Archive of Our Own

The forest was quiet. It spoke in whispers—through the trees, from the lungs of a songbird and the splashing echoes across the brook. Link loved that about the wild. All of its instruments were gentle. 

Except the forest was quiet, now, too. And he hated it.

He stood with wobbly legs, a white-knuckled grip on an ancient blade he’d freed from an ancient pedestal, his ancient heart pounding in his chest.

It was at that moment—in the silence—that he felt the weight settle on his shoulders and threaten to drag him to the ground.

Hero. Chosen. Legend.

Master.

He wanted to let go. He wanted to thrust it back into the pedestal and scream “there’s been a mistake.”

Yet the hilt fit so right in his hands; as if the blade was alive; as if the steel could mold itself to his very being. 

Then the murmuring began. It came from every direction; low voices, full of fear and shock and jealousy.

Long before the King had issued his mandate, there were thousands of young men who tried to enter the forest and free the sword, all with varying degrees of failure. In their wake, the kingdom’s most skilled, seasoned warriors were officially sent to take the trial. Link’s father was among them. Then there came the day when those below seventeen were ordered to take the trial, and Link had been roused at dawn to follow along with his comrades into the depths of Korok Forest.

That morning, there had been plenty of lighthearted jests and hopeful remarks. Link had laughed off any insinuation, even ones laden with sarcasm, that he would draw the legendary blade. It was the only way he could calm his nerves and force out thoughts of his recent nightmares.

Now he was here, and the laughter had ceased. He could physically feel the tension. A hush spread amongst his comrades, and then the noise rose into a clamor once the truth set in.

There were definitely a couple knights in the crowd who shook their heads or scoffed; knights that couldn’t accept, no matter how many times Link bested them, that the Goddess could make a hero out of their resident “shorty” (“twig,” “runt,” “squirt”).

But the majority reacted with the standard gestures of congratulation—a nod of approval, a pat on the back, a fist pump and a whoop; the cheering section was upon Link in a matter of seconds.

The jokes were next: 

“How does it feel to be the legendary hero, goldie?” 

He laughed and shrugged.

I don’t know.  

“Is that thing heavy?”

He shook his head dramatically. “Nah.”

Yes. Very.

“Say, it’s almost bigger than you, innit?”

He playfully punched his comrade in the arm, pouting.

This is so much bigger than me.

He kept up the charade until he was back in his quarters, at which point he collapsed onto his bunk, slipped off his boots, and stared blankly at the wall.

The Master Sword remained in his lap.

Hero.

He’d heard that before; even as a small child, he’d heard it. They’d said that when he disarmed a knight at four years old (teasing, teasing, because the man had underestimated him), and they’d said it when he moved up the ranks (now with more seriousness, because those were real fights and he was really just a kid and he had real talent). There were moments that those words made Link swell with pride; he earnestly hoped he was at least somewhat comparable to his childhood idols. Other times, he would smile politely and wonder what it felt like, being a hero.

This, he supposed, was it.

And it felt no different. Only, he couldn’t stop thinking about how the hero of the story never seemed to make it out unscathed. Sometimes, Link thought, sometimes he doesn’t make it out at all.

...

With a legendary sword strapped to his back and a giant lump in his throat, Link came before the King, knelt, and accepted his role as the Hero of Hyrule.

...

The lump didn’t go away. It closed up the walls of his chest, deeper and deeper, wider and wider, every time he came under the scrutiny of the people he swore to protect.

His hard-earned friendships within the Royal Guard collapsed in less than half the time it took to build them. No one but his superiors appreciated his somber disposition—they watched him begin his training with the rising sun and stagger into bed long after it had set. They called him “dedicated;” considered the shadows beneath his eyes a virtue and each pulled muscle or sprained joint he suffered a sign of fortitude.

The whispers that circulated among his peers were not as supportive. He was obsessed with the sword, they muttered; he’d let the power go to his head and he was too good for the lowly Royal Guard now—that’s why he refused to speak to them. 

But the truth was, he never chose silence. The Master Sword had become a needle, his fate a thread; and Link could feel them working, ever so slowly, to sew his mouth shut.

...

There were days, when Aryll couldn’t visit and his father was consumed with his duties, that Link wouldn’t utter a word. Even in a position where “yes sir”s and “no sir”s were easily replaced with a nod or a shake of the head, the sudden handicap was hard to ignore.

So he tried, on one of those days, to talk to himself in private. He was grooming his horse at some unspeakable hour, taking advantage of the empty stables and neglecting his aching bones. Unfortunately, since he had just finished a long day of sword practice, his mind was sluggish and the most creative thing he could think to say was his name.

But the minute his tongue rolled an “L,” he saw King Rhoam’s steely grey eyes staring back at him.

He stilled, the lump stuck halfway up his throat, making it curiously hard to breathe. The last time he’d verbally introduced himself had been to the king, the day he...right after...and....

His mare, having noticed she no longer had his attention, snorted indignantly, as if to demand he continue his work that instant. Link obliged her, of course. He found that stroking her velvety coat made his shoulders relax and his heart beat steady.

I can talk to you, can’t I, girl?

Well, she didn’t object. With a renewed sense of determination, he tried again, addressing her instead.

Something was rising; it was so close—

“I’m L...Link.”

The mare’s ears twitched, and she watched him from her peripherals. Go on, she seemed to say.

“I’m Link, and you’re my horse.”

There was a soft nicker of praise.

He couldn’t help but smile. His tongue was actually loosening. “Was that good?”

The mare’s answer was to nudge him with her snout. 

“Think I can do that tomorrow?” he asked. “Or would I get stall mucking duty for calling the captain a horse?” 

Again, the mare snorted. Link gave her a sideways glance and pretended to consider her feedback. “Yeah, you’re right. It would be worth it. I’d spend the day with a friend.”

He reached out to rustle her mane for good measure, and the mare leaned into his touch, her eyes half closed.

Without warning, his vision blurred. He clutched her mane instinctively, burying his face in it.

He felt a little less alone that night.

...

Mipha hadn’t changed at all.

Link—well, Link had grown more than a foot, drawn the blade of evil’s bane, deepened his seldom-used voice about an octave, and lost his smile somewhere along the way.

It took a while for Mipha to realize that. Once she did, her eyes dimmed, misted over by sorrow. He tried to be more expressive for her, but she merely watched him with her hands clasped to her heart in silent prayer.

The dynamic between them was different, too. Link had only just begun to rise above her waist when he abandoned the domain and focused on his training. In those early years, Mipha had acted as an extremely lenient babysitter for both Sidon and Link. 

Link’s memories of that time were filled with the scent of fresh air, the feeling of sun-dried skin, and the sound of bubbling laughter.

But suddenly the memories had passed and they were seeing eye-to-eye; suddenly he was the mild one, and she was the one who wanted to swim and laugh and play. Prince Sidon (having recently gotten the hang of braving land and sea), toddled about, begging Link to race him down the river. Mipha giggled and suggested that they simply swim; maybe visit old sites they used to hang around.

Those places took his breath away. The entire domain, really, was a snapshot of an age long past.

Initially, he was more overwhelmed than nostalgic. Upon his arrival to the domain, Link had been bombarded by old friends and eager-to-make-your-acquaintances. He’d borne the invasive questions, well-meaning remarks, and obligatory handshakes well—there were, of course, moments when all the nodding and grunting in the world couldn’t replace words, and in those moments it was difficult to reign in the panic, but he did. By the time the crowd thinned and the racket died down, Link was tired. 

And hungry. Very, very hungry.

He couldn’t have been more thankful when Mipha invited him to dinner with herself and her father. She’d approached him in private, with an easy question that he could answer in a heartbeat. Yet, the sound of his own voice surprised him.

“I’d love to.”

Mipha rarely smiled wide enough to show her teeth, but he saw a little flash of white before she turned away.

“Mipha has missed you sorely, Sir Link,” King Dorephan commented, right after swallowing another whole Sizzlefin trout.

The princess in question ducked her head, clearly uncomfortable.

I’ve missed her too, he thought, and almost (almost, so close) said. But I’m pretty sure I’m not the same person she missed.

Several other awkward comments and failures to speak later, Link was ready to leave (after dessert, obviously). He started to get creative, stuffing his mouth so full of food that no one could rightly expect him to respond, and it was actually rather effective.

But Mipha must’ve noticed how little he seemed to like conversing with her father, and dragged him away (before dessert—what a shame) with an excuse only she could make sound polite. 

Link felt a bit better once he had fresh air in his lungs. They continued their mini-tour across Zora’s Domain without Sidon, stopping at familiar spots.

Mipha pointed to a ledge with about seven feet of air between it and the next strip of stone. “Remember when you slipped on those rocks over there? It seemed much further a drop when you weren’t so tall,” she laughed.

It had. He could’ve sworn he had a solid second to think about how much it would hurt once he hit the bottom.

“Ooh! Your favorite fishing spot!”

That was it, alright. Far higher up than was safe, predictably. He’d constructed a special fishing rod just to reach the water.

At an even higher cliff, Mipha sighed. “I wish you two had never discovered this peak.”

She was referring to the many diving contests that he and Sidon had participated in. The little prince was always up for a challenge, even though on land, he clung to Link’s calf half the time—that is, when wasn’t being carried by Mipha. 

Reminiscing was fun, and Mipha had no shortage of stories to bring back to life. But while most of the memories brought a smile to her face, some had her frowning.

“The way you would go after any monster within these walls—your bravery was inspiring, but you were very young. I knew you would grow stronger and take on bigger foes as you got older, and that worried me so; I wanted to be there to help you no matter where you were. When you left for the castle, I was certain you’d get into even more trouble,” Mipha teased, glancing to the side thoughtfully. “...Tell me, was I right?”

Link pawed at the back of his neck.

“Oh dear,” Mipha laughed. “However did they deal with you?”

He offered a half-hearted shrug.

“And Hylian soldiers train as a group almost exclusively, yes? You weren’t the only reckless child, I’m sure.”

That was a hard no.

“Oh, I do hope you made plenty of friends. Maybe some that encouraged you to...be careful?”

He wobbled his hand in a so-so motion.

“Well, however—however you achieved it, you’ve undoubtedly become quite the swordsman.”

Everyone certainly thought so.

“Link, I—this may sound a little odd, but you’re awfully quiet. Did...something happen?”

Yes. Nothing’s the same anymore.

He knew Mipha. He’d known her forever. She hadn’t—even once—made him anxious as a kid; she was too kind and gentle.

Surely he could speak to her; really speak to her. Not just a word or two. 

Maybe something like: A lot has happened, but I’m okay. You needn’t worry.

He ran the line through his head several times, only to swallow the words right as they finally made it to his tongue. Mipha was watching him expectantly, her lips drawn in a frown that he wanted to erase.

But he couldn’t find his voice. 

Worse, he was frustrated enough to feel pressure build behind his eyes and threaten to spill over.

“Link?” Mipha eventually repeated. “Link, tell me what’s wrong.”

He turned away from her and waved dismissively, shaking his head.

That frightened Mipha all the more. “Do you feel you cannot tell me?”

Link put his hands up and continued to shake his head.

“Then you’re saying you’re...okay?”

Attempting a reassuring smile, he nodded.

Mipha didn’t appear particularly convinced. “Oh.”

Link followed Mipha for the rest of their stroll through the domain with his shoulders slumped and his heart heavy. He was terrified she would address him again.

She did.

Sometime around sunset, Mipha slowed to a halt.

“You know that—well, if there’s something bothering you,” she said,  “you can always talk to me.”

Link’s heart sunk lower. I wish I could.

...

The first time Link saw Zelda, he was rendered speechless. 

He’d seen the princess, both up close and far away, too many times to count. But he’d never seen Zelda.

Zelda wasn’t adorned with jewels or fitted in an elaborately-designed dress. She was sprinkled with dirt from the latest excavation and dressed in trousers and boots.

The moment her eyes locked on him—found the Master Sword in a sea of Royal Guard gear—he froze at attention, a wave of something akin to awe washing over him.

His mouth became inexplicably dry. His back went rigid, without an enemy in sight. He found himself taking deeper breaths, like he was fatigued from the act of merely standing.

This silence was a different silence. No debilitating fear. Just those eyes. Those strikingly blue eyes that reminded him of the waters in Zora’s Domain, painted in radiant color at twilight—aquamarine; very blue but glowing with an emerald warmth. And those golden locks, which rippled down her back, smooth and shining under the midday sun.

Everything about her was so bright.

Link was certain that any artist, no matter how talented, would fail to capture the princess.

For that matter, no single image could. There was beauty in the way she carried herself, too; with an elegant sort of excitement. There was life in how her eyebrows twitched inquisitively as she studied the partially unearthed Guardian. And there was a strange air of hesitance about her—like she could be but wasn’t allowed to be, prettier somehow.

It changed in an instant. One moment she was kneeling to adjust something on the Guardian’s side, and the next thing Link knew, the air was filled with whirring, then screeching, then beeping. The lifeless automation had come to life, and it’s crimson laser was trained on Zelda.

Link wasn’t thinking. His mind had gone blank with panic, screaming only one thing: protect. 

He dove towards the princess, past the pile of wood and ash from where they had set up camp the night before, and wrested what he believed was the lid to the cook pot hanging above the unlit fire.

He blinked and he was in front of her. The angry light flickered atop the pot lid he held close to his chest.

The beam that shot from the Guardian’s eye decimated his makeshift shield and the force blew him off his feet, but as he lay bleeding on the grass, all he could feel was relief. 

The relief was as selfish as it was selfless. If the princess had taken that beam, and he had been on duty, just watching—what kind of a knight would he be then? What kind of a hero?

Everyone looked at him differently, after that. No longer was he a hero in name alone. Zelda looked at him differently, too. 

The princess, however, continued to look at the sword and frown.

...

Another prefix to his name. Another title. Another honor.

...

“Hero of Hyrule....”

The princess’s voice was so hollow. This was likely nothing more than a recital to her; a rote repetition of another holy text; another ritualistic speech.

Link told himself she was just tired of ceremonies. That was easier than admitting the truth.

He’d hoped she would see him differently, at first. They were much the same, he figured; “chosen by the gods,” robbed of the ability to choose for themselves. And so as he was bid to stand, he had tried to keep his head up and force a smile. He almost attempted a nod, determined to win her friendship or at least make a good impression. But once he felt her gaze shoot right past his face, zeroing in on the Master Sword’s hilt, he banished the notion. That look was too familiar.

The bitter edges lining her words as she addressed him now—her newly appointed knight—just cemented his suspicion.

If he was honest, he had stopped listening to her monotonous rendition of the inauguration ceremony long ago.

His attention was split between the ghostly echo of her words—

“...worthy of the blessings of the goddess Hylia—“

His own stupid thoughts—

Nayru’s love, I’m hungry. 

And the distracting conversation going on amongst his fellow champions—

“Gee, this is uplifting....”

“...hope that the two of you will grow stronger together....”

I’m with you there, Daruk.

“...the one who insisted upon showering the appointed knight with all the ceremonial pomp, grandeur and nonsense we could muster.”

Link bristled. He just wanted to make me feel included. 

Daruk had gone out of his way, too. With a clap on the back and an encouraging speech, he’d convinced Link and then the rest of the Champions to celebrate the occasion. “You’ve earned it, little guy,” “there might be food,” and “it’ll be fun” were among the arguments.

Link appreciated the gesture, and though he didn’t care for such events himself, he knew there was a purpose to them. They were important at a time like this. Hyrule needed something that brought people together celebrate a common cause; something that fostered camaraderie and inspired hope—ceremonies did that.

...Usually.

“...that boy is a living reminder of her own failures....”

Link’s ears pricked at Urbosa’s comment. He felt like sinking into the chiseled stone beneath him. 

So I’m a symbol of failure.

“...at least that’s how the princess sees him...”

I’ve been on the job for less than a week, and I’ve already messed up royally enough to make the princess hate me. My failures make her fear she’ll do the same. And any doubt in his mind was cleared. She hated the mere sight of him. 

“...ready for this fight to end, and really, neither of them can be blamed.”

Princess Zelda paused.

Is she hearing all of this too?

Link knew the answer when her tone turned from solemn to sorrowful, like her last bit of strength had worn out.

“...as the hero of this land, and the successor of the legendary blade....”

After an eternity of blessings and prayers and attention, Princess Zelda finally concluded the ceremony, withdrawing her hand.

“Rise, Hero.”

Link’s knees ached from kneeling on the platform, and he was bored out of his mind, but the thought of standing and facing everyone was so much worse. At least with his head bowed and his eyes closed, he could hide the fear on his face.

...

The princess, Link soon discovered, was no stranger to silence.

On the Great Plateau, day after day, he witnessed the intensity of her dual nature. It was his first official assignment as her personal knight, and it was...enlightening.

To Zelda, the Great Plateau was a shrine recovery site; one that had captured both her personal interest and that of her scientifically inclined friends, Purah and Robbie. It was also the home of a sacred landmark; one that Zelda blanched at the sight of, but the princess devoted herself to—the Temple Of Time.

It was as though she was on two trips. 

Zelda was a ball of energy, bouncing from one shrine to the next, chatting with Purah. She about had a heart attack when they made it to the “main event” of the excavation: a shrine built within a cave, shaped differently than the rest. Once she stepped inside, no one could drag her out. She focused all of her attention on it for the remainder of the trip, managing to explore it with both the curiosity of a little girl and the critical eye of an experienced scientist.

But the princess was an entirely different creature. She walked slowly, so very slowly, towards the Goddess statue at the center of the temple every morning, her face set in stone and her body bathed in white. When she bowed her head to pray, Link could physically feel the heaviness of her burden, even from his position at the far entrance, where he stood watch, his spine straight and his back to the princess. It would take a while for her light to return; sometimes it took long enough to worry her friends. Zelda would inevitably come out, though, awoken from her slumber by a striking new discovery or a clever joke.

Purah came to him about it once, marching up, screeching to a halt, and then spacing out until she remembered why she was there. “Oh, uh—Link? That’s your name right?”

He nodded.

Purah made a face. “Hmmn. How about Linky? Can I call you Linky?”

He didn’t nod and she didn’t care.

“Yeah, so Linky, where’s Zelds? We’ve been waiting for like a century.”

He tilted his head to the side, indicating the temple behind him. The princess was supposedly changing into her day wear, but Link had a sneaking suspicion that she used it as an excuse to get him out of the building. It had been...nearly an hour. Usually, she didn’t take this long, even that first time, when he was actually considering going and checking on her—because it was his job to keep her safe and the last thing wanted was to encroach upon her privacy but he had to keep her safe and something could’ve happened and—and she walked out unharmed. So he tried not to stare too hard as he surreptitiously examined her for injuries, pretended not to notice the red rimming her eyes as she caught his gaze, and moved on.

“Aw, phooey,” Purah muttered. “I hate it when she waits like this.”

Waits? Link wondered, cocking his head. For what?

“I keep telling her, ‘if you don’t hear anything, it’s because you aren’t ready, not because you aren’t patient or haven’t worked hard enough.’” Purah placed her hands on her hips. “But does she listen? No! And it’s not as if I don’t have facts to back up my argument. Honestly, Linky, I ran the numbers—she’s spent well over 28% of her life praying, and if that’s not ‘working hard enough‘ I don’t know what—ah, there you are, Zelds! Finally.”

The princess gave Purah a hasty apology. But the weak smile she wore faded when her once-again puffy eyes found Link, and a frown replaced it—a frown which, surprisingly, Purah received too.

Link winced. Guess Purah wasn’t supposed to talk to me about that. 

He certainly hadn’t known before that the princess was waiting for an answer. For all he knew, she had a direct line with the Goddess and was simply frustrated because the answer was always no. It didn’t make sense that she couldn’t hear the very deity whose blood ran through her veins.

In reality, she had reached out a thousand times, just to receive deafening silence in return.

...

“It’s east of here,” the princess announced, only to huff a moment later. “But then why would Death Mountain be over there?” 

Link slowed his horse, gazing at the horizon. He thought he remembered Eldin being over that way when he visited Zora’s Domain, so—

So the princess was smart. She didn’t need his help and she didn’t need to be reminded of his existence. Invisibility was best.

But after a short, negatively charged pause, she addressed him. “What do you think, Hero? Should we continue heading east?”

He nodded.

The princess did not turn her head until the silence had grown heavy. Link nodded again, and the princess shifted on her saddle, another exasperated sigh escaping her lips when she started slipping off. She righted herself, her cheeks glowing. “You could at least say ‘yes’ instead of making me look all the way back there.”

Link’s response was to canter up to her, putting them side-by-side. He glanced in her direction anxiously.

As he thought, she was still rather irritated. More so, even.

He didn’t have to guess what was gnawing at her. The princess was never one to beat around the bush. 

“Honestly. You can quit pretending now. I know you’re not mute.”

Link stared at the horn of his saddle, fingers uncurling from the reigns and finding the soft texture of his horse’s mane instead.

“Well,” she urged, “is there anything you’d like to say, Hero?”

The chirp of a bird. The snort of a horse. The clop clop of hooves. But no reply.

“I suppose that means you’re keeping up the charade,” the princess said flatly.

Link managed to push the brick up his throat far enough to form a wordless answer. “Mm-mn.”

The princess’ eyes widened slightly at the sound, but she tossed her head. “Play at being dumb if that’s what suits you, but you aren’t fooling anyone. In fact, you’re deluding yourself if you think I don’t know what exactly you’re itching to say.”

How is she this certain? Did she ask around, or...?

Did she really care that much? Why?

“My father would love it if I were that way,” she continued, “Impartial. Quiet. But personally, I find it idiotic. If you don’t speak your mind, people will assume you don’t have one. Or at the very least wonder at its contents.”

Fire ignited in his gut. Is she trying to get a rise out of me?

The princess frowned when he failed to present any real reaction.

“I could order you to talk, you know.”

And he could never refuse her; not as a knight, and not as her protector—even as the chosen hero, he was obligated to serve Hylia; serve her. But as a person, he was in far too deep to escape his silence, no matter how desperately he swam. And she didn’t know; wouldn’t—couldn’t—understand why reaching the surface was almost impossible. She would let him drown.

This kind of pressure always found his brain first, stunting its signals and separating thought from sound. Then it would travel downwards until it hit his chest, blocking his voice from escaping. At best, he could offer a random word, with no ties to his current state of mind.

“But frankly, I could care less about what you have to say, so I will refrain.” 

Thank Farore.

The rush of relief in his ears was louder than the princess’ voice. He barely caught the sound, when she added, under her breath, “I don’t—I don’t need your criticism anyhow.”

Whatever bit of ire remained from her earlier comment shriveled up. Link knew that spark of hurt and anger shouldn’t have died, then. Her words should have fed the fire. And yet, the wobbly cadence of her vowels and the crease of her brows fostered within him empathy. 

Words aren’t easy to give or take, Princess. I know.

...

The sword was supposed to talk, too.

When the princess asked, lowly, sadly, if Link had heard the voice inside it, he stopped in his tracks. Old memories flooded his head: a lullaby, inside it’s melody a tale of the legendary hero’s sword and the spirit within; a jest from one of his more bookish friends in the Royal Guard—something along the lines of “what a lucky guy!” because it “must be nice to have the company of a literal angel.”

He blinked in confusion, but the princess didn’t even look directly at him before she continued down the path.

“Of course you do,” she sighed.

He didn’t.

...

The next time they returned to the castle, Link made use of the royal library.

It took him hours to find the correct material, as he was far from familiar with the contents of each shelf or the benefits of pre-study skimming. But once his eyelids were droopy and his gloves covered in dust, he concluded that he was, in fact, supposed to have a connection with the spirit inside his blade—a connection he didn’t have.

For weeks afterwards, the hair on the back of his neck would stand up at the slightest noise. But it was always a squirrel; always the wind; always his own breathing; never her . And eventually, he gave up. 

His blade, it seemed, was as silent and defective as he was.

It could mean nothing. Or everything. It could mean he hadn’t awakened his power, either. It could mean that Hyrule was doubly doomed.

Oh, if anyone found out—

The revelation burrowed into his stomach, adding to the sinking pit that already lived there. So he did what had to be done. He hid his fear; stomped on it; smothered it, and carried on, because he could not let anyone know that he was capable of failing.

...

There was one time, in the dead of night, that he felt his throat vibrate unwittingly. He had been sitting outside the princess’s tent, fighting sleep and keeping vigil. The only thing in his mind was the rustle of the trees and the frigid air he breathed; then the sudden realization that he hadn’t fed his horse hit him.

The sigh was expected.

The soft, exasperated remark was not. “How did I forget?”

He covered his mouth immediately upon hearing his own voice. He hadn’t been loud. He hadn’t. But it felt like the forest was echoing, ringing with his stupid exclamation. 

The princess woke easily, in tears more often than not, and she had a habit of staying up to ungodly hours reading some scientific text or other.

Yet as far as Link knew, she hadn’t heard him that night.

Deep in his heart, that’s what he wanted.

He wanted to look at her and say “yes, I have a voice,” “yes, I can think,” “yes, I’m human,” if only to rid her of the idea that he didn’t, couldn’t, wasn’t. 

But sometimes even he wondered just how much of himself had been severed and burned by his own sword; how much flesh had been replaced with steel. Sometimes, he dreamed that he opened up his chest to find an ancient core where his beating heart once was.

...

She’d snuck out on her own again. He’d followed again. She’d yelled again.

“I thought I made it clear that I was not in need of an escort—“

And the king had made it clear that he was to accompany her outside the castle, no matter the circumstance. He was obeying orders. He did nothing wrong. He knew that.

Still, Link found it hard to take the princess’ sharp words without getting cut.

She’s mad at the king, he reminded himself. Not you. She’s mad at the king. Not you.

“I, the person in question, am fine—“

King. No choice.

“Return to the castle, and tell that to my father please.”

See? She knows why you’re here.

It eventually donned on him that he had just received a direct order. I am supposed to obey the king before her, right? He has the authority here. Or does that change because I’m her personal guard?

He hadn’t finished processing the situation before she pivoted and waltzed towards her horse. So he cleared his head and jogged after her. 

She heard him, of course. The air turned dangerously calm for a split second, then erupted with her final barb.

“And stop following me!”

He gave her a resigned look and complied with her demands.

Until she was out of earshot, at least.

...

She was heading towards the Gerudo Desert. 

Clever.

...

When Link saw the princess asleep in Urbosa’s arms, all his frustration and anxiety melted. If he could go back to Hateno and see his mother, he would run away too. The princess needed this. She deserved it.

And with Urbosa’s understanding gaze fixed upon him, he realized how cold his sapphire eyes must’ve seemed to Princess Zelda.

If silence spoke volumes, what had he been telling her this whole time?

 ...

Link was quite certain that his charge had no idea what a comfort her spontaneous commentary was. He’d grown accustomed their little one-sided conversations. And the way she spoke...it was like she couldn’t help it; like she enjoyed voicing her thoughts; like her lips and brain were so in sync that they came together naturally. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t exactly talking to him—in fact, it made things simpler for him. He could listen and know he wasn’t alone, and that was enough.

After that night on Vah Naboris, it all disappeared. The princess, upon realizing he’d followed her to the desert in secret, decided it was fitting to give him the silent treatment.

...This was a taste of his own medicine, he supposed.

When he attempted to close the gap between them, desperate to tell her, even with his face alone, that he was sorry, she merely pointed towards a far-off sand dune and broke her silence to say, in the most deadpan voice he’d ever heard: “Ten feet behind me, Hero.”

But the real trouble didn’t start until they came to rest at the Bazaar. Link hadn’t partaken in a full night’s sleep since the princess gave him the slip back in Tabantha; he’d done without a fire and had a hard time resting when the Princess of Hyrule, whom he was responsible for, was barely within sight—so to put it mildly: he was very, very tired. And as a result, he made a terrible decision.

He paid for a soft bed (stupid, stupid thing to do), told himself that he didn’t have to keep night watch with so many armed Gerudo women around (like that excused him from doing his Din-cursed job), and went to sleep (for way too long).

In the morning, the princess was nowhere to be seen. Not in the inn. Not in the bazaar. 

After the initial crippling, absolute, unbearable panic died, he summoned the courage to do the only rational thing: determine which direction she went in. But doing that meant he needed to...communicate, even though he was already far from calm. Saving face was the least of his worries, but it was still humiliating to hold up a sign, displaying his sloppy handwriting and nonexistent spelling skills, just to ask people if they knew which direction the princess had gone in. 

His only consolation was that she couldn’t be more than a couple miles away...assuming she hadn’t left before sunrise. 

Oh Goddesses, what if she had? What if she snuck out in the middle of the night alone and—

“Ah! That cute Hylian vai with the blond hair? She went towards Gerudo Town.”

Off to escape me and my conveniently voe-shaped butt again, huh?

Well, at least the journey to Gerudo Town wasn’t too far or too treacherous.

...

It was treacherous enough to nearly cost the princess her life.

But “nearly” was such a beautiful word—it meant that he did it. He got to her in time. He raised his sword for her. He kept her safe.

And when he she took his hand to rise, he saw not bitterness or resentment or anger in her eyes, but a different thing entirely, too clouded by fear to interpret. Her gaze softened under his, her lips parted as though she had something to say.

Yet Link heard nothing. Maybe she couldn’t find her voice, either.

...

She did, eventually.

Link was minding his own business, poking the dying fire, while the princess snacked on a rice ball. The morning air was fresh and cool—but they were still too far southeast to expect the temperature to stay this low all day.

After the Yiga incident, the princess had finally begun to head towards the castle. She’d spent the rest of yesterday morning in relative silence, though, so Link continued to keep his distance. The road home was a windy one; Link was glad when they came across a stable nestled in the canyons on the edge of the Gerudo Desert—the same stable that the princess had entrusted her stallion to while she fled her knight. There, they resupplied, mounted their horses, and continued onward until nightfall. 

They were hanging around camp now, rubbing the tiredness from their eyes. In a moment, they would pack their things and head out.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

Link’s head snapped up. 

That could not have sounded more forced. But Link elected to match the princess’s painfully awkward smile instead of letting on how confused he was. Unfortunately, his efforts to keep the situation casual appeared to fail, because the princess’ eyebrows shot up, like he’d insulted her in some way. He was merely being friendly, returning kindness with kindness; didn’t everyone tend to dish out what they’d been given? It was only natural to—

...Oh.

He hadn’t exactly been receiving a lot of positive affirmation lately.

What did she expect me to do? Give her a dirty look or something?

It hadn’t been good, whatever it was. The princess was studying the ground intensely now, weighed down by the long pause.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath and a spark of determination in her eyes, the princess spoke.

“I wanted to say...that I’m sorry. For everything.” 

Link blinked rapidly.

“How I’ve treated you thus far is not the way anyone should be treated and I apologize.”

She cleared her throat, playing with the golden buttons of her fingerless gloves.

“You’ve been wonderfully patient with me; I hope you know that you have been doing a fantastic job despite the difficulties I’ve caused you. I wish I’d realized sooner how childish my actions were. All this time I was thinking of my own problems, of my own failures. And well, it wasn’t fair to you...or my kingdom.” 

Link realized with horror that her voice was beginning to waver. He felt his heart ache as he watched a tear slip down her cheek and disappear wish a frustrated brush of her hand. 

“You don’t have to forgive me—actually, you have every right not to. I only ask that you consider granting me...granting me a second chance.”

In all honesty, Link half expected to wake up and find the real princess pacing the outside of her tent, unchanged and angry at him for sleeping in. But he didn’t.

There was just the girl sitting on the log across from him, red-faced and teary-eyed and tired of silence. She needed a response, even if she didn’t expect one. 

Suddenly, Link remembered something he’d learned a long time ago. While he was completing the training necessary for the Royal Guard, his commander had invited a Sheikah warrior to teach the trainees stealth tactics, both combat-related and etiquette-related techniques. She’d covered silent communication with the soldiers, as an aide in missions and in day-to-day guard duty. The purpose of such a practice was obvious in relation to stealth missions, but the day-to-day stuff was actually what Link got the most out of. A Royal Guard had to make himself blend into the background; part of his duty was not to disturb those he protected.

Link had made use of the hand signs around his fellow knights for inside jokes, private conversation, and, as of late, simple one-sign gestures because they were easier than speaking aloud. 

He spread his fingers, placing his thumb atop his chest. “It’s okay.”

The princess was, of course, puzzled by the gesture. Link threw in a nod and a grin for good measure.

“Oh!” the princess exclaimed. “Was...was that sign language?”

He nodded again.

Her cheeks glowed. “I-I’m afraid I don’t know how to read sign. Could you possibly...tell me what that means?”

Link shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck, looking to the side. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out—only air, which was currently thick and hard to breathe.  

He knew what was going through the princess’ mind; “if he can speak, why won’t he speak to me?”

But all she said was: “I see.”

The disappointment in her voice pierced Link’s heart. He had to show her he was willing to give her a second chance; find some way to get the message across, or she would continue to think otherwise.

He felt stupid doing it, but he dragged the stick he’d been using to poke the fire with across a clear patch of sandstone. The charred end left obsidian marks in its wake as he carved out his message: ‘I forgive you.‘

The princess leaned over to examine it. Her eyelashes fluttered and her brows drew together; she was probably having trouble making out what it said, Link realized with considerable embarrassment. However, his writing must’ve been...legible, if barely, because she actually smiled when she looked up.

“Thank you,” she said weakly. “Could we...maybe start over?” 

...

The king wanted an audience.

Considering the events of these past couple days, Link hadn’t the confidence to assume such a sudden meeting was a good thing. But he squared his shoulders, took a knee, and pretended there was nothing to be afraid of.

“Sir Link, I called you here on account of your most recent report.”

Oh no.

“I’m afraid I’m receiving two very different stories.”

Nayru’s love. What did the princess say?

“Princess Zelda has spoken quite favorably in regards to your actions in Gerudo Desert. Your personal report, however, paints the events in a different light. I believe you described yourself as having ‘lost’ the princess the first time due to your failure to agree with her choice of destination, and the second time due to significant sleep deprivation. However, my daughter denies any negligence on your part and speaks only of your nonstop determination to protect her, despite her attempts to evade you.”

The king paused thoughtfully. “Of course, I wish to hold my daughter’s word as truth, but I cannot possibly imagine why you might depict yourself in such a way. Did you or did you not allow my daughter to go unescorted?”

Gaze still pinned to the floor, Link shook his head. The king grunted, and Link tried not to think of all the possible meanings that could have.

But there was no disbelief when he spoke. “I thought as much. She has given those in her service trouble before, and it is common for them to cover up any potentially ’offensive’ narratives in their reports. I believe that you performed honorably, and I hope that I do not hear otherwise in the future.”

So that was it. King Rhoam thanked Link for his diligence, and dismissed him without further questioning.

Link walked back to his quarters with a confused smile on his face.

Never in his life had he thought the princess would come to his defense.

...

Friends.

It was quick and nonchalant, but she had said it. She’d chosen the label.

Link replayed the moment again and again. 

“...nice to have a friend out here. I’d sound absolutely insane talking to myself otherwise.” 

Link had chuckled, and she had laughed along, the tips of her ears turning red.

It was funny because it was true.

The princess did enough talking for the both of them. There was barely uncomfortable silence anymore—just a peaceful, gentle quiet. She made space for him always.

“Look!” she would exclaim. “On that tree. What a beautifully colored rhino beetle!”

And then she would take her eyes off her newest fascination to focus on the knight behind her, the brightest smile on her face and the deepest patience in her gaze. Link knew, every time, that the beat of silence preceding her inevitable rambling (“I believe that’s a bladed rhino beetle to be specific” “energetic beetles are the rarest but these are the prettiest in my opinion”) was for him. Yet, the usual panic he felt when someone sought a reaction from him was nonexistent.

The pressure was off. She had a beautiful way of giving him room to talk without expecting him to.

But the hope was still there. Link could feel it, shy and hesitant. Like a lonely flame, struggling to survive; a fire in the wind.

He didn’t want it to die out.

...

It didn’t. It appeared to grow stronger and stronger, until finally the princess worked up the courage to ask him a direct question; one that could not be satisfied by any single gesture or well-timed grunt.

The real question was ironically silent. What the princess said had nothing to do with what she actually asked. No, the real question was one he’d asked himself many times before.

Did he want this?

This, meaning the sword in his hands. This, meaning the muscle memory of thrust, swing, dodge. This, meaning the way everyone looked at him—searching for the hero under the boy, considering his skill and qualification and strength before anything else.

And she’d asked him when his tunic was soaked through, his fingers wrapped around the Master Sword’s hilt, his heart pounding at his refusal to let the rain keep him from his exercises.

“Your path seems to mirror your father’s....”

He let her musing mingle with the storm raging around them and the sound of his blade cutting through the muggy air; and then she admitted something surprising.

“I see now why you would be the chosen one.”

He slowed his movements. The princess had never acknowledged his role as hero in a positive light before.

“What if, one day, you realized you just weren’t meant to be a fighter? Yet the only thing people ever said...was that you were born into a family of the Royal Guard, and so no matter what you thought, you had to become a knight. If it was the only thing you were ever told, I wonder then, would you have chosen a different path?”

Never. 

It didn’t matter—hadn’t mattered—that he fantasized about life as a cook or stablehand. The minute he’d shown promise as a knight, he’d ceased to have a chance at anything else. His talent could not be ignored.

He was lucky, though. He had always wanted to be like his father—strong and brave and generous. The title “knight” fit his father, and Link hoped it would fit him, too. It wasn’t so much that he had been pressured into knighthood—just that he hadn’t ever been encouraged to pursue anything else.

It sounded perfect to him, as a kid. Save people from danger? Serve his kingdom? Receive three meals a day, no exceptions, courtesy of the king?

He’d signed up in his heart years before the actual decision was made.

And then he was faced with reality: strict training regimens, violent sparring, and little to no rest. It wore him down, day after day, being ordered to push, push, hit harder and harder. 

(And don’t hold back—what do you mean you’re worried you’ll hurt him? Win! Don’t be weak.)

If he hadn’t enlisted, perhaps he would have been happier even before drawing the Master Sword. 

But he didn’t know how to say that. He didn’t know how tell the princess—the girl  he’d watched break apart under the pressure of her station; the princess who bore such ruthless criticism for not fulfilling her role; the scholar who longed openly for another life—that he didn’t love or hate being a knight.

He did know, however, that she needed an answer. And he was determined to give her one. If he had to push a million stones out of the way to get the words on his tongue, so be it.

It was much easier, he found, to say “you” instead of “I.”

“Y...You didn’t,” he said, just loud enough to hear himself over the rain.

The princess’ eyes grew wide and her brows knit together. “Did you...I thought I heard—forgive me, but could you repeat that please?”

Link stared at the ground, focusing on the words lodged in his throat. Why? I already said it. Why can’t I just....

It was no use. 

“Oh, I—don’t worry about it,” the princess said, patting the spot next to her. An invitation. A small courtesy, but a meaningful one; he sat and gave her a grateful nod.

But she was busy digging in her pack, muttering to herself. “Ah! Here we are. Perhaps it would be easier for you to use this?”

Her field notebook fell into his hands, with a quill pen settled in the crease of the spine. She’d opened it to a blank page for him, but her fluid, elegant writing still filled the page beside it, and he instantly felt guilty about marring the book with his cucco scratch. One last look at her hopeful face, though, and Link began letting his thoughts flow on the parchment, praying that the script wasn’t too lopsided or misspelled.

‘You didn’t choose a different path. You are always the princess, and you are no less dedicated to your duty than me.’

“That’s very kind of you to say,” the princess sighed, “but your level of success far exceeds my own. You must be doing something right. Do you have a...passion for swordsmanship?”

‘I like it. I like being able to protect people. But...’he hesitated, pen heavy in his hand. ‘I don’t like that I need to. I don’t like knowing that someone’s life depends on my abilities.’

The princess simply closed her eyes and said, “Neither do I.”

...

It had been six hours now. Yet the princess continued to recite ancient prayers, waist-deep in the water of the Spring of Courage and swallowed completely in her own tears.

The pommel of the Master Sword was probably imprinted on Link’s palms. There was nothing he could do besides stand guard and squeeze the end of the handle when her voice broke.

For the first time, Link was angry at the Goddess. He hadn’t ever felt this way—not even on those nights he lay awake, unable to release the sorrow that was trapped in his chest, asking “why me” but never expecting an answer.

“Do you hear this?” he wanted to scream, “She’s destroying herself and no one will acknowledge her efforts—not even you!”

But instead he pursed his lips and said nothing.

...

Link felt a blasphemous scream build in his throat a few days later, too; because there should have been praise on King Rhoam’s tongue, not criticism.

Again, the princess bowed her head and promised to try harder.

Again, Link pursed his lips and said nothing.

...

‘I’ll eat the frog.’

The princess blinked at her field journal. Finally, she looked up at Link, her bright, long-lost smile spreading across her face. “You will?”

Link gulped, but his nod was firm.

“You know, I was mostly joking when I said that before,” she laughed, flushing. “I would never expect you to consume a frog...and raw! I mean, that would be ridiculous—as I said, I was joking.”

Link raised a brow.

“Mostly.”

...

The frog wasn’t as gummy as he was expecting. But the excitement in the princess’ eyes was no less beautiful.

...

“How did you learn to sign?”

‘Royal Guard training. Only the basics, though.’

“Can you teach me some?”

...

The princess picked it up quite quickly. And she wasn’t just intuitive; she practiced on her own. Link could see the shadows of her hands on the tent’s walls, cast by firelight. 

She learned how to spell out words (like she’d been doing it her whole life) in a single night that way.

In the morning, she had greeted him, not with “good morning” as was the recent trend ever since they made amends, but with swift gestures. “My name is Z-E-L-D-A,” she signed, beaming.“Tada!”

Link chuckled and gave her a thumbs-up.

But she didn’t want to stop at the basics. There came a day when he’d taught her all he could.

“That’s the end,” he told her, adding a shrug as he pointed to his head. He wasn’t even completely sure how to sign “I know.”

“Ah,” she said. And then she lifted her hand. “Thank you.”

Then a few minutes later, she cleared her throat. “This was very nice. I mean it; I believe it’ll be helpful—now we don’t have to have a pen and parchment (and a bit of free time) on hand, at least for some things. Perhaps we can chat a little more?”

Link cocked his head. The corner of his mouth lifted as she continued.

“I...enjoy talking to you, truly. But it feels like I’m, well...it feels as though I’m talking at you sometimes, and I’d really like to know what you think, if you’re comfortable sharing. That is the basis of conversation, isn’t it? I suppose I’m trying to say that I rather like this form of communication, and I’m certain it could work even better if I studied it further. Would that be a worthwhile practice to you? Expanding your knowledge of sign so we can converse fluently?”

Oddly enough, his eyes stung, even in happiness.

She’s doing this for me?

He’d genuinely assumed that with how scholarly-minded she was that this was a curiosity to her, and nothing more.

Now it looked like, though his voice couldn’t reach her ears, he might have someone willing to listen.

...

They learned together. Link would stand outside the princess’ study, waiting for her to give him the next word before turning to see the corresponding sign.

“Happy,” he echoed, careful to keep his hands flat.

“Me too,” the princess joked. “This is actually quite fun.”

He nodded, lip curved in a lopsided smile. The princess resumed her study as he placed his arms behind his back again and let the brightness of the sinking sun keep him alert. At least he wasn’t tired yet.

Link’s eyelids would get heavy, sometimes, and the princess would almost immediately yawn with no shortage of theatrics. Then she’d spout some nonsense about needing to “turn in for the night.” Link was painfully aware that in the majority of these cases, she wasn’t sleepy in the slightest—she was merely giving him the chance to switch shifts.

This was an arrangement made out of compromise. Princess Zelda wanted him in the study, reading along with her, but Link insisted that since he had to be on duty to be allowed in this wing of the castle, he had to be on duty.

He was running enough risk taking this many shifts anyway.

But this time, it wasn’t droopy eyes or sluggish movements that caught the princess’ attention—it was a growling stomach.

Ears perking at the sound, she stared at the Silent Princess on her shelf for a moment as if that would make the intention behind her next words even the slightest bit ambiguous. “Good gracious, I am starving,” she said, clearing her throat. “We should take a break.”

Link pointed inward towards himself and then at the princess. “We?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m not expected in the dining room for a couple of hours, and I would rather not spoil my supper alone. Will you join me?”

Link nodded automatically, but his hand found the back of his neck.

“It’s perfectly natural, I promise,” she assured, hopping off her chair and hiking her skirt to glide across the bridge. Link jogged after her immediately, but the princess sensed his hesitance and glanced over her shoulder every second or two to check on him, calmly informing him that apparently “Personal guards dine with their charges all the time. Although it’s technically against protocol for the Royal Guard as a whole, appointed knights get a bit of a slip through the system.”

...It made sense. It also meant that he was being weird by eating after her this entire time, even on the road. Great.

“Won’t you have a seat?” she offered, standing what Link guessed was a secondary dining room of some sort. She was sitting at the head of the table, gesturing to the chair beside her. 

He bit his cheek and took the spot before he could talk himself out of it.

Once they were seated, and the dishes were brought in, both of them were glued to their chairs.

Link stared. 

In front of him was a table full of deliciousness. There was hearty stew filled with fragrant herbs, spicy rice balls that were practically orange with curry, and even a freshly baked apple pie. All right there. On the table. Waiting to be devoured.

He pursed his lips to keep himself from drooling. I really shouldn’t have accepted this. Maybe my terrible table manners won’t show if I don’t eat more than a couple bites.

But then he made the mistake of inhaling. Goddesses, the smell...

Princess Zelda looked up at him expectantly.

“Is all of this for us?” he asked, at a loss.

She tilted her head in that cute little way she did when she observed the smaller Guardians. “Every bite.”

Link kept staring. He just knew his expression had to be stupid, but he couldn’t help it. He allowed himself another breath of air, relishing the aroma that filled his nostrils.

He eyed his plate once more, devising the best strategy. Stew first? He didn’t want to end up making a mess or anything.... Cautiously, he chewed some of the juicy meat, stifling the urge to pick up the bowl and slurp the rest of the broth down. 

“I hope you’re okay with curry,” the princess said. Link raised his eyes from the stew to find her—pointlessly—dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “It’s not too hot, but I assume you aren’t used to Goron spice.”

He shook his head quickly. “I like it a lot, actually.”

“Oh! You aren’t from Akkala, are you?”

“No, Hateno.”

“Hm. I would’ve mistaken you for being from the upper region of the Lanayru Province.”

“Because I know Mipha?”

The princess blushed.

Link laughed a bit in spite of himself; he almost choked. The convenient thing about signing was that he could chew his food and engage in conversation at the same time—he’d almost forgotten that doing both was strange.“You’re half right. I spent a good amount of my childhood in Zora’s Domain. My dad was positioned there when I was four or so.”

“Ah!” the princess beamed. “I wasn’t too far off, then. Well, that makes me feel better.”

There were surprisingly few lapses in their small talk. The next time Link raised his head to make sure the princess understood him, he came to the sudden realization that she had no less than three-quarters of her meal left.

And he hadn’t a crumb remaining.

The princess noticed his ghastly expression and laughed. “Here I was, worried you wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh no. You don’t have to worry about that with me.”

“Well I’m glad. But, for the sake of keeping it that way, what don’t you like?”

Link blinked at her.

She dabbed at her chin again. “Alright...then, what’s your favorite dish?”

Link’s mind went blank. He thought for a moment and then gave her a shrug. “Food. Food is my favorite.”

That marked the first time Princess Zelda snorted in his presence. She covered her mouth immediately, looking at him with wide eyes and apology on her lips.

It also marked the first time Link saw her as a teenaged girl; not a scholar or a goddess or a princess.

Just a girl.

...

Link started to learn things about her. About Zelda.

Mundane things; ordinary things.

She loved fruitcake. A lot. She had even persuaded one of her handmaidens to slip her a slice before bed every night, a secret she’d only let Link in on after he proved to her that there was no possible way that she could outdo his glutinous tendencies. 

As a child she’d called frogs “oggies,” and she would beg to be let out in the rain to play with them. The aforementioned handmaiden was one to tell Link that; the woman was rather chatty, much to Zelda’s chagrin.

There wasn’t a single out-of-place item or un-alphabetized book in her room, but her study was a complete mess; she somehow preferred a chaotic workspace, yet still couldn’t sleep at night knowing her comb wasn’t stowed in the correct drawer.

And despite all her efforts, she wasn’t the best listener. She was as observant as she was intelligent—a natural at reading textbooks and driving discussion. But her brain never slowed down long enough to take in the moment; to simply receive information; to put the questions away for later. Her inclination was to keep talking, never expecting answer.

That, Link thought, was the saddest of his discoveries.

...

“What is it?” she pleaded. “What’s wrong with me?!”

Link turned around. There she was, head hanging low, fists clenched, shoulders shaking.

It wasn’t his place to interrupt, but he was so tired of seeing her like this.

He almost stopped at the edge of the spring, afraid to enter the water and invade her privacy. But in the end, he fell to the temptation, wading towards her.

She wiped at her face for a solid minute before meeting his gaze. “What are—“

He extended his hand. 

With a watery breath she placed hers atop his and allowed him to lead her to shore early, her trembling fingers relaxing against the gentle rubbing of his thumb.

Back at camp, she was all dead stares and soft, hitched breathing. Link scooted closer to her as she tugged the blanket tight around her shoulders. Once she noticed his frown she buried her head in her knees.

It took a lot, but Link managed to reach out and touch her bare shoulder. “Are you okay?”

She looked up at him with glassy eyes. “I’m fine. I just...I was really hoping that perhaps this spring would live up to its name.”

Link nodded solemnly. 

Her breath hitched again. “There must be something I’m doing wrong. Either that, or it’s just...me.”

Link followed her eyes to the ground, capturing her gaze in his once more before she could completely break eye-contact. 

“Princess,” he signed slowly, deliberately. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”

Her weak smile tore him apart. “Link, I can’t even hear her.”

He took a deep breath and freed his fear-bound hands. “Me neither.”

“But that’s not the same. You—“

She stopped herself when she saw Link wince, chin dropping to his chest. 

He had to tell her. No matter how vulnerable it made him feel. He unsheathed his blade, heart hammering, and raised the hilt to his ear. “I’m not connected like the heroes of the past.”

The princess stilled, shock replacing the grief on her face. “You mean you haven’t felt...anything?”

Link managed a nod, though his head was suddenly very heavy. Because now the three of them were one: a princess deaf to the Goddess’ call, a hero muted in the name of fear, and a broken sword without a voice.

...

Link realized, with no shortage of empathy and a little rueful amusement, that the princess only had trouble listening because she felt unheard; just as he only had trouble speaking because he felt so undeniably, terrifyingly, horribly heard.

But she listened. To him.

With the campfire crackling in the back of his brain and the princess’ shy, ever-careful voice echoing through his head, he answered one of the most difficult questions he’d ever been asked.

“I’m quiet because I’m afraid that if I wasn’t, I’d be too loud. With all of this going on, and everyone so focused on me, and you, and the champions...the cost of speaking out of turn or showing the slightest bit of weakness is high. I can’t risk letting them down. I can’t. Better to be seen as a silent defender than—“ his shaking hands searched for the right language to use, only to point inward. “Than to be seen as me.”

Princess Zelda didn’t scoff. She didn’t laugh. She listened.

“Thank you for being so honest,” she said, signing along with her gentle words. “I assumed, when I first talked to you, that you were silent out of anger. I see now how wrong that assumption was.”

Slowly, Link brought his thumb to his chest. “It’s okay.”

Recognition flashed in Zelda’s eyes immediately. “I’m quite glad I understand what that means this time,” she giggled. 

“Me too.”

After a moment, the princess perked up again. “And Link?”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment.

Zelda brought her hands up. “If you ever feel comfortable enough to do so, know that I would love to hear whatever you have to say.”

She listened.

So it was his turn. He needed to speak.

...

Today, Link promised himself.

“Good morning,” he would say. She would emerge from her tent and he would smile and just...say it.

...

He didn’t.

...

The silence wasn’t a big deal, he reasoned. It couldn’t be too much longer before his tongue loosened up like the rest of him already had around the princess.

And yet, some things were the same as they had been from the beginning, from the days when his chest would grow tight around her, as if it were bursting with apologies and affirmations she would never hear him say aloud; the days when his tongue would feel like dead weight and his whole being would grow cold when she looked at him, ocean eyes full of anguish and resentment. 

But she looked at him with such warmth and trust now that there was no reason to keep quiet.

Was there?

...

“Stubborn beast!” she groaned, still in a foul mood after he unsuccessful visit to the Spring of Power. The “stubborn beast” was her prized stallion, and the point of contention was his considerable lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of being mounted.

Link tugged on his reigns, waiting up for her. The princess’ horse was actually very meticulously trained, and the princess herself knew perfectly well, technically speaking, how to properly mount him. The problem lay not in her knowledge, but in her disposition.

“He just doesn’t listen to me!” was her next cry.

Link tried to hide his amusement, watching passively.

She had her foot in the stirrup, but whenever she started to push her body up onto the saddle, she couldn’t keep her balance and the stallion huffed at her and wiggled under her weight, shaking her off.

Finally, the knight slid to the ground and came to her aid. Or that’s what he intended to do. What really happened was Link’s boots hit the ground and the stallion trotted over to Link, leaving the princess in the dust. The horse stilled under his touch; Link remained by his side until eventually the nostril-flaring and head-tossing stopped.

He looked over at the princess in time to catch her pouting like a petulant child. “Will someone please tell me why this horse prefers you over me? What betrayal!”

Link shrugged and grinned triumphantly, but the princess didn’t laugh. 

“He’s been mine since...since—I was eight when he was set aside for me, Link! Eight!”

Sensing that the princess was genuinely distressed, Link raised his hands and searched, as he’d begun to do recently, for his voice. But even with the sign language to help him take the focus off of speaking aloud, he couldn’t make a sound. 

“How often did you see him?”

The princess floundered, seemingly thrown off by the awkward pause. “What do you mean?”

“In a given week, how often did you come to the stables?”

“...I rode him every three weeks when I was practicing horsemanship. After that, well...oh.”

Link nodded knowingly.

“But I care for him; I really do. It’s not that we don’t have a bond.” The princess slowed as the words fell from her mouth, her thumb and forefinger coming to cup her chin. “He should be more than used to me by now. Either he’s a terrible steed or I’m....” she sighed. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

Link smiled reassuringly and shook his head. “You just need to make a different kind of connection. I can help.”

He had noticed before that she never groomed her stallion or fed him herself. He’d also noticed that she regularly dug her heels into the horse’s sides to get him back on course, yet she never uttered a word of praise or a rewarded him with a pat on the neck when he did as she bade him to.

“A...different kind of connection?” the princess asked.

“He’s sees you as his master; not his friend.”

The princess cocked her head, signing out “master” and “friend” to cement the translation. “And what exactly is the difference between the two? From a horse’s perspective, I mean?”

“For starters, friends give him sugar cubes,” Link signed, bouncing his eyebrows.

The princess blinked and laughed a little. “Simple enough.”

“Yep,” Link nodded. “Sugar cubes and attention, which should go a long way.”

“Excuse me, I give him plenty of attention!”

“When he’s doing something wrong.”

The princess’ jaw dropped, but she didn’t argue.

Link chuckled. “It’s okay, I know you appreciate his efforts. He doesn’t know, but we can fix that.”

“How, pray tell, do I show him my appreciation?”

On impulse, Link took her hand and placed it atop the horse’s muscled neck, moving her fingers across the silky coat by directing his own. He tried to ignore the slight glow spreading over her cheeks and patted the horse himself for good measure. “Be sure you take the time to soothe your mount; it’s the only way it’ll know how you truly feel. That’s the equestrian equivalent to acknowledging a job well done.” 

“I’ll remember that, thank you.”

With a deep breath, Link opened his mouth, still facing the horse. He was horrified to realize that he was actually going to be able to do it. If he kept his mind on horse, horse, talking to a horse is all, he could—

“You’re welcome, Princess.”

Quick. Painless.

And she heard him this time. Her eyebrows were miles high when he turned around; it gave him this odd adrenaline rush, except add nausea and vague terror. Link didn’t exactly know what he was waiting for her to do (make a weird face? straight-up mock him? curse his children and his children’s children?), but she never did it.

She smiled—a private smile, a secret smile that vanished as quickly as it came—and fitted her foot in the stirrup once more, wobbling. “Really,” she gasped in her struggle to keep her balance. “I can’t believe you know how to make this one listen!”

 ...

The princess’ stallion practically melted under the special treatment. And for Zelda, the extra work was a welcome distraction; she beamed as she situated the royal gear onto his back, and every apple she treated him to had her giggling and wiping her hands on her trousers, mumbling something about her overly ticklish palms.

Journeying towards the Lanayru Spring dampened her mood a bit. Link rode beside her, actively following along with whatever subject of conversation she happened to choose. Mostly, the ensuing trip dominated her thoughts.

Link found the sunspot in the frigid storm that was her fear—or rather, her fears, plural, which surrounded the mountain and clouded any hope she might have harbored.

Her seventeenth birthday.

...

Link didn’t say “happy birthday.” He presented his princess with a freshly-baked fruit cake and awaited her reaction, wildberry juice staining his fingers and a message written in his eyes: “this is important, too.”

...

“You are a magnificent baker! Is cooking a hobby of yours or am I just abnormally  challenged in the, er—culinary arts?”

“It takes practice. I haven’t had much time lately, but I like to cook when I can. How about some risotto for dinner, once we’re back from the spring?”

“Would you? Oh, that would be lovely, Link.”

...

The risotto was forgotten—by both of them, that evening; by Link, forever.

...

Link could barely breathe.

He carried in his arms a princess-shaped ice sculpture, stiff and limp and freezing and alive and dead all at once. He’d let her stay for too long. This was his fault.

It felt like hours before the fire had thawed her icy bones enough for her to fully, consciously, melt.

Even her tears seemed to crystallize as the first few sobs seized her. She leaned forward from where she sat, exhaustion and heartache pulling her to the ground. But Link didn’t allow her to collapse in the snow. He caught her, keeping her close to his chest, praying that she could feel whatever warmth he had to offer.

For a while, she just cried. Her body was too low on energy to do anything else, even form a cohesive thought.

Then, ever so slowly, Link was able to make out words within her weak gasps. “I’m a f-failure.”

In his mind, there were a thousand denials. But he knew none of them would take away the anguish in her soul.

That’s how the soft hushing and humming began. He hugged her tighter, rocking back and forth, breathing small “no”s and “shh”s. He held her until the icy water that clung to her dress and the added moisture of her warm tears soaked his tunic. But the moment he started to shake along with her, she attempted to pull away, her tired muscles no match for his steadfast grip.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed.

“For w-what?”

“Y-You’re—we’re shivering,” she sobbed, almost light enough to be laughter.

“That’s m-my mistake. I shouldn’t have l-let you stay in there—“

“You tried to get me out multiple times, Link. To be honest, I don’t know why I even wanted to s-s-stay. It’s useless.”

Link frowned at her, but found himself at a loss. “Y-You should change out of those clothes, Princess. They’re only making you colder.”

She gave him a half-hearted nod before stumbling to her pack and then slipping behind a rock face for cover. He followed suit. 

They huddled back around the fire, sufficiently bundled and delightfully dry. Link sat on his haunches with his arms atop his knees. 

“I...p-promise not to stay so long, tomorrow,” the shadowed figure across from him said, drawing the cloak tighter around her shivering body.

Link listened to her soft chattering, a frown on his lips. “Do you have to go at all?” he asked quietly.

The plan had been to stay one night and then head back to meet the Champions at the edge of the Promenade. 

A spark of blue-turned-emerald caught the firelight—a pleading look, aimed at him. “I can’t face them until I....” her voice wavered at the end of the sentence and she tensed, likely holding in more tears.

The sight was enough to make Link’s throat start closing, too. But he had his hands, and they wouldn’t betray him so easily. “I don’t know if that’s safe. The climate up here is dangerous; your body won’t be through fighting off the cold from tonight, even in the morning.”

The princess shook her head, sniffing. “I won’t be long,” she signed. Link privately wondered if she’d picked up on his trick; keeping emotion hidden by silencing the soft inflections that put any vulnerability on display. But she couldn’t quiet the rest of her body. “I need to do this,” said her set jaw. “I’ll be okay,” her eyes added. “You know I will.” 

He did. He knew she’d done worse in the name of awakening her powers. “Okay” was a horrid term; it made things out to be right when they weren’t, not at all.

“Besides, don’t really have a choice,” she continued. “If I leave this spring empty-handed, I leave my kingdom to ruin.”

“That’s not true. You can keep trying.”

“No,” the princess said, dropping her hands in her lap. “I can’t. The springs, they were—are—my only hope. I’ve tried...everything else—“ She straightened to collect herself again, a shivering breath escaping her lungs. “I’m sorry I made you worry, but I will not run away from my responsibilities.”

Link didn’t give her a “fine” or ”okay” this time. He gave her a meaningful glance, his features tightening with concern.

...

She had a nightmare, that night.

It always woke him up when she cried out. Even the slightest noises of distress had him jumping to his feet, a thousand possibilities swimming through his head.

When he approached her, she was shivering again. Cold sweat was practically ice at their current elevation; at his behest, she moved closer to the fire. He sat with her.

“How do you do it?” she asked after a moment. “How do you keep this fear from ripping you apart? It’s too much. The Calamity draws ever near and I don’t yet have the strength to stand against it, but you...you have it all under control; you’ve never shown the slightest sign of weakness, while I...well.”

Link bit his lip, but forced a sound. “Courage isn’t the absence of fear, Princess. You are the bravest person I know.”

It took too long, for her to process that.

“Thank you,” she breathed, “that means a lot to me, Link.” But her brows twitched, just the way they did when she heard a theory she wasn’t sold on, or accepted a compliment she found untrue.               

Link swallowed, feeling his voice fall into the pit of his stomach. “I’m...” he started, pushing the words back upwards, horribly aware of how shaky they would sound once they tumbled out. “I’m scared, too.”

The princess just gazed at him from across the fire, a hint of surprise on her face.

“Actually, I’m terrified.” 

The empathy that lay in Zelda’s eyes was indescribably comforting. “Perhaps this is a bit hypocritical of me to say, but I believe, with all of my being, that you have both the skill and the strength to fulfill your role.” 

And that did it. His chest constricted. His throat closed. How could anyone so sincerely trust in a hero who was afraid of even the sound of his own voice? 

Years of neglected, desolate, frigid tears clouded his vision, but he could still see Zelda breaking apart along with him.

“We can do this,” she said. “Together.”

And suddenly, she was holding him.

Link returned the hug, forcing himself to breathe in time with her heartbeat. It was music to his ears. He hoped to Hylia it wouldn’t stop, at least not for a long, long time—

“What if I can’t keep you safe?” The question broke his hoarse voice. 

And awoke another voice from it’s deep slumber.

“Master,” it rang, melodic and strange and familiar. “Master, a significant amount of time has passed since we have been together.”

A thousand thoughts buzzed through his head, but one question prevailed. Why now?

“Because the Goddess Hylia’s blood flows through the veins of the one you now embrace. Because she is precious and you would do anything to protect her; your courage knows no bounds, at last.”

But I was willing to die for her, even from the beginning.

“That is indeed true, Master. You were willing to die for the Princess of Hyrule. However, you were not willing to bare your soul to Zelda, the descendant of the Goddess, to whom you are bound forever. That, in reality, was your greatest fear. And you had the courage to face it.”

But he didn’t have the heart to tell the princess.

“What if I can’t keep you safe?” he’d asked her.

“Then no one can,” was her answer.

...

The next time he found her in his arms, he had nothing to say.

...

Mud and rain and fire and smoke and the inner chant of run run run.

Their hands interlocked, holding just tight enough to keep their fingers—wet with blood and sweat and rain—from slipping out of reach.

Link kept his sword drawn and his shield ready, but the impenetrable armor of the Guardians tore at even the strongest of blades, and their deadly lasers sawed through his shield without hesitation. 

In those final moments, his body was the only shield she had, until that one broke, too.

...

The last voice he heard wasn’t Zelda’s. It was her. The sword.

“It is not over yet, Master.”

Then he knew nothing but unwilling, bitter silence.

...

Maybe that was why, when he first woke up, words came so, so easy. Through the haze and confusion and the empty, enigmatic ache in his chest he could still breathe and say what he meant and not bite his tongue with fear.

Then he started to remember.

And the words stuttered, that ancient anxiety a phantom pain that remained alive even after death.

But he kept his voice, because there was an unbreakable disconnect from Link Then and Link Now—in spirit, anyway. In body, they were one in the same. The same wild hair. The same calloused hands. The same hideous scars.

It was evident in the way his arms barely felt the weight of a blade and seldom guided a bow in the wrong direction but his brain didn’t know what to do with either; in the way his heart stopped at the sight of a deactivated Guardian before he’d had any inkling that they could come to life and end him in an instant...and it was evident in the way his hands did strange things as he talked, bending and twisting for no reason.

Of the many things he lost, the ability to speak without speaking was not one of them.

...

The look on the her face was breathtaking. It was like the warmth of her smile unlocked a vault in his heart—the empty space that had ached and ached; the longing he had that he hadn’t quite understood until now.

“Enough,” he’d said. “I remember enough.”

And she saw enough, too; she saw enough recognition in his eyes to rush towards him and reach out to touch and feel and hold for the first time in a century.

...

It wasn’t enough, not really, to pick up where they’d left off, but that would have been a struggle no matter how clearly their recollection of Before.

Link didn’t understand why the princess’ newly-acquired expression—tired, dead, yet at peace, almost—would brighten at the sound of his voice. He’d gotten the sense, from what he’d seen in his memories, that his old self was a man of few words, but how few? 

He and the princess formed a close bond a hundred years ago; a cord that had been put under far too much stress to snap now. He could still feel it, a century and a lifetime removed, tugging his heart towards her. Surely that wasn’t possible with just the scarce, blurry, disconnected memories he had of speaking, let alone to the princess herself.

...

They were at his house, in Hateno. The one he’d bought just months before. It was cozy and nice and his, but he never really understood what prompted him to choose it when the houses beyond the bridge were new and ready for sale.

Or maybe he did. The twisting vines across the exterior, the chipped paint and worn-down stonework; it was old and tired and...perhaps it needed a second chance just as badly as him.

Even the princess had been surprised when he mentioned staying somewhere besides the town’s inn. 

Now she was sitting at the kitchen table, perfectly at home, reading one the Sheikah texts she’d borrowed from Purah, her face relaxed despite her concentration. She yawned, and Link averted his eyes before she could catch him with her glance.

“Are you heading out?” she asked, eyeing the traveler’s sword strapped to his back. 

He nodded. “I’m going to the store to stock up on—“

Link froze and apologized, but Zelda, for whatever reason, was beaming.

“Do you remember teaching me?” she signed back, and he was surprised—by how quick her hands were, by how easily he understood, by the stirring in his heart that said “this is familiar.”

Slowly, he shook his head, scratching the nape of his neck.

“Well, you obviously remember the language itself,” Zelda hummed. “That’s actually very fascinating. Muscle memory, such as sign or combat, seems to have not been affected.”

Link flashed her a lopsided smile. “Don’t forget riding.”

The princess gasped, blushing. “You remember?”

Another knowing smile.

Zelda giggled. “Oh, I was terrible. Thank you, again, for the much-needed help.”

“You’re welcome, Princess,” he said. 

“I believe we’re on a first-name basis, Link,” Zelda teased.

...

“I like it,” she said one day.

He’d looked up from his work—namely, the simmering greens in the pot before him—and tilted his head. “Hm?”

“I like hearing you speak so freely,” she explained. “I’m glad that, after all that you’ve endured—all you’ve lost—you’ve at least escaped the deep silence that plagued you before.”

He had questions on his tongue, about that silence, about how he’d broken it, about why her features drew together when she brought it up.

Instead he just took what he already knew and smiled. “Me too.”