Chapter Text
When they write history, they will mythologize Hyrule, and the Hero, and the Princess. The great bards will sing of a time of peace in an idyllic unified country, a beautiful girl who marched into battle, her loyal knight cut down too soon. The Champions will never be forgotten, but they will never be properly remembered. All romanticized, lives glossed and traded for stories.
When they write history, they will lie.
You are sixteen the first time they send you out of Central Hyrule. Your fellow soldiers call you Captain and you don’t really understand it because in the off-hours they call you Kid or Boy or Milady, but you suppose it’s about falling into rank. You’ve all been trained for this. The slopes of North Hebra run red with Yook blood and you never learn whether they were really attacking Anouki Village, which Hyrule Kingdom mostly only bothers to protect because they’re good about taxes, but it’s good that by the time another company gets sent out to investigate the Yook-Anouki dispute, you’ve been hand-picked as Princess Zelda’s personal guard.
Of the 90 soldiers under your command, you lost 6, and you were used to seeing your comrades fall to monsters, but it had never been your fault before, and you had never seen them fall to other people.
Of the unknown number of Yook warriors, you couldn’t count their dead before they fled into the mountains, because their hub village was on fire. It still feels unfair. You can’t put your finger on why, and it’s not your job to figure it out, but you can’t just forget. It happened. If you had ever signed up for any of this, that wouldn’t have been what you signed up for.
They called you Captain so you were responsible for what happened. It doesn’t matter that you weren’t ready for all this responsibility and never wanted it. It doesn’t matter that you almost managed to get peaceful discussions going, before Abor and that corner got jumpy. It doesn’t matter that you do see the difference between monsters and regular enemies — that you do see the Yook as people, not monsters. What matters is what people will remember. You hope the remaining Yook remember to run if they ever see a Hyrulean uniform. People will remember your second bloody trip out of Central Hyrule to deal with the situation in the crumbling Zonai Temple, and your third trip out of Central Hyrule in which you refused to take Abor with you and accidentally facilitated negotiations between feuding Hylian villages in East Tabantha. You hope that you do more with your life to remember.
The Princess doesn’t like you, but you don’t mind. Most Hyruleans don’t. It’s always something: even though you try to hide it, your accent gives you away as an outsider; the other Knights can’t stand you because only Nobles should be Knights but a political technicality allowed you Knighthood; the civilians are frightened of you because Knights are Nobles with weaponry and the Word of Kings on their side; you have to explain, over and over and over again, that you found a magic sword in a magic forest at ten years old, and it’s fine, the Prophecy still works out, because you’re not actually a girl anyway. At least Princess Zelda’s dislike is for new reasons. She dislikes you because you answer to her father.
You have that in common, actually. You’d tell her that, if you thought she’d believe you, and if you were certain you were allowed to talk to her at all. The Royal Family is big on tradition and she is a living goddess, whether she’s unlocked her spiritual powers or not. You suspect that King Rhoam, regardless of Princess Zelda’s opinion on the matter, would take an address as grave insult.
“Why,” she snaps at you three days in, “won’t you just go away? All the others did!”
Yes, they did, which is why you’re here and they aren’t. You don’t give her an answer. You doubt you have one that would satisfy. You just keep your post at the door, deceptively casual, watching for threats. She makes a frustrated noise, deep in her throat, throws her arms up, and turns back to her workdesk, where she keeps her notes on whatever she and her Sheikah friends are studying. You wouldn’t know. It’s not your job to know. It’s your job to keep her safe, even if it annoys her — to be her shield and the King’s sword, until Ganon, and then you will be the sword for Hyrule and the world beyond that.
You’d rather not think that far ahead. It gives you ideas about an After. You’d rather focus on the now, the immediately relevant. There are no threats to her here in the castle, at least not today, but you don’t drop your guard. One never knows what might be lurking just around the corner.
Daruk is a pleasant, upbeat Goron you’ve met once before, in your past life, before the Princess. He wields a giant weapon he’s affectionately named the “Boulder Breaker” and has the same simple grasp on politics that most Gorons do: it’s someone else’s problem. Gorons are miners first, and if anyone wants to try and take their land, well, it’s called Death Mountain for a reason. Meeting with a contingent of Gorons and threatening them with violence shall be met with, at best, a hearty laugh and a hand-shaped boulder to the head; at worst, a forcible, permanent dunk in boiling water. On the mission prior to your promotion to Captain, you and your team avoided this by being civil to the contingency lead by Daruk, and in response, they agreed to stop drilling in Hyrulean land.
Sometimes, you think if you were able to use his shield, you’d go back to Jabun Cove and wrap your sister Aryll in your arms and wait for Ganon to eat Hyrule. But no — you couldn’t. You have a duty, and even people outside Hyrule, like Daruk, are counting on you. You’d never sacrifice your People, or even Mipha and little Sidon, just to spite the Royal Family. It is, as Daruk says, an honor to serve, an honor to guard the Princess, and it is better to be the sword than to cower at the edge waiting for someone else to act.
“Vah Rudania,” Daruk says, probably quietly for him, but to you it’s the audio equivalent of room temperature. The sound of him scratching his own chin is like a rock on flint. “Still can’t believe there was a whole metal animal right in our mines, and I get to pilot it.”
Now that you’ve come down from the Divine Beast, which is (you can appreciate) a true marvel of machinery and magic distilled into one, you’re in his stone shelter, watching over the Princess as she does something to the little thing they’re calling the Sheikah Slate. Of everyone in Castle Town, the Princess knows the most about the ancient technology, and without her sharp analytical skills, the research team wouldn’t have gotten this far so quickly; this, you can respect, even if she is Hyrulean royalty. The living goddess ought to be intelligent and intuitive, anyhow.
“You were the best and most logical choice, of course,” she tells him offhandedly, still fiddling with the Slate — you’re not sure she even knows she’s talking to him. Of course he was the most logical choice, as the Divine Beast was found in Goron Territory and Daruk is their only warrior. Of course she’d like a cup of tea. Of course she’d like to be handed over to a camp of hungry Bokoblins.
“Still…ever since we dug it up, Death Mountain’s been chatty,” he muses. “Your theory is that it’s Ganon, right? Wonder if all of ‘em are rumbling, or if it’s just us out here.”
“Excuse me, all of whom?”
Now, Daruk has the Princess’ full attention. It’s not the pleasant thing people assume it is, and you’re just glad she’s not giving you that look. He scratches his chin again. “All of the Divine Beasts. There… are more of ‘em out of the ground, right?”
“Daruk, there is only Vah Rudania,” she replies, but it’s in that breathy, airy way of hers that means she’s on the verge of understanding something.
Gorons really are a brotherhood. It never even occurred to him that the honor was his alone, that of all the people on the entire landlocked continent, King Rhoam selected Daruk to pilot the sole Divine Beast. Daruk exchanges a look with you that says you’ve come to the twin realization you’ve all been assuming vastly different meanings of the word champion. “Really? I wouldn’t be so sure. You’d think there would be one of these for every region. If Eldin got one, Lanayru would want one as insurance, and if Eldin and Lanayru had ‘em, the Desert would demand one, right? And then Hyrule, I guess, since the Sheikah designed ‘em, but I’m not sure where you’d keep it.”
Revision: Daruk understands politics, and cares to comment when it affects him personally. You suppose it’s hard to turn away when the threat of Ganon transcends every line that could ever be drawn.
“Oh, that’s it! That must be why the Slate isn’t fully calibrating — it’s waiting for regional and…and sociomechanical input! Hyrule would keep ours out of the way, likely in Tabantha,” the Princess enthuses. She looks much better when she smiles. She looks her age when she smiles. She’s still only fifteen; she’s too young to be taking on this kind of responsibility. Like you, she’s doing it because there’s no one else who can. Purah is the only other person who understands the ancient Sheikah technology the way the Princess does, but she doesn’t have the authority to negotiate on behalf of the Crown. Robbie, the engineer and Purah’s partner in crime, doesn’t bear thinking about. They both have disastrous personalities — yes, despite being barely fifteen, the Princess is the only realistic option.
“Tabantha? But that’s Rito territory, right? There was a treaty,” Daruk replies, looking confused.
And now the Rito are in serious danger of being swallowed by the Royal Family. It will start as a request for aid—
“You’re right, most of Tabantha belongs to the Rito. If we find a Divine Beast in their territory, then we shall simply have to ask for their assistance, won’t we? Surely they will wish to help us, to secure the safety of the world.”
—and eventually, Rito Village will have a new name on the map, and Hyrulean teachers correcting Rito traditions, and the children won’t know their own People.
You don’t think about Jabun. You don’t think about Aryll. You lean against the doorframe, the rock hot and uncomfortable through your tunic, and pretend you’re part of the wall: blank stone.
You kept your name, Link. It was a girl’s name, but more importantly, it was something the Hyruleans couldn’t take from you; Jabun Cove doesn’t even exist anymore, renamed to Palmorae when the Hyruleans seized the land, and the Cant — a nice blend of Lurelin musicality and Retsam wind, two dialects of Low Hylian that are also on their way out — isn’t tolerated by the Hyrulean teachers, since they can’t understand it and there’s no written form. You’ve not spoken it in so long you’re not sure you can. Aryll never fully learned it before Grandmother died. Your name is all you have left of home, so it’s okay that it was a girl’s name once, because it isn’t anymore. It’s your name.
However, you can’t bring yourself to do the same for these clothes. Your hands shake as you pull on the airy red-and-gold fabric, made to show off the curves of your hips and the muscles in your abdomen and upper arms. It’s the extra formalwear in the Princess’ pack; you can hardly believe you rooted through her things, but what else were you supposed to do? She insisted on separate rooms at Kara Kara, and then timed her slip during the sparse hours she knew you’d be asleep.
If you were still in any sort of position of power, you’d have the extra guards running drills until they dropped. You can’t be awake every hour of every day, and you gave them explicit instructions on paper so they wouldn’t forget (and so you wouldn’t have to speak), but you are responsible for what happens. Their failures are still your fault, so it’s your job to secure the Princess. The Gerudo would never do a favor for a voe.
You’ve changed in the Barracks, but you’ve never felt so exposed. Vai, it whispers. You don’t just have to look girl, you have to do girl, because Gerudo Town is for women only. They’ll know if you just go in with Gerudo clothing on. (You don’t want to. You don’t want to. This is why the Princess came here first, even though they haven’t finished excavating their Divine Beast — so that you’d be unable to follow.)
There’s an intangible looming thing attached to the outfit, the gauzy headpiece, the stiff brocade straps and belt, the small round charms dangling off the chestwrap. Vai, it whispers, and you should be better than this, stronger than this. You’ve killed people in the line of duty, and some of them probably didn’t deserve to die. Acting a part shouldn’t make you bat an eye, next to that.
…Right. All you have to do is find that crisp, clear place inside, where you are only a sword and every action is in service to that end. You close your eyes, breathe in the hot desert air, and she opens them again, looking down at her attire perfunctorily. Not a thread out of place, as expected. She straps a scimitar to her back — not her weapon of choice, but a weapon that will help her blend in — and strolls out of her room, locking it behind her. No one can steal the Sword, which is the only thing of value that she owns, but it would be unfortunate to lose her supplies.
She adjusts her stride to accommodate a sway in her spine, just the slightest accentuation of her hips, and relaxes her hands as she walks right past the extra guards, who do not recognize her. No need to stomp around with her fists clenched. She lowers her head a fraction, too, to accentuate her long eyelashes; she might not have much in the way of assets, but she can work with what she has. Her abdomen is flawless, and her arms are gorgeous according to Gerudo custom. She walks the path from Kara Kara to Gerudo Town with the confidence of a woman who has seen battle — because she has — and has had plenty of men panting beneath her — which she also has, albeit in a situation far from the one anyone would expect.
Link is a warrior, and she has every right to be proud of that.
Kara Kara is the name of a quiet little marketplace and the road leading to Gerudo Town through the harsh desert — Kara Kara Path winds through a bubble of protective magic so old and worn it could disintegrate at any moment. It glides over her exposed skin, an intimate greeting, and she hopes it makes her shine. The bubble keeps her hidden from desert monsters; useful, as she would rather not ruin a pretty outfit by getting monster guts in the muslin.
“Sav’aaq,” says the guard at the entrance.
“Sav’aaq,” Link replies respectfully, dipping her head, and walks in. No one stops her. Why would they?
Her voice is dry, a bit cracking at the edges, from lack of use, but that will go away with a little time. It barely hurts. There is an inn called the Oasis just a short walk from the entrance through the cheerful, bustling marketplace, and that’s as good a place to start as any, so Link heads there. When she reaches the front desk, she says, “Excuse me — I’m looking for someone. A vai, probably dressed like me. She may have asked for a room here.”
“We don’t do walk-ins,” says the vai at the desk, peering down at her. “Although, for you…look at all that stress! I’d book you for the whole package.”
“No, thank you. I have plenty of stress relief waiting for me back at home,” she answers, just enough innuendo in her voice to lessen the strain of having too many eyes on her. The stress relief will be beating the snot out of the soldiers on guard here in training, but no one needs to know that. “I’m just trying to find my travelling companion. We got separated just outside Kara Kara, but she’s not there, so I thought maybe…”
“Try the Noble Canteen. They’re always open to travellers…if they have rupees.” Her eyes linger on Link’s decadent sleeves, which hang seductively off her shoulders without limiting her range of motion. “Dressed like you? I doubt they’ll bat an eye over there.”
“Sarsqo,” Link says with a smile. Her mouth is hidden behind her veil, but it’ll show in her eyes.
“Ha! Come back again, little vai, and I’ll teach you more things to say,” the proprietor replies, which is the best outcome, bar finding the Princess immediately. It was drilled into Link’s head from an early age that following local custom, especially linguistics and nonverbal cues, is part of diplomacy, but this is the first time it’s ever done more than put a layer of civility over decades of hostility. Then again, this time she’s not here to exercise the military power of the Crown — just to make sure the Princess doesn’t harm herself.
Link walks to the Noble Canteen next, which looks like it might be a bar at the top of a short staircase off the central marketplace. Not exactly the Princess’ first choice of venue, but it’s worth a look anyway. She heads inside, deftly avoiding the small children chasing each other around the alley, and walks into a much quieter area than she expected. Though it’s made of sandstone and banco bricks, like most Gerudo structures, the walls must be thicker, or the windows must be smaller, because the noise from outside diminishes significantly.
The Princess is not immediately visible. That does not mean she hasn’t holed up somewhere. Link sighs, straightens her shoulders, and approaches the vai at the exchange counter, where the proprietor says, “Vasaaq.”
“Sav’aaq. I’m looking for a new vai.”
“You and a third of the town.” The proprietor waves a hand inward with a frown. “Do you see any lively vai in here? Are the beach vai not good enough for you?”
“My apologies, aavaia, I mean a particular one new to town. My travelling companion. We got separated outside Kara Kara, and she’s not there, so it stands to reason that she’s here in Gerudo Town,” Link goes on, undeterred. “I was sent here from the Oasis.”
“Well, take a better look,” says the woman much more kindly now that she knows Link isn’t just here for the same reason the voe are hovering outside. It probably helps that Link used the highest Gerudo honorific in her apology. Forget mimicry — flattery is the highest form of flattery. “If you don’t see her, she’s not here. She might have gone directly to Lady Urbosa for help. Hylians are usually too afraid to try, but Hylians are usually too afraid to travel without voe, too. Lady Urbosa lives in the hub head, just up the stairs. If the guards don’t let you in, just try to look pathetic. Or tell them you’re there to challenge Lady Urbosa. They’ll make bets on the spot.”
“I appreciate your guidance,” she says, instead of sarsqo, which didn’t seem to go well last time. She bows shortly, a tight little thing adapted from taking orders, and turns to leave. “Sav’orq.”
“Sav’orq! Good luck, little vai,” the proprietor calls out from behind her.
It’s only a short walk, a couple of minutes at most, from the Noble Canteen to the stone steps of the hub head. Link weaves carefully through the crowd of mostly Gerudo women much taller than she is, watching out for running children. She’s never seen so many women in one place. Makes sense; even if men weren’t banned from Gerudo Town, legend has it that Gerudo only give birth to male children once every hundred years or so. Her mind skitters off a barrier — something about maybe there would be more, if not for the ban, but she’s not allowed to feel anything right now.
The guards at the doorway just up the steps are occupied arguing with a Hylian who, it seems, thinks she’s been swindled (bad breach of etiquette — this isn’t, according to what Link’s heard, that kind of marketplace; if the angry Hylian wants to negotiate, she should just go to Central Hyrule), so Link edges around the three arguing women and enters the large greeting room. It’s empty, and she hears the sounds of training coming from the right, so she takes the stairs to the left and runs almost directly into the Princess and the prospective pilot for the Divine Beast Vah Naboris: Lady Urbosa, Fury of the Desert, who Link knows reasonably well just by virtue of being the Princess’ shadow, though they’ve never spoken.
On reflex, Link drops to one knee before them. Lady Urbosa looks bemused, and the Princess looks embarrassed when she says, “Oh, please, no need to — I’m not — while we’re here, you’re not my subject, Miss…?”
Link isn’t sure what to say, so she says nothing, and she doesn’t move. She can’t. To the Princess’ credit, realization dawns almost immediately.
“Link! How did — why would you…! Wait. I thought you were a man,” she says in absolute outrage, her gaze trailing over Link’s body and landing specifically in all the places Link generally takes great pains to hide, and it all falls away, and the Hylian vai isn’t Link is you and you kneel and look and she waits for an answer you don’t have and the desert should have more air than this and all the ambient sound is underwater and
“Why don’t you go cool off in my room, Little Bird,” Lady Urbosa tells the Princess, “while I have a chat with your man.”
“He isn’t mine,” the Princess huffs, but she does as Lady Urbosa asks, marching off immediately, glad to be rid of you. Somehow, you can’t follow, stuck in place. Is it a spell? It’s a spell, isn’t it? That’s why you feel like you’re dying.
“Breathe, little voe,” Lady Urbosa says in her steady voice. Something in you wants to be upset at being spoken to like you’re the Princess. The rest of you does, in fact, calm a little at being called voe. She gathers you in her arms, allowing you to break out of your kneel and collapse at her side, and you don’t remember what it’s like to have a mother, so you don’t know what you’re supposed to do next. She’ll tell you what to do. She commands her own soldiers. “It took a lot of courage to come here today.”
“I followed my orders, Lady Urbosa,” you stutter, wincing at the singsong in your own voice beneath your halting tongue. No wonder the proprietor at the Oasis laughed. How did you not notice your Jabun accent on full display? The other Hyrulean Knights call it uncultured. A lot of people can’t even parse the words. How embarrassing. You take a deep, deep breath and say, much more evenly, “I’m not permitted to leave the Princess’ side.”
Inexplicably, she pulls you in closer as she kneels with you, her nails like gentle claws on your skin. Against her much larger body, you feel your own shakes, which shouldn’t be there but are. You breathe together for a moment, and then she asks, “How old are you, boy?”
“Eighteen, few months ago.”
She makes a noise you can’t decipher. You would call it anger if that made any sense. “How long has it been since you last went home?”
So it’s obvious to her, too, that you don’t belong. At least she’s being kind about it. “Eight years. But I send rupees every month.”
“Necluda, right?”
You nod. “Jabun Cove. Palmorae, now.”
“Next time my Little Bird needs to research something ancient or spiritual, find one close to home and visit. The clothes were good, but I knew who you were from the moment you walked in, and you carry the sea with you. We have a word for it — anvalzhia — when your heart begs your feet to take you home. It shows in your voice. In the meantime…” She sighs and squeezes your shoulders, then pulls away. “I’ll give you a gift. Our laws do not permit anyone but vai inside our walls, but it’s not unheard of for our leaders to give a pass to someone who proves themselves. I’ll commission you something else to wear; no one will give you trouble, and you won’t have to pretend. This is an honor, rarely given, so don’t misuse it. Understand, boy?”
“Yes, Lady Urbosa,” you say, feeling very small. The Princess is going to hate this, but you can’t put on these clothes again and be strong for her. Maybe it would be different if you had a history of respect. Maybe it would be fun if you didn’t have a history of being told you’re not a man by people who would rather you didn’t exist. But that’s not how it is. Every scrap of recognition is attributed to the Sword, and many of them believe you’re doing boy to fill the Prophecy because you happened to find the Sword, not that the Prophecy of the boy and the Sword was made about you.
You might keep the sirwal. The deep red muslin is soft against your legs, and you’ll need something that breathes in the heat when you come out to the desert again. It’s not really about the clothes — it’s about the way everyone sees you. It’s bad enough the Sword has overwritten any personal identity you might have been able to cultivate otherwise. You can’t let the Royal Family take the rest of you.
Fighting Revali was, in a word, thrilling. You might not have had the same conversation — he was trying his best to kill you, and you were doing your best not to damage him — but he speaks your language. Not the familiar cant of your youth (which will probably die out in a generation or two now that everyone is required to learn to read and write and speak High Hylian), but fighting is a language as much as speaking is, and deflecting his last arrow felt like getting the last word in. It feels good, even now. It feels — it makes you feel, and moreover, it makes you feel something different from the constant anger that’s been simmering ever since North Hebra.
Revali is good, and he knows it, and he knows that you got the last word in. Maybe it’s petty, but you hope it stings for a while; serves him right for trying to blow up the Princess without asking questions. What you learned from Anouki Village is that there is almost always a peaceful solution unless some hotheaded idiot (or idiots, plural — because of course where there’s a hothead there will be hangers-on) decides to charge in waving a sword against orders. The fact that Revali was the one giving the orders makes your blood boil, just a little, but you remind yourself that he’s just a child — just on the cusp of eighteen, anyway, nearly of age in Hyrule (and yes, only younger than you by about half a year) but not remotely grown by Rito custom. He’s seen battle, but he’s never seen a slaughter. Hopefully, he never has to.
You’re already tired of his posturing. You’ve known a dozen soldiers just like him: new recruits who grew up learning to use a sword or a bow, thinking that being the best in their small town would transfer over to real-world skills, prone to sulking when they lose. They either grow out of it or they never rise in rank.
Or they die. You’d rather the Rito pilot didn’t die. Being irritating isn’t a capital crime.
As the Princess negotiates with the Rito Elder, you have to share a small communal kitchen with Revali, so you decide to make the best of being forced to kneel in close quarters together; he’ll give you an opening eventually. He obviously wants your attention in some kind of way, so when he whips his head to the side to clink the jade beads in his braids together again, you stare at him, one brow raised, as if to ask, yes?
He huffs and looks away. You shrug and pull out your whetstone and a dagger. You’ve been thinking about trying to get the Princess to carry one — you doubt she will if it comes from you, but she might do it if Lady Urbosa asks.
Revali huffs again. Does he have to make so much noise? Don’t Rito know how to breathe (or pout) quietly? “Planning to open some letters, Knight, or just stab some more Rito?”
You’ve never been particularly good at glaring, partly because you’re short and generally less intimidating, and partly because you’re a little afraid that if you show any anger at all you won’t be able to put it away again, so you just level him with your blankest, muddiest stare and then turn your focus to blade maintenance. He’s embarrassed at losing to you, and he’s taking it out on you. That’s all this is. You’ve handled this all before, from people older than he is. You’d rather have this attitude from a young warrior nearly as skilled as he thinks he is than an aging footsoldier who thinks he’s owed something because he’s landed and you aren’t.
(Besides: Revali would be exactly as skilled as he thinks he is, if it weren’t for his underselling of actual opponents. Until now, he’s only battled monsters. In your considerable experience — most of your early missions were, in fact, clearing out monster infestations in Central Hyrule with various teams under various Captains, and aside from the peaceful negotiations with the Goron contingency, it was only after your promotion that you began dealing in violence with people — monsters do not think, or fight, the way people do.)
“I don’t suppose you’ve proven masterful enough to be awarded with your own Divine Beast,” he presses further.
You shrug. Why would you want to pilot one of those machines? You already have enough to worry about. With the Princess’ research taking her every which way, the threat of Ganon growing, and the Yiga Clan crawling out of the shadows now that the resurgence of Sheikah technology is becoming obvious, you don’t even have that kind of time.
“That sword — it’s the Sword, isn’t it. The Sword of legend.” At your slow nod, he continues, “Well, I don’t know what it sees in you. What have you got going for you behind that pretty face? Nothing, I’d posit.”
“Thank you, Revali,” you reply, almost managing not to be embarrassed at the hoarseness in your voice. You haven’t spoken in a while. It’s too easy to stop when most of your commands can be given nonverbally, either through writing or hand gestures, and the Royal Family prefers you stay silent. “I’m glad you think I’m pretty. You’re a very pretty idiot, too.”
“I beg your pardon,” he squawks, and you have to bite down on a smile — especially because that’s when the Princess reenters the kitchen.
“I’ve spoken with the Elder. We have permission. You have my thanks, Revali, and the thanks of Hyrule…you look troubled.”
“Your knight,” Revali seethes.
“Not mine,” she mutters.
Either unaware or uncaring, he continues, “Called me an idiot.”
She looks between you both, unsure. Carefully, she answers, “I don’t disbelieve you, but as long as I’ve known him, Link has only ever said a handful of words to anyone, all military orders. He understands us, but I don’t think he speaks much High Hylian. Could it have been — perhaps — someone else speaking through the window? They are open, after all.”
“That must have been it,” he says tightly. “The fledglings around here are always playing pranks.”
She smiles at him and shallowly arcs her upper body into a graceful forward dip, the best approximation of a rank-appropriate curtsey she can do in her traveling clothes. “We must visit the Zoras, which is quite a trip. Please excuse our short stay. Apologies again, for the misunderstanding — I’m only glad Link restrained himself. For all his faults, he does get quite protective of me when I’m threatened.”
What a perfect parting shot, and it isn’t even from you. Something about Revali just makes you itch. You’ll get a hold on yourself for next time; this kind of behavior won’t happen again.
(But you’ll always have this impotent outrage to look back on.)
Mipha is the obvious choice for the Lanayru Champion — Daruk’s term has stuck after all — as she is a fierce warrior and known throughout the allied countries as a talented healer. Blessed by Nayru, they say — able to channel Her love into protective healing magic, able to channel Her law through the end of a spear. You don’t know about goddesses or divine laws, but Mipha’s healing magic is earthsourced: you can tell by the way her power wanes the farther she gets from a source of water. Whatever governs her power, though it is sacred and unique to her, it is fundamentally natural.
You can tell by the way it bleeds into you when you don’t bleed out. Your People may not be able to do magic, but you are Jabun’s People, the hearthkin of the Fairies of Fortune; you can sense magic better than most. You can tell by the way Mipha feels different to Princess Zelda, the living goddess.
“I would like to know, eventually, what’s happened to my friend,” she says quietly, after you’re finished fastening your guard back onto your arm. The injury she healed wasn’t so bad; it would have healed on its own with time and a little care, but Mipha has always found you more precious than you find yourself. “The reckless little boy who taught us songs from his home village and swore to be a Knight just like his father — what happened to him?”
You open your mouth and close it again. Vah Ruta feels impossibly unstable beneath you.
Thoughtfully, she leans her head slightly to the side and asks, “Would you like to tell me about it?”
You nod.
“Would it help if it were an official order?”
You nod again — no point in hiding that, if she’s already seen it, and why wouldn’t she? Mipha knows you, always has been able to know you by looking in a way other people can’t. You’ve been following orders for nearly half your life, and before that, you were only a child, barely knew your ass from your elbow, got stuck serving the Hyrule Royal Family because you chased invisible Fairies into a magic forest and picked up a shiny sword that knew your name. Everything’s easier when you’re ordered to do it.
She draws herself up regally. “Then, as Princess Mipha of the Zora, I command you to tell me what’s on your mind.”
It should be silly, but it helps. She has power here. You go away and become a sword, and the sword gives the report, dry and factual. “As a Knight serving in Central Hyrule, I lost comrades. They trained me to hate the monsters that killed those comrades. As a Captain, I was sent to intervene in the Yook-Anouki dispute. They were not monsters, but my men hated them the same. I lost control of the inside team during negotiations, and many were killed in the ensuing battle — most of them Yook, because Hyrule has better soldiers. We marched on the Zonai Temple to chase off raiders who were harming the peaceful Floria Enclave, but when I took the Princess to pray at the Spring of Power, I checked the premises, and there were signs that it had not been raided — it was the base for a commune. We were merely sent to protect the assets of the Crown. As Captain, I lead soldiers into three more disputes between people rather than monsters, and only one had a peaceful resolution. Conclusion one: people are dead, and I will never know if they were innocent or guilty. Conclusion two: being a Knight means forcing the will of Hyrule on anyone who dares disobey. Conclusion three: I cannot give up the Sword until Ganon is no longer a threat, and the Sword binds me to the Royal Family’s will. Final summary: I have performed senseless violence on behalf of the King, and may be called upon to do so again, because a goddess decided long ago it was good. You asked me where the little boy who wanted to be a Knight went — he thought being a Knight would let him protect the people he cared for. His father lied to protect him from the truth.”
“You had no choice,” Mipha says softly, cradling your cheeks carefully in her hands, forcing you to look at her pretty face. It’s like looking down a long tunnel, incongruent with reality. “You’ve never had a choice since you walked into that forest alone. I believe that the Sword chose you because your spirit is strong enough to carry this burden, but you shouldn’t have to — I regret that I can’t heal you inside like I can heal your wounds, but I hope you can take it as truth when I say that you are a good man, Link. It is not your fault that you’ve been taken advantage of.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you hear yourself say. You agree with the statement. “I wish I could resign now.”
“It’s true that the shadow of Ganon is an obstacle to your freedom, but we would welcome you here,” she replies.
You squint to try to get rid of the double vision, but it doesn’t work. She still doesn’t let go. “I doubt the Royal Family would appreciate it if I became your sword instead.”
She closes her eyes and leans her forehead against yours, an intimate gesture from your childhood. “I didn’t mean that, Link. If they won’t release you voluntarily, you could always marry me.”
The notion startles you into laughing, and although the world comes rushing back, crashing into you and pushing you back into the world like a powerful wave to shore, it’s not so bad when she’s carrying you in her hands. The clouds in your mind dissipate, leaving you with numb lips and fingers and a pulse hot and wet in your throat, and you desperately grab hold of the amusement before the despair can grab hold of you. “Mipha, you don’t want to marry me. You’d kiss an actual fish before you kissed a man.”
“People change! One day I might find a man I want to kiss! And — all right,” she laughs, “maybe that’s unlikely, and you’re not my usual type, but you are my best friend, and I’d rather marry you than watch you suffer. Besides; political marriages happen all the time, and the parties simply seek lovers elsewhere. You don’t have to decide right now, but think of it. I wouldn’t keep you anywhere you didn’t want to be. After Ganon, you could be free.”
You can’t face that, not right now, so you change the subject. “Lady Urbosa thinks I should take a trip home.”
“Aryll must be missing you terribly,” she agrees, letting go of your face. “If I were to be separated from Sidon for eight years, it would be a hole in my chest.”
You can’t quite force yourself to ask what if she hates me? How can I show up with a member of the Royal Family? Mipha is too kind to saddle with that burden. So you change the subject once again. “I should warn you about the other Champions. Lady Urbosa is so tall you’d have to stand on my shoulders just to reach eye level, Daruk doesn’t notice that when he pats you on the back it feels like a boulder got dropped on you, and Revali is an absolute brat. But we should be a well-balanced team, so as long as we can all either put aside our differences or just not talk to each other, training our skills together should benefit everyone.”
Keep moving forward. Focus on the target. There will be time for guilt when you’ve won, or when you’re dead.