Work Text:
Your Darkness Will Be Rewritten
She’s afraid of closing her eyes.
Rationally — she can’t explain it. As a scholar, she knows nothing will happen to her in her dreams. She’s safe, she’s home , Hyrule is peaceful and thriving; Link’s final stroke against the Demon King had dissipated the hardships that their land had been enduring and everything had gone back to normal. Even she, miraculously returning to her human form after millennia of wandering the skies as the dragon of light.
Still, she quails. She holds her composure when she’s in public, she pulls the veil over her face that she’s meticulously crafted after a lifetime under scrutiny — nobody notices . Or, she’s foolish enough to believe that, to believe that no one can see through her façade.
She’s wrong, of course, and as much as she likes to pretend otherwise, she knows she’s wrong, too. She feels how misleading her emotions are just as much as she feels those big blue eyes always on her, never leaving her out of his sight. It infuriates her just as it comforts her; she wants to be alone but she’s terrified of her own loneliness. She dreads being alone with her thoughts, she dreads that all is just a dream, she dreads closing her eyes at night and waking up in a land of void.
Link doesn’t say anything; he was never a man of many words. She knows he wants to say something, she sees it clearly in his eyes, but he’s giving her space, which she sincerely appreciates. He doesn’t say anything so she clings to her silence, too, and maybe that gives him even more grounds to worry about her, but she’s honestly too plagued by her own demons to care.
She doesn’t remember the last time she’s slept; it might have been some ten thousand years prior. She doesn’t remember how long it’s been since she’s back in her human body, either — time is a blur to her. Logically, she can blame it on the lack of sleep; she’s been functioning from sunrise to sundown, and her nights are spent staring at the placidness of the ceiling, because anything is better than the dull of sleep, than the looming despair that everything might not be real after all if she finally gives in and succumbs to slumber.
She catches some shut-eye every now and then; unintentionally, but she does. When she’s riding her horse to some faraway destination and the boredom gets the best of her; when she’s sitting at the dining table, her chin on her hand, contemplating Link as he makes dinner; when they’re out in the wild, getting to know the land of Hyrule again, and the bonfire within the darkness of the night hypnotizes her. Every time, she jolts herself awake, her chest burning with oxygen and her pulse daring to break through her skin, and Link’s eyes are once again on her, quietly assessing her to make sure she is out of harm, silently certifying himself that she isn't slipping out from his grasp once more, for his own sanity.
She feels small under his gaze; vulnerable. She wants to be strong, for him; she doesn’t want him to worry, she doesn’t want to be a burden to him. Yet, every time she finds herself under the blue piercing of his eyes, she feels guilt piling up her throat. He’s spent most of his life protecting her, saving her, and now that both the Calamity and the Demon King are defeated, they’re supposed to be equals, he’s supposed to look after himself. But Zelda — Zelda only slows him down.
She hates herself for it.
Like all bad things in the world, her breaking point comes at night.
She’s at the holy sanctuary of their house in Hateno, curled up in a small frame on the bed. The lights are on; they’re always on, even though it’s after midnight. Link has told her that he doesn’t like the darkness, and she honestly believes that his statement is somewhat true, even though she knows that he’s said it for her sake, because she would never be able to say it herself. She appreciates him so much.
She can hear him downstairs, cleaning with his weapons and shields. She had retrieved for the night many hours before, and for all that time she has been lying still, playing her part and pretending to sleep, although she doubts she was fooling him. If she was, then he would have retired to bed, too, instead of guarding her from afar. It just gives her more reason to despite herself.
She pulls the duvet closer to her, seeking shelter from the chilly air of the night. The sound of her moving is all that it takes for Link to quieten himself, to listen to her to make sure she’s not in any distress, and Zelda essentially stops breathing so she’ll give him some peace of mind. The quietude is so loud in her ears that she’s curling her toes amidst her own anxiety, and she wonders if Link can hear the rapidness of her heart.
It feels like forever before the rampage of metal starts again, and she lets out a deep breath. The sound is somewhat comforting, it reminds her that she’s not alone, although she wishes that Link would tend to himself and get some sleep. She wonders if he doesn’t like sleeping either, or if it’s just his misplaced duty to her keeping him from his basic needs.
She’s such a selfish person—
Zelda closes her eyes. She’s exhausted, but she doesn’t understand how, as she just spent the last ten thousand years hibernating. She shouldn’t need to rest, she should be at the top of her game as she dedicated herself to rebuilding Hyrule to its glory, but her mind — her mind is depleting; it never quietens, and she begs for a moment of stoicism, but if she eventually relents and gives in to her fatigue, then she’s back in the void. She’s trapped in the void with no prospect of ever escaping, and she’s panicking at the promise of that dark loneliness haunting her for as long as time exists as she drifts aimlessly in the skies.
She’s sweating now, and she pulls her arms and legs even closer to herself. She wonders if that’s how death feels like; she wonders if that’s the same terrifying loneliness to which she’s condemned all her friends and loved ones before their time was due; her father, the champions, Queen Sonia, King Rauru — she failed them all, and her void is hounded by her guilt.
She dreads the void, she doesn’t want to die—
The light of the candles is eventually replaced by the first rays of sunshine breaking through the window. She no longer hears Link, so she assumes he’s fallen asleep over his sword again instead of coming to bed because he’s afraid that the slightest movement will disturb her. He shouldn’t have to tiptoe around her, her needs should never come before his, and she urges to go downstairs to find him and bring him to bed, but she can’t move.
She can’t move and her eyes refuse to open. She’s in the void, surrounded by pitch black; she’s dead . It was never real, she had never awoken, it was all just wishful dreaming. She’s alone, and she twirls around herself desperately looking for it, for the master sword , to hear the voice inside it, her only source of comfort, but it’s not there.
In the end, the master sword has forsaken her, as it was always destined to do, and she’s alone. She’s alone for the rest of eternity, she’s alone until the end of time, and she wishes — oh she wishes something, someone would just take her out, would end her misery. Death looks like a blissful respite in the face of surviving while never existing at all.
She’s alone. She’s desolate and she’s desperate, so she runs. Everything is dark, and even though she’s light , she can’t see anything, she never knows what’s waiting for her at her every step. Her anguish only grows when she realizes — there’s nothing. Nothing is waiting for her. Just darkness.
She can’t breathe, and it doesn’t matter because breathing is nothing more than muscle memory; she doesn’t need to breathe anymore, it’s pointless, but she still grasps at her throat desperately. Her eyes are leaking, her chest hurts ; she feels like she’s going to implode, only for nothing to change. She will still be trapped with no hope of ever escaping.
Her lips fall open and she screams. She screams until she’s hoarse, without ever realizing that no sound ever came out.
Something touches her arm, and she bolts away. The darkness is not her friend; her body quivers and convulses, her arms over her head to protect herself. They’re going to hurt her, she’s sick of the pain—
“Breathe.”
The word is gentle on her, like it’s calling her home.
Home . Does she still have a home? Can she still find her way home, after so many thousands of years?
“It’s just a dream.”
When she finally opens her eyes, she finds herself jostled against the headboard slat of the bed and a set of concerned blue eyes staring at her. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, giving her space; his hands are hovering inches away from her, not daring to touch. It takes her a moment to come back to her senses, and when she does —
She wants to disappear.
Link notices her chagrin and does her the courtesy of gazing away; he looks at her trembling hands instead. He still keeps her in his field of vision, almost like he’s terrified that she would disappear from him.
“You were screaming,” he whispers, his voice barely making it past his lips. He doesn’t want to make her feel worse. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was worried.”
Her hand unconsciously follows up to her neck, and when she tries to swallow, she notices how dry her throat is. She curls up her knees close to her chest, and whispers, too, “I’m sorry.”
He frowns, unsure of what she’s apologizing for, but he knows her, and he knows better than to start a battle he couldn’t win, so he lets it go.
“Are you okay?”
She wipes at her cheeks, being somewhat surprised when she finds them wet.
“Yes,” she answers eventually, starting to pick at the skin of her arm, like she needs to certify that her next words are true, “It was just a dream.”
“No, Zelda,” he shakes his head, restraining himself from grabbing her hand so she would stop harming herself. “Are you okay ?”
The way he speaks her name — it sends chills down her spine. As a woman in a position of power, so few people call her by her name, only her titles, always creating a bridge between them, so when Link does it — it’s raw, it brings out every emotion that she ever-so-carefully buried under her façade.
Yet, she merely shrugs, dismissing all her strifes, because she knows they aren’t valid. She doesn’t get to struggle, not when she’s got an entire kingdom relying on her. Her nails dug deeper into her skin.
He sighs and ponders for a moment. He’s so static that Zelda fears she might have said or done something to upset him. The skin of her arm is now red.
“Come with me,” he says, standing up abruptly. He extends his hand to her, willing to wait forever until she’s ready to accept it. She stares at his open palm before taking it, and when she does, he pulls her into her feet. Her legs are wobbly when her feet touch the cold floor, and she appreciates his strong hold on her to keep her steady.
He leads her downstairs, grabs one of the hoodies from the hanging rack, and they step outside. Her body mimics his every step, her mind holds no thoughts of her own, like an out-of-body experience, and she doesn’t even register that she’s standing outside barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a worn shirt of his, which, even though she’s taller than him, is still remarkably loose on her. She only notices the chilly air of dawn, and that she’s shivering, and she’s thankful when he wraps the hoodie around her shoulders and clasps it under her neck.
He doesn’t say a word as he takes her up the hill behind their house, farther away from the village. She’s distracted, looking up at the marvelous painting of the skies, a palette of so many shades of orange, that Link needs to keep a stronghold around her waist to keep her from tripping and falling. The physical contact makes her skin burn, yet she doesn’t mind it.
A small hike later and they reach the top of the hill; there’s a cherry tree there, standing on its own, and Zelda gazes at it for a long time. She wonders if anyone comes to visit it and contemplate its beauty; she wonders if it feels lonely, too.
When she notices there’s no one by her side anymore, her heart skips a beat and she panickedly turns around to look for him. He’s still there, of course he is, just a couple of feet away from her, his neck bent backward as he glanced up at the sky, as if he was looking for something.
She joins him, their shoulders are grazing. She tries to find whatever he’s searching for, but she doesn’t see anything; so, she waits. Every now and then, her eyes fall on him, and she perceives so many emotions on his face, on his eyes — emotions that he never allows anyone to see.
Anyone but her.
“You would fly right over here.”
His voice is quiet, and it takes her a moment to understand what he means. Her throat feels dry again, her hands are clenched in fists of anxiety. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust herself to do so.
“Hyrule is such a big land,” he continues, mesmerized by the blue above him. “It’s illogical to assume that your flight path would lead you right here, to Hateno, much less that you would keep coming back. Yet, you did. Over and over again. It’s like — even after all those years, you were still trying to find your way home.”
She presses her lips together, her heart tugging inside her chest. She pictures herself flying high in the skies, she depicts the despair she must have felt to never be able to reach home again. It’s almost enough to steal her of her breath in the present.
“Every time I felt hopeless, every time I felt like giving up — I would come here, I would look up, and, eventually, you would fly over. You gave me strength to continue, you — you were my only hope.”
He, at last, gazes at her again.
“I had to endure so I could bring you back home.”
She finds herself drowning in the ocean of his eyes.
“What I’m trying to say is,” he says, “I can be your strength, too. If so you’d like.”
She doesn’t know if it’s the fragility of his words or if it’s the gentleness of his tone that finally does it — but she breaks. Silent tears turn into frantic sobs, she’s on her knees. And it hurts — it hurts to feel, it hurts to be broken, and, for the first time since she woke up from her dragon form, she knows that she’s alive.
When night falls again, everything is different.
Nothing has intrinsically altered, neither for better or for worse, but it feels different somehow, to have him there, next to her, in the tiny bed that they had shared so many times.
He has his back stiff against the headboard, on guard, because, really, some things would never change, and there’s something rather assuaging that he’s still safeguarding her when she feels so unsteady.
Her head is resting on his thigh; his fingers tenderly run through her hair, a simple gesture that brings her so much peace that her eyes start to get heavy. She feels her exhaustion to her bones, and that’s when she admits to the dead of the night —
“I’m afraid of falling asleep.”
Link hums, like he already expected as much. His hand that isn’t on her hair reaches out to hers, as she had unconsciously started pricking her arm the moment the words escaped her lips.
Zelda grins to herself upon his deed; he cares so much that his simple gesture is enough to ease her spirits. She brings their joined hands to her face, places her lips against his knuckles, and leaves them there.
“I understand,” he says softly. “When I first awoke from the shrine of resurrection, I dreaded falling asleep, too.”
She perks up at him, her eyes wild.
“You… You never told me that.”
He merely shrugs.
“It never came up.”
She feels a twinge in her heart, and she’s pushing herself into a seating position. She makes a mess of the blankets tangled around her legs.
“Link—”
“What I’m trying to say is—I get it,” he interrupts her. “I know my fair share of bad dreams. I know how terrifying they can be, I understand the anguish of experiencing them, of being constantly reminded of our failures and of our fears. I get it, I really do. But that’s why they’re called dreams, you know? Because they’re not real .”
She glances at him, mesmerized. It’s such a simplistic way to look at life and it’s so him. She notices his cheeks slightly turning red under her gape, which only makes him more adorable.
“That is great advice, thank you,” she says earnestly. “It’s easier said than done.”
He regretfully nods, and she sighs. With one last glance at him, she turns and lodges her back against his chest, nestling comfortably against him. Not once, during all her fussing, did he let go of her hand.
“I don’t mind dreaming, not even when I’m plagued by bad dreams only,” she confesses, her voice small again. “I’m afraid — of not dreaming.”
She becomes stiff within his hold, and his hand is back on her hair, soothing away her tension.
“I fear — I fear I don’t understand.”
She doesn’t expect him to; she doesn’t understand it either, only recognizes that the fear is there .
“When—When I was holding Calamity Ganon, I was conscious. No, I was consciousness . Not a body to my name, just a flux of light and memories and feelings — I was vigilant for one hundred years, strong and steady, despite Ganon’s endless attempts at breaking me.”
She feels Link tightening his grip around her; gentle, but it’s there. She doesn’t talk much about the turmoils she faced under Ganon, and, out of respect for her, he doesn’t probe, either. She knows he still carries some guilt for taking so long to heal and come to her rescue, and even though she would never blame him, she refrains from speaking about it and only causing him further distress.
“When I turned into a dragon — it was stale, and just that. Like I was trapped within time and space, and it was never, never going to end.”
He buries his nose in her hair. “Ten thousands of years is a lot of time.”
She sniffs, nodding her head.
“I don’t really remember much of it,” she continues. “I remember that it hurt — it hurt so much to become a dragon. And then — there’s nothing. Millennia of nothing. It was like being trapped in a void, and there was darkness everywhere. I don’t want to sleep because if I do , I’m back in the void, I’m back in the darkness, and it is so lonely, and I don’t — I don’t—”
He hurriedly disentangles himself from her, forcing her to sit upright. He’s staring at the vastness of her green eyes and he’s ostensively breathing in and out in slow gulfs of air; he doesn’t need to say a word so she starts mirroring him, and she’s delving into the immensity of his eyes, too, until her breathing levels once more. When it does, she lowers her head, ashamed, and presses her forehead against his neck.
“I’m so tired,” she painstakingly discloses, her hands tugging at his shirt. “But I can’t sleep, because if I sleep — then I’m dead.”
He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make it better, so he wraps his arms around her waist and prays that it makes any difference. His fingers slip under the shirt she’s wearing and touch the base of her spine; she quivers under his touch, but it’s not unwelcomed.
She puts her hand on his chest, looking for a heartbeat. After she finds it, she still leaves it there.
“You’re not dead, Zelda,” he says. Their faces are close and there’s so much vulnerability there that it’s hard to look at each other in the eyes.
Her throat fizzles. “You don’t know that.”
“If you’re dead, I’m dead, too,” he elucidates, and his hand joins hers on his bust. “Can you feel that?”
She hesitantly nods.
“That’s proof that I’m alive, that you’re alive. Feeling is a faculty only of the living,” he says, “You’re a scholar. Not even you can rebut that.”
She chuckles; it’s a lifeless sound.
“I don’t know what to do, Link,” she confesses. “What if it’s all a dream? If I dare to close my eyes, won’t I wake up in the void again? And if I’m in the void, I’m alone. I don’t want to be alone.”
“You are not alone—”
“I don’t mind sacrificing myself for the greater good, to save Hyrule, I really don’t,” she doesn’t let him speak. “But, if I have to do it again…” she pauses for a second, gathering her thoughts, and looks up at him with pleading eyes, “Can’t I just die on the spot? Do I have to spend another thousand lifetimes in the void again?”
“You don’t,” his voice is grave; if she listens closely, she might just hear it threatening to crack. “You don’t ever have to go back. I promise.”
“You can’t promise me that—”
“Yes, I can,” he stresses. “It’s over , Zelda. He’s never coming back, he’s never hurting you again. I promise . That void that haunts you — it will never trap you again, no matter how much it tries. And, if you just give yourself enough time, and patience, and love, that darkness that looms over you — it will be rewritten.”
Logically, he has no grounds to promise her that, because the triad is a work of the goddesses, and it’s up to fate to determine when the hero and the princess will be needed to stop evil power again.
Logically, she has no reason to believe him.
Yet — she does, and it makes all the difference at that moment.
He tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “You need to sleep.”
She sighs; it’s true, she’s so exhausted that she doubts any of her disgressing made sense.
“Will you… Will you stay with me?”
Making a funny face, he tilts his neck; that’s a given, by now, and she laughs at her own folly. He swoops a little to the side, pulling the blanket up so she’ll tuck herself in; she obliges promptly, lying with her back to the wall. She waits until he reposes next to her and finally allows her body to allay its strains.
The lights stay on. They always do.
They are perfectly nestled by now, and Link grabs her hand and lays it over his heart. He holds it gently, but steadily.
The fragile feeling of his heartbeat under her skin grounds her; a lullaby that invites her to sleep.
She closes her eyes. She doesn’t fall asleep straight away, and every time she feels the darkness creeping in on her, she focuses on him, alive, next to her.
When she dreams, she dreams of the void, but there, amidst the dusk, remains a voice guiding her home.