Her?

“Are you ready, kid?” Revali sneers, not bothering to mask the condescendence in his tone. I’ve been raised on good manners and hospitality, but my brows furrow at his leer. 

I say nothing if only to refrain from being scolded by Father later. Actions speak louder than words, he would say, and Revali will be too busy eating my dust to say much more. 

Both of us approach the shooting line with bows in hand and quivers attached to either our hip or low back. Several turf-molded targets sit in the distance at varying meters from us. It’s an untimed event, and Revali naturally wants to go first. I watch because it is never a good idea to underestimate an opponent. It turns out that the Rito is not all talk—he nails all five targets with smooth strokes and at a speed faster than most people can even blink. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s astonishing.

I nock my arrows one at a time, aiming for the bullseyes, and while they each hit their mark, it takes a bit of compensation on my behalf. To my dismay, Revali’s bow is clearly superior with the ease in which he can shoot, and I’ll have to adjust for the difference. There may have been some claps in the background, but they fall deaf to my ears.

The second stage involves moving targets—balloons and throwing discs. The discs are worth twice as much as the balloons, and whoever scores the most points in a minute wins. At the sound of the horn, we both fire.

Arrogance is unbecoming, Father tells me constantly. I’ve been gifted with reflexes and strength that are envied by many, so it’s important for me to keep a leveled head. I take his words to heart; those truly skilled need not show off. But when I see Revali drawing back three arrows simultaneously, defiance flares in my blood. He’s a fast shot, faster than I, and that will surely put him ahead at this rate.

That is, if I can’t follow suit.

I nock five arrows and watch the targets, prioritizing the discs over the balloons. From what I can tell thus far, Revali has not necessarily been strategic, confident that he can outshoot me so well the difference in point-worth will matter little.

Arrogance can also be one’s undoing. 

Within my vision, the targets slow until they’re at a near standstill. My eyes seek out the discs hovering as if they are filled with air themselves, the tautness of the bowstring digging into my fingers. 

I release. 

The arrows fly at their appointed trajectories, shafts bending in the recoil of the string. Within my palm, the plated silver of the bow hums, Hyrule’s emblem glistening in the sunlight as if the winged beast will rise and take flight itself. And maybe that is exactly what’s perceived with how seamlessly the arrows pierce air to pierce targets, the whistle of the wind a phoenix’s screech as it strikes prey with divine precision. 

I don’t stop, practiced hands curling around fletchings, drawing and releasing repeatedly until the horn goes off again. I am panting slightly, but not from fatigue. On the contrary, my fingers twitch by my side, itching to continue. 

The referee recites the score. 113 balloons and 37 discs for Revali. I suppress a smirk, having kept a record of my own points.

99 balloons and 46 discs.

This time, I do hear the applause, but I fix my eyes on Revali. To his credit, he meets my gaze head-on, though huffs and looks away as we’re called for the final event. Perhaps I should be thanking him for sparking the fire in my veins, to give me a chance to prove that I am worthy of my title.

...Title? I am merely a knight. The youngest in history, yes, but otherwise titleless, and no one in the barracks is questioning my skills. I had thought myself to be a better swordsman than bowman anyhow; it’s interesting that Revali decided I was worth his time to come all the way down from the Hebra mountains.

There is little time to ponder the details, however, with the next bout starting. There is only one target this time, set on the parapet of Castle Town’s gates, with our starting point at the iron double doors of the castle’s entrance. The first to strike the bullseye wins, and it’s very apparent that this course favors those who are more aerial prone. I can feel Revali’s conceit without even glancing at him. I thought the previous stage would’ve taught him to tone down his pomposity.

The horn blows and I grab onto Revali’s leg just as he takes flight. As he ricochets up, I am airborne as well, much to his horror. I let go before he can attempt to kick me off and withdraw the paraglider I kept folded up in my quiver. “You’re competing against a bird,” Mags had said, and I’m eternally grateful for his forethought. 

Revali’s shock stalls him enough to buy me some time to glide ahead, but not nearly as much as I had hoped for. From the corner of my eyes, I see him nocking an arrow. I bite out a curse. He might be further but his bow shoots faster. I nock an arrow as well, wait half a second, and fire. 

In that instant, Revali’s arrow whizzes by my ear. It stays afloat for the barest of moments before the sharp edges of mine tears at its fletching and derails it from its path. The thud of my arrowhead sinking into turf is loud despite the distance still remaining. I know he hears it too. 

At the winning shot, cheers erupt from the audience that gathered beneath us. When my feet touch the ground, I immediately turn, grin maybe just a bit smug, and scan the crowd for—

Father? The King? Perhaps...the princess?

Before I can think more on it, Mags jumps on me. “Like a true hero! Defending our honor!”

I laugh with him, stamping down the strange unease that just transpired. It felt like I was seeking someone’s approval, though I’m not even sure whose.

And yet, even as Revali gives me a begrudging nod and my fellow knights lift me onto their shoulders, my eyes continue flitting through all the faces in the crowd, searching but never finding.

For Mags’s eighteenth birthday, a group of us head to Telma’s Bar, a tavern in Castle Town. I’m still too young to drink, but everyone insists that my presence won’t be an issue. 

Allon says I need to learn how to woo girls. He arranges our seats so that I’m next to a girl who looks to be about my age. She’s cute with her short, pale-colored hair. I tell her as much.

She snorts. “Thanks?”

I shrug, “You’re welcome,” and make a subtle gesture to the other boys who are clearly listening in. She laughs before sticking out her hand.

“I’m Ilia. Just passing through the area on our way to Faron.” Two adults on the other side of her, whom I assume are her parents, wave at me. I shake her hand before waving back.

“Link. I’m a knight at the castle.”

She raises a skeptical brow. “A knight? You can’t be older than twelve.”

I make a face. “Fourteen.”

“Hah! I’m still older.”

Ilia, unsurprisingly, is all sharp tongue and smart remarks. She hears of my accolades and merely rolls her eyes. I feel like I should take offense; instead, I laugh with her at the laundry list associated with my name.

The night ends with a kiss on my cheek and a wink from Ilia as she says, “You’re a natural at this.”

Kent teases me about Ilia but I assure him that more insults were exchanged than compliments. He argues that insults can also be a form of flirtation, though I find that questionable. If the number of insults corresponded with the degree of adoration, then the Princess would be in love with me.

I stop so suddenly in my trek that all three run straight into me. Thank goodness for reflexes, or else we all would’ve wound up on the ground.

“Link, are you alright?” Allon asks, the most sober out of all of them (though that isn’t saying much). I thought of biting my tongue, lest I risk sounding insane, but the likelihood of them remembering any of this is slim.

“Does the princess hate me for some odd reason?” Even my question sounds unsure, as if I’m not asking the right question at all.

“Have you even spoken to the princess? Because we sure haven’t.”

“Aw, Little Link has always been a special case though,” Kent slurs. “Why? Got a crush on our Crown Princess?”

“No,” I say, in regards to both inquiries, and yet, something feels misplaced.

At fifteen, I become part of the Royal Guard, and the knights take me out to Telma’s and thrust the first pretty girl they see into my face. I’m flustered but she seems interested, so I follow her when she invites me to a room upstairs.

“My name is Lucy,” she says in case I need a name to call out. She leads us in this dance of skin to skin and entangled limbs, of pleasure and release, and when our sweaty bodies lie side by side, she asks to see me again. I hesitate, but ultimately nod.

I push aside the thought that she smells like warm safflina, like summer days in Hyrule fields tucked under shaded trees. That when I close my eyes and drown in the scent, I forget that her name is not right and that her hands are too coarse, and that the laughter I yearn for sounds nothing like her at all. Because none of that makes sense; I have no other to compare her to, and yet I seek her out a few days later to feel that unsettling ache of falling on plush clouds only to plummet to the earth. Almost familiar, almost comforting, but in the end, not.

There are a few girls in between, but when I’m promoted to captain the next year, I find Lucy again. She no longer smells like warm safflina—a change of perfume—and I no longer feel the need for her caress again.

At seventeen, I am assigned to the princess herself as her appointed knight. 

Until now, we’ve never really spoken. She has always been shy and my unusual disappointment never faded. But today she is presented as my charge, adorn in Hyrule’s blue and gold, and something shifts inside me, uncomfortably so. Perhaps it’s because the clothes don’t seem to fit her, like she’s not meant to wear them, but isn’t that a blasphemous thought? And yet, the layers seem too heavy for a young girl to bear, and the princess is precisely that—young. Fourteen years of age with long mahogany locks and cheeks still rounded in her youth. It’s odd to reason that she requires extra protection in this era of peace, but I suspect there’s more to it with the way she keeps her gaze to the ground and pink dusts her cheeks. When she finally looks up at me, it’s with piercing sage-colored irises behind dilated pupils, and I am struck with overwhelming nostalgia. 

Her eyes are the same.

The same as whose? 

I kneel as I accept my position, chest pounding with an unanticipated realization. Since I’ve arrived at the castle, I’ve been in constant search of something, or rather, someone, but who is this person? I rack my brain to find an image of a girl who fits the few clues I have—green eyes, warm safflina—but come up empty. I nearly miss the order to rise. 

The princess, Princess Alya, is beaming as she takes my proffered arm to escort her back to her rooms. It’s strange; I almost wish I saw her fingers curl into a fist instead.

A few months later, I request leave to visit a friend—Daruk, leader of the Gorons. To my astonishment, the princess wishes to join my trip, so I am tasked with putting together a small entourage to escort her to Death Mountain. It’s not a trek I would recommend for anyone, and certainly not the princess, but the King left no room for arguments. I am glad to be able to recruit Allon and Kent, along with Lyra to tend to any feminine needs of the princess, at the very least.

The climb up the mountain is grueling even with the aid of fire elixirs. Everyone grumbles about the heat, about how they feel like they might catch on fire at any moment, and I bite my tongue to keep from making any smart remarks. I am offered a reprieve when we arrive at Goron City; Daruk whisks me away as his wife, Elena, tends to the others. We’re standing atop Stolock Bridge, overseeing the town, when he gives me a far too generous pat on the back.

“How’s it going, Little Guy? I see you’ve been assigned the princess’s appointed knight. What an honor!”

Discreetly rubbing my back, I nod. “It’s she who wanted to tag along today.”

His grin is blinding and wide as boulders. “That must mean you’re getting along well!”

I shrug. “I don’t know her well. I’m not sure why she requested me, either.”

Daruk scoffs and goes in for another pat, one I narrowly avoid. He laughs at my nimbleness. “That’s a no brainer! I have never met anyone as good at a sword than you. Why, I could have sworn you were part Goron with your resilience when we met.”

I smile at that, an idea forming in my head. “I bet I could beat you to the peak,” I say, crouching down in preparation to sprint. 

Daruk bumps his fists together. “You’re on!”

We dash to the south side of the bridge, skidding down the sides and ridges and passing the hot springs. We scrape by each other as we weave in and out of the narrow path, the sleeve of my tunic catching on the coarseness of his shoulders. He curls into a ball and rolls when he can; I launch myself from rock to boulder to avoid being trampled. Luckily for me, it’s an uphill battle, and my light form allows me to cross the Bridge of Eldin first. The heat rises as we near the center of Death Mountain, the lava beneath us bubbling menacingly. As I start my climb, I squint to keep out the ember particles flitting through the air. They glow like tiny star fragments; majestic if they didn’t threaten to sear the eyes. My grip almost slips on a ledge due to the sweat on my palm, but I catch myself with my other hand. 

Daruk thunders past me with a glance, “Don’t fall too far behind, Little Guy!”

I shoot him a snarky smirk of my own, all teeth as they grind together to heave myself up. For such a large guy, Daruk knows how to navigate the canyon quicker than anyone else I’ve ever met. I almost skid to a stop when I see him pause at a large, metal-framed cannon. 

He flips into a ball, stuffing himself into the muzzle, and flies. 

I curse under my breath—I should have known he would have tricks prepared for this. As I continue to ascend, legs and arms pushing and pulling as hard as they can go, I spot two more cannons and fail to suppress a groan. My fate is surely sealed now.

Daruk stands triumphantly at the top, not at all winded, when I crest the final edge. I shoot him my best glare, but all it does is send him into a laughing fit. 

“Good effort, Little Guy! I haven’t had that much fun in ages!”

He swings, and I brace myself for the impact. Even so, I still stumble forward, toes straining to keep me upright. 

Circling behind him, I throw my arm around him the best I can. “Come by the castle sometime. There are lots of hills and open spaces. I can show you how to shield surf.”

“Not on that puny thing you carry around, I hope.”

He’s got a point. “We’ll find something.”

We make our way down the mountain at a much more tempered pace than how we went up. Elena is there to greet us at the bottom, little Callan tucked at her feet. 

“Uh oh,” Daruk says under his breath, though it likely comes out louder than he intends. Elena has her hands on her hips.

“I knew that was you! I can’t believe you took a Hylian, the princess’s appointed knight, no less, up that death trap! What would we have told the King if he had gotten hurt?” Before Daruk can retort, she turns to me. “And you! Shouldn't you know better than to indulge him?”

There’s a howl of laughter from behind the two, and I peek around to see my travel companions piled behind the chieftainess and her son. Lyra is doing her best to keep a straight face, but Allon and Kent are in tears. The princess is not-so-subtly giggling behind her hand. 

Allon comes up and socks me in the shoulder. “I never thought I’d see the day you, of all people, get scolded.”

Kent follows behind and rests his arm on my other shoulder. “I thought the Princess would be the only one to. Who else could reprimand the Hero?”

Allon kicks Kent in the shin but all I do is stare. “Hero?”

Yet it’s Princess Alya who responds, stepping up with hands folded in front of her. “It seems you enjoy playing hero, Sir Link. You know, there’s a fine line between recklessness and courage. You ought to be more careful.”

As brave as you are, that does not make you immortal. 

My fingers fly to my forehead, a ghost of a touch lingering in the brief wisp of wind. There’s a stutter in my heartbeat as it gallops into something quick and unsteady. 

What did I just hear?

Princess Alya sidles closer, and Allon and Kent step away to give her room. She reaches up, brushes my hair aside, the emerald of her eyes glinting with concern. “What’s wrong? Did you get a cut?”

Green, so green. Bottomless. Enchanting. I had wanted to touch her, then.

When?

I blink, the princess’s face coming into focus. I reel back slightly.

“No,” I answer. To her or her question, I’m not quite sure.

The Gerudo Desert is scorching by day and leaves its inhabitants shivering by night. Being that it’s currently high noon, the sun is beating down relentlessly and our livery absorbs the heat as if we are part of the sand that dips and stretches beyond the horizon. As Captain of the Royal Guard and newly Appointed Knight to the princess, I am part of the procession that accompanies the Royal Family to meet the Gerudo Chief, Urbosa. Rumor has it that the king and the chieftain are not on good terms with one another despite maintaining cordial political relations. There are not many details as to why this is, though once upon a time, maybe as recent as a decade ago, this was not the case. 

To our fortune, the meeting is conducted at Kara Kara Bazaar as men are not allowed into Gerudo Town, and not even the King will be made an exception to that rule. 

Several tents and canopies are pitched around the watering hole, though the most massive sits to the south with Chief Urbosa upon a makeshift throne and her guards standing at attention by her side. They are formidable in stature and build, every bit the warriors acclaimed in stories and songs. Part of me itches to trade blows with them, craves for battle that has been unseen by the land for centuries.

The meeting drags on for several long hours, going into the late afternoon. My limbs are stiff from standing, though no one else seems to be faring any better. Princess Alya has been restless the entire time.

Urbosa adjourns the formal gathering and commands for food and drinks to be brought out. To our luck, the weather has cooled a bit, and we are no longer sweating as we rotate through our posts for meals. I am one of the last to eat, settling by the fire with three large plates as the moon begins to rise. The knights are used to this, but the Gerudo soldiers show a mixture of shock and approval.

I inhale the food, feeling rejuvenated and reclining into a comfortable seated position. The fire whips and flickers before me, warm and granting light to the darkness. It should be comforting, and yet, something about the desert unsettles me.

Unexpectedly, the Chief  approaches. I go to stand but she waves her hand and situates herself on the ground next to me.

“Nice night out, isn’t it?” she asks casually, leaning back on both arms. I nod, albeit cautiously, curious of what she’s seeking from me. “But somehow, I sense that you’re ill at ease. Care to share your thoughts?”

Hesitant to be too forthcoming, I simply say, “The desert is unfamiliar to me.”

“And is very unforgiving for all who come unprepared.”

I refrain from reaching for my sword, though my distrust is blatant. “What should we be prepared for?”

She laughs at my wariness. It’s loud; garners attention. I don’t find it funny. “I like you, little voe . What’s your name?”

“Link, Chieftain.” I sit up straighter, trying to conceal any more signs of weakness she might pick out from me. “Captain of the Royal Guard and the princess’s Appointed Knight.”

“Oh? Quite the embellishments you have for being so young.” She takes my chin, tilting it to examine my face. “And very pretty for a voe .” 

I’m not sure how to take that. 

But she lets go and gives me a look before sighing and gazing up at the stars. It’s an odd flip in mood, one that makes her unpredictable. “She’d be about your age now. I think she would have liked you.” A scoff. “Though she might not have admitted it so easily.”

My heart stirs instantly. This has my attention. “Who?”

If Urbosa notices my sudden interest, she does not react to it. “A little bird who has spread her wings much too soon. Perhaps she longed to be with her mother.”

The implications make me anxious, seizes something in my chest, and that very same something tells me the Gerudo Chief has the answers I’ve been searching for. It’s disrespectful to pry, but if I can get a name... 

“Might I ask—”

“Link!” Father calls. My jaw locks painfully. Urbosa seems amused at my reluctance.

“Go on, little voe. We’ll chat another time.”

I nod my assent, gathering my sword and shield. The short exchange leaves my heart pounding, and I can’t shake that Urbosa holds a large piece of the puzzle. I make a personal note to make good of her word. 

Father is standing with a few of the Gerudo soldiers. I salute to him when I approach, but he throws a casual arm around my shoulders.

“This is my boy, Link. He’s the best fighter we’ve got here.”

The soldiers look skeptical, gazes flitting up and down to assess my height and build. 

“Really?” says one.

“I’d like to see it with my own eyes,” says another.

My fingers twitch and Father is smirking at me. “What do you say, Link? Care for a demonstration?”

I nod, grinning. “Any takers?”

The third soldier steps up. She’s taller than the other two and doesn’t look as quick to assume. “I’ll take you. Mari’s the name.”

“Well, Mari,” I greet, unsheathing my sword, “It’ll be my pleasure.”

A circle forms around us as she draws her weapons too—a scimitar and a jeweled shield rounded at the top and pointed at the bottom. She goes into a battle stance and, a split second later, charges. I deflect with my shield, shoving her back and sweeping down with a blow. She swerves, narrowly avoiding my blade, then unleashes a flurry of slashes. I parry some, dodge others, before backflipping out of her range completely. Pivoting, I bring my sword up for a spin attack—

“Somebody help me!”

The crowd promptly disperses, and my eyes immediately dart out to the sands, searching for the source of the voice. 

The princess. Where is she?

I scan the desert, trying to make out anything in the darkness. It’s difficult to see, even more difficult to hear as everyone begins to scramble around. I clutch onto my sword, force my sight to adjust.

A flash of blonde and my feet are moving, sprinting towards the Princess.

She’s running a short distance away from the bazaar, gown billowing behind her. Horrifyingly, even further behind are three masked figures dressed in red, sickles bradished and glinting in the moonlight. Her slippers catch her dress and she comes tumbling down, a sharp cry tearing from her lips. One of the figures cackles, sickle raised high into the air before it’s thrusted down —

I strike fast, intervening the blow and disarming the attacker. I place myself in front of the Princess, using my body as a barrier to put distance between her and the clansmen. Rage courses blindingly through me—how dare the Yiga go after my Charge—and I ready my blade to pay them their due retribution. All three lunge at once, predictably so. I grab the closest one and hurl him towards the other two. One avoids the hit by kicking off the body, launching himself in the air, but my sword is poised to pierce. I twist, swinging around and glimpsing the Princess before I—

That’s not her. 

The edge of the sickle slices into my forearm, and I grit my teeth to muffle a pained grunt. I twist again, this time landing the blow, slashing into the Yiga’s chest. The blood is gurgling in his throat as he dissipates into smoke.

The other soldiers come rushing in, spears and swords wielded and readied for assault. Chief Urbosa steps through, the spark in her gaze speaking of nothing but fury. 

Her voice booms like thunder, “Have you not done enough harm?” And her fingers snap. 

A bolt of lightning juts from the skies and shocks the remaining two. I glare down at them as they collapse into a heap on to the ground, sword raised in promise. But before I can drive it down, their hands clasp together to form some kind of symbol, and they vanish in a puff of smoke. 

“Cowards,” I growl beneath my breath, lowering my sword, but I dare not loosen my grip even as a sharp pain shoots up my arm. 

At the sound of whimpers, I turn. Princess Alya is weeping on the desert ground, understandably terrified, with the queen and several handmaidens trying to console her. Not too far away, the King, Chief Urbosa, and Father are speaking in harsh, hushed tones and the entire encampment is surrounded by an encirclement of Gerudo and Hylian soldiers. I wish to join the conversation—there are too many unanswered questions—but I am bound to stay by the princess’s side. The princess, whose tear-stained cheeks are reasonably still moist and smeared with what was once delicately placed pigment and powders.

And yet, I feel frustrated. Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline. Maybe it’s anger that the Yiga had the audacity to underestimate the Royal Guard. Maybe it’s the inexplicable fear that had seized my chest. But all I can think is, She didn’t cry. 

I take the pommel of my sword and slam the blade into the sand as if willing it to rip a fissure in the ground and expose the truth to me. Because the truth is there—somewhere—but just as I begin to grasp it, it slips through my fingers like precious water in a drought. 

Who is it that I’m thinking of? Who is it that I once protected; why am I not protecting her now? I keep recalling vague instances, but when did they even occur?

And why, why can’t I remember?

The cut on my forearm is slow to heal, likely due to some kind of poison, so the King grants me permission to travel to Zora’s Domain. It’s been a little over a year since I’ve gone back, but knowing how the Zora age, I doubt anything has changed. 

In fact, the same two guards are stationed at the entrance. The only difference is that Mipha is waiting by them as well.

“Link,” she greets, tone soft as ever, “What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”

I grin at her, albeit sheepishly. “Nothing that will surprise you, I’m sure.”

We share a hug and she hooks her arm around my elbow, leading me up to one of the shallow pools on the upper deck of the Domain. There’s a box sitting behind her, but I think nothing of it. Tossing my shoes aside, I let my feet soak in the waters and Mipha scrutinizes the cut on my forearm. Her eyes narrow at the sight.

“This is quite deep, Link. What ever happened to have caused this?”

Recalling the night in the Gerudo Desert leaves me feeling discontent, so all I say is, “A Yiga attack.”

“After all these years?” she frowns, worry etching into her features. “I hope this is not a premonition of something foreboding.”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly, thinking of the unease that seems to perpetually follow me. I study Mipha, whose age is ill-reflected in her youthful appearance. As a magic user, she might have more insight. “Mipha, have you ever felt like you’re looking for someone?”

She quirks her head to the side. “Like when Sidon runs off?”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Not quite. Like someone should be here—” with me “—but they’re not. Not hiding. Just not...there.” Her amber eyes shimmer in confusion, and I shake my head, feeling a bit defeated. “I’m not making sense. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Mipha cradles my arm in one hand and hovers the other above the cut. “It sounds like you’re missing someone. It can be lonely waiting to be reunited with them.”

My brows furrow at the thought. Am I missing this person? This person whose face I can’t even picture? Despite what I know to be logical, it fits like another piece of the puzzle.

I miss her.

She may be a mystery, but I know her eyes and the sound of her voice and the feel of her skin beneath my touch. Her hair is light, a color that catches well on the glow of the moon, and she pretends she’s okay even when she’s not. She smells like home but not like the house in Hateno—rather a place where my heart can soak in warmth, finally at ease. And, above all, I miss her.

I am drawn out of my reverie by the gentle hum and luminosity of Mipha’s healing magic. It sends a tingling sensation up my arm, and though it is painless, I can feel the pull of skin as the tissues converge. I suppress a shudder.

Mipha smiles. “You know, this reminds me of the time we first met.”

I smile, too. “That’s a long time ago.”

“Yes,” she giggles, “You were just a reckless child, though you’re not much different now. Always getting yourself hurt at every turn. And every time, I would heal you, just like I am doing here.” She takes a breath, seeming almost wistful. “I thought it was funny how, being a Hylian, you look grown-up so much faster than I did. I was always willing to heal your wounds. Even back then.”

The wound closes up flawlessly, but she continues to grip my arm. I feel her hands shake slightly, as if she is...nervous?

“I...I hope to continue to do so, in the future. I hope to stay by your side.”

Something churns in my gut. “Mipha?”

She clears her throat, letting go of my arm and reaching for the box behind her.

“It’s customary for the Zora to create armor for their future intended, and I am at the age where seeking a husband is to be expected. There is no one I would deem more suitable for the role than you.”

She presents the box to me, and I peer in to see the contents. Folded within is a meticulously made suit of blue and silver scales. It’s a handsome set, and something tells me it would fit me perfectly, but the only thing I can register is, “Marriage?”

The Zora Princess nods. “As you’ve said, we’ve known each other for a long time. I think we would be a good match.” Then, quieter, “Father approves.”

My mind is reeling. There has been so much going on—the Yiga, this unexplained yearning, my duties to the Crown—marriage has been the farthest from my thoughts.

I tell her so. “Mipha, I...haven’t even considered marriage.”

A hint of distress enters her tone. “You’re approaching eighteen. I believe this is around the time Hylians seek suitors too. Have I misunderstood your customs?”

“No, you haven’t—”

“Is it the princess? I know you have been spending more time with her as her guard.” Her fingers fiddle with each other. “We could spend more time together, too, before you make your decision. I would like that as well.”

My stomach sinks. Mipha has been one of my longest and dearest friends; it disheartens me to see her upset. I think any soul would be lucky to have her as a partner in life, but mine has been calling (searching, reaching) out to someone else’s.

I take her hands in mine. “You’re wonderful and kind, beautiful and just. Mipha, I...Marriage is not something I see for myself soon. And this,” I gesture to the grandeur of the Domain, “I don’t know how to be king of this. ” Because that is what it would amount to, to marry the Zora Princess.

“We would teach you,” she says quickly, “and everyone loves you already. We want to be your home.” Shreds of hope cling onto her words.

I find myself wishing I could appease her, be the person she wants me to be because Mipha deserves everything she wants and nothing less. But home smells like warm safflina, and not of blossoms and waterfalls, no matter how enticing the latter might be.

“I’m sorry, Mipha...I can’t.” 

She lets me pull her into an embrace, but I feel like it does little to comfort her heart.

“It’s quite a nice day out,” Princess Alya says as we ride through Irich Plains, “Thank you for taking this excursion with me.”

“Of course, princess,” I reply diligently, even though we both know it’s part of my duty to follow her.  We’re set at a leisurely pace, allowing the horses to trot as they pleased, as the princess gazes across the vantage point.

“Hyrule certainly has many varieties of flowers and plants. You know, I hear they can be used as ingredients in elixirs.”

I peer at her curiously. I had not taken her as someone who would be interested in such things. 

She catches my look. “What? Did I impress you? Father treats me like a child, but I’ll have you know I am just as much of a scholarly woman as—”

“Hello there!” The princess and I swerve to find a young man with white hair waving at us. He’s dressed in a kind of cream-colored robe lined with red. In his hand is a lyre, which he makes a few passes through to generate a simple tune. “Care to hear a song from an old bard?”

A Sheikah. He’s a Sheikah. I’m astonished to see one traveling about. It is said that they’re in hiding, tucked in a deep canyon somewhere after a disagreement with the Crown centuries ago. 

“Sir?” He waves the lyre in my face and I jerk back. When had he gotten so close? “A song for your lady?”

I stutter. “She’s not my lad—”

“Excuse me, Bard,” Princess Alya sneers. This startles me; she’s not usually so aggressive. “You are in the presence of the Princess of Hyrule. I demand a respectful greeting.”

“Is that so?” the bard has the audacity to bite back. “Perhaps if you held yourself like one, I’d be more inclined to.”

“Why you—”

“—Oh, did I hit a nerve, you im—”

My blade is pointed at his neck before either of them can finish their sentences. 

“That mannerism can be seen as treason to the Crown,” I glower, something about the presence of this man prickling at my nerves. “I suggest you bow to the princess.” 

To my further annoyance, he meets my gaze with a leveled stare. “One song and I’ll go.”

I am about to deny him, completely vexed at the way he ignores my commands, when the princess interrupts with a hand on my arm. “It’s fine, Sir Link,” she assures kindly, cheeks slightly flushed, but then turns to the Sheikah and says, “It better be good.”

The man just smirks, and I am baffled at the exchange. They’ve greeted one another like strangers, but behave as if they have met before. 

He strums the strings of the lyre before I can think more of it, a soft hum passing through his lips. It’s...disconcertingly hypnotic.

He sings,

Long ago, a princess in despair

Dressed in white with golden hair

Blessed by the Goddesses, she is said to be

Yet nothing prepared her for Calamity

The kingdom of Hylia — under attack

With her powers, she drives it back

But as it is in time of war

The weight of the losses is one she bores

Even now, she lies await

Within his slumber, she prays and prays

Only one wish I am here to send

Let her smile like a rose once again

It is only when the last chord is struck that I regain awareness of my surroundings, and I am left with a sense of melancholy churning in my stomach.

“Well, what do you think?” 

“It’s adequate,” the princess sniffs, but at the same time, I say, “The sun.”

They both turn to me. “What?”

I clear my throat, suddenly embarrassed and not wholly sure why I feel the need to correct him. “She has a smile like the sun.”

The poet looks at me in awe and I shift rather uncomfortably. “Do you know who I sing of?” 

“I—” Yes. “No. I don’t.”

Princess Alya straightens up on her horse and saves me from saying much more. “Well, Bard, be on your way.”

Hateno is a town of lush fields and endless sunshine, sea salt air and ocean breezes. Our house is located near the water’s edge, just far enough from the rest of the town to afford some privacy. I try to come home whenever opportunity permits, though that sometimes means I go without Father. Today is one of those days.

Before my hand even reaches the knob, the door flies open and a flurry of sun-bleached hair whip in my face as Aryll tackles me. To anyone else, it might appear that she’s excited to see me. In reality, she’s really trying to knock me over. While she wins a grunt out of me, I grab her just beneath her arms and swing her around until she’s draped over my shoulder like a sack. Legs kicking and fists pounding on my back, a nasty string of words rolls from her mouth.

“You’re lucky Father isn’t here to hear all that,” I chuckle, reaching over to ruffle her hair.

“Link,” she whines, “Not fair!”

I raise a brow. “How is this not fair?”

I nudge the door open and carry her inside, depositing her quite unceremoniously on the couch. 

“UGH. You big meanie!” Aryll screeches, making a grab at my clothes.

Laughing, I dance away and make my way to the kitchen to find Ma chopping up endura carrots and hearty radishes. She hears me, smiling as she tilts her head back.

“Welcome back, Link.”

“Hi Ma,” I grin, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Let me get changed and I’ll help you.”

Dinner consists of creamy heart soup and vegetable curry. Ma is a fantastic cook; I try to learn from her whenever I can. Aryll loves this because it means she hardly ever needs to help out with the cooking. 

“However will you ever find someone to wed you, Aryll?” Ma says with exaggerated trepidation. 

Aryll huffs, “I just need someone who can cook like Link. I’m sure Link will make someone a happy bride,” and then snickers, “Preferably someone of royal descent.”

I sigh. “Are you still dreaming that I’ll marry a princess? Not everything is like our storybooks.”

Surprisingly, it’s Ma that speaks up. “I don’t know,” she sings, “Your father says the princess has taken quite a liking in you.”

My face scrunches up. “Ma, she’s even younger than Aryll. I can’t really see her as anything more than a little sister—at best.”

“Then she obviously isn’t the princess meant for you,” Aryll chimes in, something knowing glinting in her eyes. 

“What?” I ask, though it comes out more breathless than I intend. Aryll smirks, but Ma shoots her a withering glare. 

“Don’t ridicule your brother. He’d have to go off to Labrynna or Holodrum to find another princess, and we don’t want him to go that far, now do we?”

“If he went that far, then we’ve all been giving him too much credit.”

There are clearly a few double entendres in their conversation, none of which make any sense to me. Aryll seems to be alluding to another princess, and my recent visit to the Domain suddenly comes crashing into me. I try not to flinch. Had they heard…?

I clear my throat and attempt to appear nonchalant. “Are you two talking about Mipha?”

At that, both of them freeze. Ma is the first to break the silence. “Princess Mipha. She really is a sweetheart. Have you seen her recently?” Her voice sounds thick, as if some kind of realization is making the words stick in her throat. 

I nod, “Last month. She...made me an armor.”

“Of course,” Ma smiles, though it holds a touch of melancholy, “I gave her your measurements.”

I nearly choke on nothing at all. “You knew? ”

Aryll snorts, apparently having come back to life. “Who didn’t know? Even—” she pauses, mouth snapping shut, then, “Anyway, it was before—,” again, her teeth grits together. My brows arch into my forehead and she sighs defeatedly. “Look, anyone who has ever seen you two next to each other could see it coming from kilometers away. She was so obvious.”

“Aryll!” Ma chastises. 

“What? I’m not talking bad about her! You know I loved her too,” she frowns. “Just, you know, when I said I wanted my big brother to marry a princess, I just—ah, never mind. We were so close too.”

“So you already know I declined it then. Sorry to burst your bubble, Aryll.” I ruffle her hair again and she sticks her tongue out at me. “No princesses for me.”

My darling little sister all but cackles. “If we’re lucky, there’s hope for you yet.”

Scout’s Hill has always been a nice detour place to rest whenever I travel from home to back to the castle. The higher elevation provides a beautiful view of Lake Hylia, the bridge, and the castle far in the background. Breezes are aplenty up here, and I take a moment to just...be. A simple existence within the sway of the wind.

...is quite admirable. 

I blink, not sure when I even closed my eyes to begin with. Something unsettling falls upon me, though at this point, it no longer feels foreign. I squint up at the sky, willing for answers, but of course, I receive none.

And yet…

“Here, too?”

I am beginning to think that the places I find comfort in are not choices I’ve made on my own. It’s disconcerting, aggravating in the inevitability it implies, and leaves me with all the more questions. Like a mantra, they replay in my mind. Who was this person that filled me with all these emotions? What did she mean to me?

Storm clouds roll in, slow and in light rumbles. Instead of seeking a shelter or making a dash to the castle, my hand finds the pommel of my sword. I draw it, give a few practice swings, and end up falling into my typical training routine even as water droplets begin pelting on me. I feel light on my feet. I feel happy knowing I impressed her.

Ah, there it is again, this strange desire to please someone I don’t quite know. Green eyes. Warm safflina.

“...Likes to travel. Likes to insult me. Stubborn?” Thunder rumbles up above and I feel the corner of my lips quirk. “But also fearless. Dedicated. Wise.” 

Silence.

I laugh, finding it ridiculous that I am conversing with myself. Almost as ridiculous as how the weight of my sword feels off—this sword I’ve been utilizing for months on months now. Perhaps the rain is making me delirious.

Perhaps we should take shelter from the storm. 

I sheath the sword and settle into the nook occupied by two statues. They look like lovers bound together for eternity, or at least, until the weather erodes them both away. They’re strangely comforting, these quiet companions. Maybe they’ve been around long enough to tell me who I’m searching for. 

I lean my head back against the stone, allowing my eyes to flutter shut as I settle to wait out the storm. There’s a gentle lull in the winds, a low hum as they brush through blades of grass and stir a fresh aroma of damp earth and wet leaves. Soothing and pleasing to the senses, serene and tempting of slumber. As sleep overtakes me, I imagine a weight on my shoulder, as though someone is reclining on me, and my hands itch to come up and pull her closer.

The princess has summoned me. It’s not often that my presence is required while we’re on castle grounds, though I am occasionally requested as company for lunch or tea. The rumors and implications of that does not escape me.

I await the princess on the bridge between her room and her study. Surprisingly, the door to the study is wide open. As I approach to investigate, my hand instinctively goes to my sword. Has there been an intruder?

To my amazement, the room looks untouched— for years. There are cobwebs along the walls and dust covering the shelves and desk. Pieces of paper are scattered around, likely due to the draft coming through the windows and the ajared door. A seedling sprouts from the ground.

Link, Link! Look at this!

That voice. It rings clearer now than it ever did before. Excited. Thriving and full of curiosity. 

...Silent Princess seeds...

Somehow, I can picture what that sprout will bloom into—I’ve seen it before. I’ve picked it before.  Now this, this is something I remember, from when—

A lithe body thuds into my back, hands curling around my shoulders. The feeling, the impact, the situation is so familiar and I turn to address the princess. “Zel—”

Brown hair. A face that’s too young. The same piercing green eyes. “Princess Alya?”

She grins up at me. “Of course. Who were you expecting?”

My brows knit because the name that was at the tip of my tongue is no longer there. The mere sound is unrecallable despite how close I was to saying it, and it’s apparent I just lost a pivotal clue.

“No one in particular,” I lie, and that sinking feeling of dread haunts me again. Whoareyouwhoareyou? Where are you?

Will I ever stop searching?

Princess Alya takes me by the elbow. “Walk with me?” I nod, lifting my arm belatedly to escort her as she leads us down the familiar path to the gardens. Violets, lilies, and roses flourish in waves of purple, white, and pink, neatly boxed within preordained lines. They’re vibrant but bland with their innovelties. However, tucked in the corner is a small patch of armorath, Hyrule herb, and hearty radish—a medicinal garden of sorts—and there is true beauty in its practicality.

The princess stops before a bench and tugs me down as she goes to sit. “My fifteenth birthday is fast approaching,” she begins, fingers improperly lingering on my arm. I take them and settle them on top of her other hand. Her lips press together, but she seems otherwise undeterred. “I will need to find a suitor soon, and I was wondering if you’d entertain the idea.”

Trepidation pools in my gut, though I suppose I should have expected this proposal. First Mipha, and now Princess Alya. Could I lose my knighthood for denying princesses? My squadron calls me lucky. I feel, perhaps ungratefully so, exasperated. If only I could find another clue as to who I’m looking for, apparently waiting for. Then things would make more sense.

“I will happily guard you and your suitor. It’s of no consequence to me,” I answer and hope she takes the hint. She doesn’t.

She places a hand on my cheek, guiding my face to look at her, and leans in. “Sir Link,” she says in what I suspect is supposed to be a coy manner, but sounds slightly desperate instead, “I meant I would like to have you as a suitor.”

It’s almost tantalizing the way the emerald of her eyes glisten in the light, looking at me in an inquisitive manner. I can just barely picture a different face with the same captivating gaze, whose lips are soft as petals beneath my ear when she whispers my name into skin. And I can’t help but wonder if I kissed the princess now, would I be able to taste the woman who haunts my dreams?

Inevitably, I turn my head away because this isn’t right, even though other knights would surely kill to receive the same offer. Despite what she wants, she’s not mine to have. Nor am I hers.

Which brings up the question of who do I belong to? The Crown, for one. My family, another. 

But there’s someone else; there has always been someone else. More than the Crown, perhaps closer than family. And honestly, I’m not really sure this person belongs to me, but I certainly belong to her. 

In body, mind, and soul, I am enraptured by the ghost that lingers in some crevice of my memories, in the sands of the Gerudo desert, in the plains of Hyrule. Even now, it’s her I feel in the breeze that tickles the hairs against my nape, in the sunlight filtering through branches and leaves and shining upon the medicinal herbs in a kind of favoritism. How fitting it is that she would dote on the practicalities. Is she doting on me, too?

A distant chime rings like laughter, mischievous and playful, as if responding to my thoughts. It’s easy to get lost in, like fingers laced in a quiet reprieve, and I may have had the princess not spoken.

“Is there someone else?” Princess Alya mumbles, eyes downcasted, perhaps ashamed, when she pulls back.

“Yes,” I admit. It’s peculiar because it’s the first time I’ve acknowledged her existence to someone else, and yet, it reverberates true to my ears.

The road to Fort Hateno skirts around the Bottomless Swamp, trespasses between the Dueling Peaks, and crosses the Blatchery Plains. It’s a long and arduous trek, one I make every few months to assist in delivering supplies only because Mags is currently stationed there. He enjoys the company, I enjoy the trip, and someone else is saved from overseeing the new recruits forced on the job. 

As we emerge from the valley between the mountains, the narrow path opens up to a wide, gaping field. The Blatchery Plains is a vibrant area, full of wildlife and vegetation. Horses run rampant here, and more than once some of the knights and I have challenged each other to various competitions. Being from the countryside serves as a great advantage; the ability to tame horses and ride bareback is heavily rooted.

I can already see Mags waving from the top of the fort by the time we’re halfway across the field. I wave back, earning a few acknowledgements from the other soldiers as well. Someone must have made a comment since their boisterous laughter reaches our ears.

Rain drops. Steady, a gentle drizzle, before the clouds crowd together and it pours. The knights in my party curse, attempting to cover themselves as they break into a jog and urge the caravan to move faster. The air sizzles, blue sparks catching on the metal of blades and uniforms. The junior in front of me nearly lights up.

I lunge at him, tackling him forward just as a bolt of lightning strikes like a beam where he once stood. “Are you alright?” I ask, hulling him up and tugging him to the fort. He manages half a word and a nod before scrambling forward, ushering the others to follow. I move to do the same, only to feel a smothering weight in the atmosphere.

Pressure, like being pinned down by seeking eyes, impending and suffocating. The air and humidity is so oppressive, I think I might stagger to my knees. Instead, I dig my heels into the dirt, hand clutching at my chest as a heavy ache slams into me. I want to run, I need to run, but my body says stay. 

I know this feeling. I know this urge. And instantly, I stand taller.

The rain continues beating down, drenching my hair and seeping between the cracks of my armor. It’s cold and unforgiving, sending chills to my bones. 

She’s scared, I realize. 

I reach my hands out, letting the raindrops splash against them. “What happened here?” I ask to the sky, the wind, the earth. “Why are you crying?”

There are a few bolts of lightning but none reaches the ground, almost as if I am encased and protected in a dome. A sliver of a presence twists around me, encircling my body with a familiar warmth. It nudges me towards the fort, towards where I know people are waiting for me, but I plant my feet. I’ll stay where I’m at until the storm gives way. I’ll stay until the sky ceases to weep. Because I know if she was here, I would hold her until her tears stop.

When Mags returns to Castle, we go into town with Allon and Kent and a few of the younger and older members of the Guard. We wander to our usual spot at Telma’s, tucking ourselves into a booth in the corner. I order an ale, but then Allon suggests a round of Noble Pursuit in hopes of getting “lucky” tonight. I decline, trying to reason that getting drunk does not increase anyone’s chances, though that only further incites him and Kent into messily shoving the drink into my mouth, nearly staining my tunic. 

The alcohol is still burning in my throat when Mags preemptively asks, “Do you like blondes?” before practically shoving one of the barmaids into my lap. I scramble to steady us both, hands resting tentatively on her hips. She glances down and golden locks tickle my face and it’s really not unpleasant. I have an inexplicable desire to run my fingers through her hair, hear the contented sigh escape her lips, watch the green of her eyes darken.

I blink. The barmaid’s eyes are blue.

I pull a tight smile, “What’s your name?”

She places a hand on my cheek, brushes a strand behind my ear, and says in a voice that doesn’t quite match my imagination, “Zelda.”

Breath seizes in my lungs and my mouth goes dry. The name echoes through my mind to the dark recess of my memories, and even though I still can’t recall a face with clarity, I am certain of one thing.

There’s a girl—somewhere—with blonde hair like the barmaid, green eyes like the princess, and her name is Zelda .

“Zelda,” I repeat just to taste the sound on my tongue. A rightness settles within.

The barmaid leans into me, pressing her bosom to my face, and I swallow before looking up at her. She smiles coyly. “Mhmm. I was named after the first princess. That means I could surely use a handsome royal guardsman to protect me tonight.” Her fingers run along my jaw in what may have been a tantalizing manner had my brain not temporarily short circuited.

The current crown princess is named Alya. There is no Zelda in the castle.

I pull away from her chest and look between Zelda and the knights. “The first princess?”

Some of the younger knights seem just as confused but the older knights are tightlipped and grim. The girl in my lap is unphased. “Don’t you know? Princess Alya is technically the second princess, and the queen is King Rhoam’s second wife. After the death of the first queen, Princess Zelda fell ill. She died at the age of seven.” The barmaid sighs dramatically. “What a tragic family history.”

Fear, the kind that sucks the life out of you and leaves you a hollow shell, engulfs me, and it takes all my self-restraint not to push her off my lap.

Princess Zelda...died.

Wrong. Wrongwrongwrong. How can she be dead? I am her knight—the best in the castle. How can she be dead?

I suck in a breath, brows furrowing at the increased frequency in which my thoughts seem to oppose reality. I mentally recite the facts: I am appointed to Princess Alya. I’ve never even met this Princess Zelda. I couldn’t have prevented her death.

My body screams that this, too, is all wrong.

I gently motion for Zelda to stand and she doesn’t hide her disappointment as she obliges. I might have looked as if I’ve seen a ghost, but I offer no explanation and bid farewell to the company, retreating back to the castle. Father has been a Royal Guardsman for as long as I can remember. Surely he can provide the answers I’ve been seeking.

It’s late into the night but a flickering light emits between the floorboards and the door to my father’s quarters. I rap against it three times, each time a little harder than the last, impatience taking the form of my fist. When his gruff voice calls for me to enter, I do so hastily. 

He’s at his desk, quill in hand as he scribbles something on a piece of parchment. At the creaking of the door, he looks up, long, blond hair falling into his face. I am told I take mostly after Ma, but in this regard, I resemble him.

The only sign that he is startled is the gentle arch of his brow. “Link. What brings you here this evening?

I get right to the point. “What happened to Princess Zelda?”

His lips press together, much like the guardsmen at the bar, and I know not to expect a straight answer.

“There is no Princess Zelda.” He’s too curt, too proper. It inexplicably makes the blood in my veins heat. 

“There was a Princess Zelda then,” I correct through gritted teeth. The thought of her already being de—gone brings on a wave of crippling anxiety that I struggle to taper down. I won’t believe it until I receive proof—whatever form that may take on. “Where is she?”

“How do you even kn—”

“Father,” I interrupt, and it must’ve been the first time I’ve ever done so. His astonishment is palpable. “Where is Zelda? ”

It takes him a moment to regroup, but once he does, his eyes narrow, and I should have known better than to try to be so aggressive with the Commander of the King’s Guard. “Why do you speak like you know her?”

Because I do know her, is my first thought, but my brain catches up and counters that there’s no way I could have.

I answer truthfully. “I don’t know.” He is all but ready to send me away, so I continue quickly. “Ever since I came to the castle, I’ve felt like I was looking for something. I didn’t know who or what they looked like or even why I felt the need to find them. Just that they needed to be found. I thought it was Princess Alya, but she had the wrong hair color.”

“Link, son, I think you need to get some rest,” Father tries to reason but my mind is running at a hundred kilometers per hour.

This whole time I’ve been searching, I’ve felt spikes in certain places—Kara Kara Bazaar, Scout’s Hill, the Blatchery Plains—but the largest pulse has always been here .

“She’s in the castle,” I say, and it’s like another piece of the puzzle clicks into place. 

I’m out the door before my father even stands from his desk.

I don’t have a clear destination but my heart is pounding in my ears, and somehow, I can tell it’s beating in tandem with someone else’s—Zelda’s. Surely, as I get closer, it will only get louder. I wind through the guard’s chambers and across the courtyard. I pass the princess’ study, duck into a side entrance, slip through several passages and winding hallways. I end up near the west entrance. 

There’s a door. It’s secured by old and rusted chains, a giant lock hanging in the middle. It has all the signs of forbidden entry, but I have no doubt I am in the right place. The pounding within my ear is deafening.

Father catches up and I turn my head to acknowledge him. “Do you have the keys by any chance?” 

“How did you even find this place?”

“I told you. I’ve been looking for her all this time.”

I turn to pick at the lock, jabbing at it with the pommel of my sword. A hand lands on my shoulder just as I try to pry the links in the chains open with the tip. Father looks rather grim.

“I don’t know what you’ll find in there. It could be horrific.” His gaze is sorrowful. “It’s been over ten years, Link. Even if the princess is in there, she’s d—”

“She’s not dead!” I snarl, whirling around and knocking away his arm. He looks surprised; to be honest, I am as well. Hardly do I ever act with aggression.

But Father is a stern man. He regroups quickly, both hands finding my shoulders this time as if to shake some sense into me.

“The princess was sacrificed when she was a child! There is no possible way for her to still be alive!”

“She is alive!” I feel her. I feel her heart pulsing throughout the land, her breath in the wind. “There is no life in which she dies while I live. As long as I am standing, I will protect her.”

Anguished. He looks anguished now. “Don’t you want to live this time?”

This time? 

My jaw slackens just a bit. “What do you mean?”

He releases his hold, posture slumping. “You carried a large burden at a very young age. I was so proud at the time. Now, I wonder if I could have saved you from that fate.”

More riddles. My family seems to have discovered a knack for saying things in roundabout ways.

“Is this about my early knighthood? I chose that. And I don’t fully understand what happened in the past, nor do I really understand what’s occurring now, but I choose Zelda . I choose to protect her. I want to remember her.”

Why—How could I have forgotten in the first place?

Despite the agony he displayed earlier, his expression relaxes into a knowing smile.

“The Master Sword awaits you, then.”

I pack light—sword, shield, food, and flint to start a fire. Historians have long logged the difficulties of traversing through the Great Hyrule Forest and the horrors of being lost and never found. Some spoke of a talking Deku Tree and the legendary sword he watches over. The Sword that Seals the Darkness . Only those who possess the Spirit of the Hero may draw it.

I am no hero, but I’ll become whatever it takes to get to  Zelda.

Mags, Allon, and Kent await me when I breach the castle gates. Their faces speak of hesitation and regret, of sorrow and resignation. My chest tightens; I had not wanted a confrontation with them. 

“The Commander notified us,” Mags says. “You’re...going to find the Master Sword? Isn’t that just a myth?”

“It might be,” I shrug, “But I’m still going.”

“Why?” It’s Allon this time. “Even if it exists, nothing good comes from pulling it. You could be throwing the country into war . ”

I wince. The books spoke of that too. With every Hero comes a princess with the blood of the Goddess, both destined to fight a foe with immense power. There’s no Hero and there’s no foe, but there is a princess...What if?

Even now, she lies await

...she prays and prays

My breath catches. Is she...

“...waiting for me?”

“What? Who is?” Allon makes a face and scoffs. “Your fabled princess? Even if she existed, it’s been over a decade now, Link. Hardly worth throwing the world into chaos.”

I have him by the collar of his shirt before I can stop myself. “Zelda. Is. Not. Dead.” Mags or maybe Kent yanks me back, trying to dislodge my fingers. I shove them both away. “She needs me!”

I freeze. Horror, pure unadulterated horror zaps through me as the truth of the matter sinks in.

The kingdom of Hylia — under attack

With her powers, she drives it back

There was a foe and there was a war. There is a princess. 

Where’s the Hero?

Hot, blistering anger swells up inside me. Am I—Was I supposed to be—?

A fist lands on my cheek and sends me stumbling back. Kent grabs my sleeve to reel me back in, but I twist away before he can land his next punch.

“Get a hold of yourself, Link!” He takes a hold of my shoulders and shakes me instead. “Chances are, anyone who has fought this long isn’t waiting for you. Did you ever stop to think maybe she’s doing this for you? And you’re about to mess up all her efforts because you want to go play Hero?”

I knock his hands away. “I’m not playing Hero. Since I’ve entered the castle, since I was twelve , I’ve felt her.” Been searching for her. “And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she doesn’t need me. But I—I need her.”

The three of them fall silent, and I can distinctly hear the labored breaths of my breathing, feel the lingering sting on my cheek. My heart thrums loudly in my ears, and I wait with no little anguish for their disbelief. 

But Mags steps forward.

“You’re not wrong,” he says so quietly I’m afraid I misheard him.

“I’m...not?”

He chuckles. “No, I’m pretty sure she needs you too.” 

My shoulders sag, relief flooding me like a river after rain. “You...you actually believe me?”

Kent rolls his eyes. “Of course we believe you. We’ve always had faith in you.” Allon jabs him in the side. “This time around, at least.”

My ears perk. There it goes again, that phrase: this time. 

Allon claps a hand on my shoulder before I can comment, an easy grin on his face. “You’re a knight. Go do what you do best. Save your girl.”

I glower at him, though I feel a smile tugging at my lips. “Go ride a lynel.”

He simply laughs and pulls me in for a hug. “Don’t keep her waiting much longer, buddy.”

Mags and Kent pile on, their embrace firm and reassuring. Even though I will be returning shortly, it suddenly feels like an extended farewell.

“Thank you,” I nod, feeling overwhelmingly grateful, nostalgic almost, “It means a lot, your support.”

“We will always support you and Her Highness,” Mags says, promises. “For Hyrule. Even to the death.”

The Great Hyrule Forest is eerily dense and thick with fog. I light a torch and watch as embers flicker in the wind like tiny fairies leading a trail. My instincts tell me to follow, so I do, weaving through trees and listening where eyes fail me. Even though I’m sure I’ve never been here before, it feels familiar. The gaping trees with their withering, claw-like branches, the distant chime of children’s laughter. Something pulses from deep within, calls out to me and beckons me closer. 

It’s hours—perhaps just minutes—before the fog dissipates to reveal a clearing. The sight that greets me is again both novel and ancient: a winged-hilt sword embedded in a pedestal. It's majestic even from afar, the blade gleaming tall and proud and patient underneath the light of the canopy. From it comes a faint hum, a melody I’ve heard somewhere in the distant past. Much like how the forest called to me, the sword sings a welcome.

I approach cautiously, the leaves beneath my boots crunching louder and louder in my ears. Something is clicking or clogging in the background, the children’s laughter is suppressed but undeniable. I hear the breeze but feel none at all. It’s like time has stopped within this alcove.

I reach for the hilt—and the ground rumbles.

“Hero, it has been too long,” a deep, weary voice bellows. My hand drops, head shooting up just in time to see something like a mouth move on the giant tree before me. Its trunk is wide and thick, and from the branches sprout pink blossoms. When I take a closer look, I make out a face. Old and worn, it speaks of a wisdom unrivaled. “What brings you to the Korok Forest?”

My fist clenches at my side. The Deku Tree, guardian of the sword. And he called me “Hero.”

The confirmation makes me sick to my stomach.

I swallow the bile threatening to rise. “Zelda. Zelda is trapped under the castle. And I—I need to save her.”

“Save her?” The blossoms flutter in the wind. “The Princess need not be saved.”

My brows furrow. “What?”

“It seems there is much you do not know, Hero,” he sighs, branches swaying. “The cycle repeats; Calamity Ganon was destined to return in this era. The Princess of this time, strong and selfless, chose to lock herself away to keep the Calamity at bay. It is to her we owe for the tranquility of our world.”

A cold chill seeps into my bones. “She was a child.”

“She made a choice,” he reasons, “It was her destiny. There is nothing to be done now.”

My nails bite into my palms. What kind of destiny subjects a child to that fate? What kind of beings allowed her to face it alone? Am I to simply accept that, for ten years, Zelda has been fighting, while I, I—Goddesses, just what have I been doing? Why wasn’t I with her?

Why am I not with her, now?

My gaze falls on the sword, and I let my hand reach again for the pommel. It shimmers under my touch as I trace the ridges and wrappings, pulsing in time with the beats of my heart. 

Nothing to be done, he said.

“Hero,” I mimic, “You’ve been calling me the Hero all this time, but I’ve done nothing for Hyrule.” 

“Yes. Though your skills were not needed this time, the Spirit of the Hero still lies within you. It is rare for your soul to find reprieve.”

I bark out a laugh, knuckles turning white as my fingers curl around the hilt. “You call this a reprieve?”

The Deku Tree startles instantly. “You wish to draw the Sword in this era of peace? This is unheard of!”

I meet his gaze—steady, determined, defiant—and pull. 

Heat sears under my palm as if my hand itself is aflamed. Knives, pins, or needles stab up my arm and across my torso until my whole body feels pierced and bloodied. The Sword throbs beneath my hold, each beat a vice-like grip around my heart, squeezing, crushing, threatening to make it burst. 

It is not your time, Master, the Sword—it must be—chides.

“Then when is it?” I spat, a harrowing scream clawing up my throat. “How can you call this peace when Zelda is fighting alone? I will not sacrifice her. ”

With a final tug, the Sword is relinquished from its pedestal. It vibrates, glows, and suddenly, I see white.

And I remember.

Whether skyward bound, adrift in time, or steeped in the glowing embers of twilight…

I remember the guardians. The malice. The Calamity. The deaths. 

I wonder, then…would you have chosen a different path?

I remember the Shrine of Resurrection.

Run!

But most of all, I remember Zelda. My Zelda, and the way the light had shone from her hand. 

The white fades. I look at the Deku Tree, Master Sword glinting in hand, and smile.  “I knew she could do it.”

He laughs joyously, eyes crinkling in the sun. “Well done, Hero. May her smile shine upon us once again.”

The castle doesn’t look the same when I return. Instead of something exalted by the Goddesses, it’s draped in a foreboding shadow. I am amazed I hadn’t before noticed the inconsistencies of this world.

I head straight for the west passage, unsurprised when I find my father lounging next to the door. It’s no longer chained—perhaps my memory had been the key—and Father is looking at me intently.

“You remember,” he says, not in the least surprise. I nod, fingers flexing by my side.

“And you’re not... real.”

He chuckles gently and I try to blink back the tears. I hadn’t seen it happen, but with the destruction and devastation, there is no question about it. The father that stands before me is no longer part of the living.

His arms settle around my shoulders and I fall into his embrace easily. He shushes me quietly, patting my head and rubbing my back. It’s been ages since we’ve shared a moment like this. I have a feeling it’s been longer than I can fathom.

“I am as real as I can be,” he says, still holding me tight, “A spirit tethered to this world. How grateful I am to have lived this second life with you.”

I keep my face buried, fingers clutching onto his uniform. “I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I let you die.” I think of Hyrule Fields burning, the dilapidated castle in the distance. Guardians scurrying behind me to the fort, crawling over the dead. 

I jerk away, sheer terror engulfing me. “Aryll. Ma. Did they—Did I—”

Grabbing my face, Father lightly taps his forehead to mine. “They were fine, Link. You and Zelda stopped them before they could reach Hateno. For all of us who had fallen, you saved multitudes more.”

“...Were?” 

He sighs and rests a hand on my shoulder. “It’s been a long time since what you remembered, son. A hundred years to be exact.”

I stop breathing. I had known I’d been put to sleep, can recall the way Zelda’s hand sloshed in the water as she cupped my cheek, telling me to rest, but a hundred years...

“And Zelda?” I whisper, afraid to hear the truth, “What happened to Zelda?” 

But he smiles.

“Princess Zelda is quite the formidable warrior. Even now, she holds strong, caging in Calamity Ganon. She says you give her strength.”

Hope surges through me like water bursting through a dam. 

“You’ve spoken to her?”

“You can too,” he gestures to the door, “She’s waiting for you.”

Automatically, my feet propel me towards it, but a deep, stirring unease makes me hesitate. One look back at Father tells me all I need to know. 

My voice is raspy within my throat. “This is it.”

“It is.” He nudges me forward. “Go on.”

“How am I—” a choked breath “—How am I supposed to choose?”

“There is nothing to choose. She’s alive, Link. Princess Zelda is alive. For a hundred years, she has fought. It’s time to bring that fight to an end.”

His eyes are kind, too, too kind. As if he’s reached some kind of acceptance, an acceptance I haven’t found. Because I’m not ready. I’m not ready to lose him again.

“It’s alright,” he says, but I hear the crack in his voice. His grin is watery, lopsided, lips quivering with unsaid words. “When you pulled the sword, I was so proud of you. My boy, the Hero of the legends! But that excitement was short lived. I saw what it did to you, how it made you close up, and I so dearly wished I had hidden you away instead, consequences be damned. And then this place was created and I watched you thrive without burden. I—forgive me—I thought, this might be for the best. But still, even now, you chose the Sword. And I am relieved.”

He takes a deep breath, and this time, his smile is genuine. “This is goodbye, son. I want you to know I’m still so proud of you. Your mother’s proud of you. Aryll’s excited that you’re protecting the princess and she wishes you two a happily ever after.” He ruffles my hair, forcing my head down. It does well to hide both our tears. “We’re okay. We miss you, but we’re okay. Give Princess Zelda our regards.”

He hugs me again and I squeeze him back, teeth clenched to keep from asking him to stay. When he pulls away, I let my arms drop and lock them to my side. A lingering kiss on my head and then his touch is gone. 

I know when I look up again, I’ll be alone. 

So I don’t. 

The door yields easily under my touch and opens up into a space that resembles a cavern more than a room. It’s dimly lit, the only light source being a few scattered sconces lining the walls, yet the shallow spring stretching before me still glimmers as if blessed by the goddesses. Or perhaps just Zelda, who kneels at the very center, her glistening, emerald orbs gazing sadly at me.

“Link,” she says, and like sunset fireflies to the evening dew, I run to her. 

The water splashes against my boots and then seeps through my trousers as I fall to my knees before her. Trembling hands come up to cup her face and trace the high arches of her cheeks, imprinting into memory what was once forgotten. She is heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

“Zelda.”

Tears bubble on her lower lids, spilling over to cascade along her jaw. A sob escapes her throat, one she tries to stifle behind a fist, but I coax it away, bringing her knuckles to my lips. “You idiot,” she admonishes with a weak tug of her wrist. “You should have stayed away.” 

I hold her steady, savoring the taste of her skin. “And leave you? Not a chance. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

I kiss each knuckle and press a greeting to her fingertips before flattening her palm to my mouth. Here, I can feel her the thrumming of her pulse, the proof of her existence. It’s a rhythmic cadence that ushers me onward, and I realize that, should she disappear now, I may just break.

Her lithe fingers curl into my cheek and her free hand fists into my tunic to draw me nearer. I relent easily, willingly, enveloping her in a crushing embrace. She’s warm despite the dampness of her gown, golden tresses soft as I thread through them. Placing a kiss on her temple, I inhale her scent. Warm safflina. Hyrule fields on a summer day. Home .

“I missed you,” I murmur into her hair, and though this reality is warped, I relish in the way she buries herself deeper into my arms. “Even when I didn’t know you, I felt like I had lost something important.”

She hiccups into my shoulder, arms encircling my torso to cling onto my back. Her head shakes side to side against my chest. “Knowing me has only brought you pain.”

“And not knowing you left me miserable. ” I pull back just enough to meet her red-rimmed eyes and within their depths, a spark of hope ignites. My heart aches at the sight, at how this beautiful, stubborn princess of mine still doubts herself. “Zelda. When I knelt before you at the ceremonial grounds, I swore my life to you. For as long as I am able to, I will stand by your side. My soul can no longer exist without yours.”

And though I don’t say, I think it hasn’t for a long time now. I think I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Zelda stares at me, then laughs a tearful, reproachful kind of laugh. “I’m a selfish, selfish girl. Even knowing what I do, I still so desperately wished for you to find me.”

“I will always find you.”

“I know.”

She reaches up to comb through the messy strands of my hair, fingers gliding along my scalp and coming down to trail across my brows, the slope of my nose, my lips. They run across my shoulders and further down my chest before dipping under my tunic and tracking a large, wrinkled scar that hadn’t been there before. Breath hitching, she forces herself to feel what her eyes can’t see, no doubt having relived it too many times to count.

“You’re dreaming, you know,” she whispers, voice thick. I nod, unwilling to do more and risk the cessation of her movements. Her touch is featherlight but sends shockwaves up my spine. Familiar. Ancient. If she feels my shudder, she doesn’t react. “Only hardships await you should you decide to wake.”

“And you,” I say in tandem, gripping her hand through the shirt to ground her. It makes her eyes water again, makes the viridescence of her iris scintillate like the spring. I kiss her tears before they can fall. “You’re there too.”

She releases a breath, slowly withdrawing her hands only for them to seek out mine, gently and tentatively lacing them together. I squeeze her fingers, soothe her worries.

The tension seeps out of her as she relents. “You could have stopped fighting,” she says as a final reminder, as an offer that still stands. I would understand, her eyes say. And despite how she previously scolded herself, I think part of her wishes I would take it. I can’t give you that life, Link.

I shuffle closer, cradling her elbows and drawing circles on her skin. “I will never stop fighting for you.”

I don’t want it.

“And you’ll forget again.”

“Whatever the price.” 

I pull her in by the waist, sliding my thumb along the underside of her jaw and angling her mouth up to meet mine. She’s soft and pliant, sweet like honey. Memories will never be able to do her justice.

“Wake me up, Zelda,” I whisper against her lips, and I feel her smile.

.

.

.

.

Wake up, Link.