Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A light breeze blows through sometimes.

He notices it when he first wakes up in a receding pool of something too blue to be water, with lights overhead too cold and close to be the stars. Underground. Where would a breeze like that come from, deep in the recesses of a dead-end cavern? It isn’t stale or damp—it’s fresh as cool summer air, like water and light.

Perhaps his mind isn’t working well yet. When a voice stirs in his head, his mind attaches it to the wind—he feels them both together. The voice he’s hearing seems to come on that breeze.

Link... wake up.

Open your eyes.

When air enters his lungs for what feels like the first time in a long, long while, it’s remarkably fresh air. The voice rings like a distant tower bell in his mind. Faraway, calling.

He’s forgetting something.

You are our light... that must shine on Hyrule once again.

No. He’s forgetting everything.

—

The ghost of Hyrule’s king tells him it’s Zelda. Asks him to go, to gather memories and strength and above all, find a way to come to her aid.

She’s locked a beast in a tower, and she herself cannot leave. Can’t stop fighting; can’t stop using her power to contain it. She’s fighting a battle she can’t win alone—that she can’t win without him. She’s been balancing on the edge of that blade for one hundred years.

Link doesn’t remember much. But his instincts roar at the thought, his hands clutch around a stolen wooden club that’s not quite right, and everything in him says GO.

He wonders if he’ll hear her voice again, like he did when she woke him up.

Link... wake up, still echoes in his head.

Link.

The first thought he’s conscious of having about the Princess—the first new thought, that he remembers—is that she must be strong. She’d reached out to speak to him, and she’d sounded so calm.

—

Hello? he thinks experimentally, when a soft warm wind wafts against the long grass on the old, old road to somewhere called Kakariko.

It’s silly, perhaps. He doesn’t have powers of any kind, he’s fairly sure—let alone the kind that let you talk to other people without speaking. But he’s alone, and his mind desperately wants something to occupy it.

He hears nothing but scattered birdsong and the groaning of tree limbs in the breeze.

He tries again.

Hello?

The thought lingers in his mind awhile. He pretends he’s mentally throwing it toward the castle, like he learned he can throw bombs into ponds to fish recently. (He may quit doing that. The back of his mind keeps calling him things like cheat in his voice and sorely lacking in environmental stewardship skills in a voice that sounds like it might be the princess's.) Maybe that would help it get there?

Nothing happens. Link lets out a breath that he can suddenly hear much better with how hard he’s straining to listen.

Zelda, he thinks, in one last try.

Immediately after, a wave of uncertainty washes through him, irrational though it might be. Was that how they’d referred to each other? By first names? She was a princess, wasn’t she? He’s sure he remembers that royalty is supposed to be addressed by their titles. If he had been a knight, he had worked with her—he should know this. What had he been told to address her as? Princess? Your Highness?

There’s an odd stirring in the wind.

Perhaps it’s the sun coming out more fully from behind one of the wispy patchwork clouds. Perhaps his eyes are just still adjusting, his mind still healing. But something shifts and seems brighter.

Link? he hears, or thinks he hears, so softly and distantly it makes him freeze and swivel his head, nearly desperate to get closer, to angle his head right to hear better.

He tries to swallow silently, ears still straining to hear any sound that he belatedly realizes probably isn’t an actual sound he can hear. The word lingers in his mind, but doesn’t ring in his ears like spoken words do.

Zelda? he tries again. His previous thought process makes a slight wash of embarrassment course over him... but then again, perhaps she doesn’t mind hearing her name from an ally for the first time in a hundred years. Can you hear me?

The air pulsates. It’s a bizarre feeling.

You can hear me, still? her voice asks. There’s something like hope in her tone, fragile and fledgeling and precious.

(She’s so far away. Her voice is so quiet.)

Barely, he answers, already pacing as silently as he can, trying to find a spot where her voice is louder like it was in the cave. He can’t see the castle from here. Maybe that’s it? Can mountains get in the way of... not-quite-sound? But yes. You can hear me?

Yes, she says, voice somehow even quieter. He can’t place what her tone is thick with at first—until his own heart slowly relaxes, feels like it’s safe, and he realizes it’s relief. Well enough.

That wavering sensation in the air is still there. If there were such a thing as sounds that couldn't be heard, maybe he could compare it to that.

A shadow of awkwardness falls over him. He wonders if it stretches so long as to fall on her too.

He wonders if she’s bright enough to dispel it.

Hi, he says. He doesn’t know what else to add. He’s starting to highly doubt he was eloquent in his life before.

There’s silence again for a moment.

And then—though it takes a moment to well up, as if she hasn’t done it in a hundred years, and the sound is faint and weary and broken but genuine—Zelda giggles.

Maybe he’s embarrassed, but not in a way that holds any trace of regret. His heart warms like coal starting to flicker with veins of red again.

Hi to you too, she says. It sounds like she’s smiling.

—

He doesn’t remember much yet. But with someone to talk to, he’s finding he doesn’t mind.

What are those? Link asks the warm wind on a snowy peak, stopping still with wide eyes to observe as a pair of reddish near-circles hop about in the icy powder.

Red sparrows, I believe, Zelda replies. The answers seem to come more easily to her the more he asks. He’s discovered rather quickly that her voices takes on a pleased, informative note when she can identify something. Perhaps it’s a good exercise for both of them to practice remembering. They... primarily feed on Chickaloo tree nuts.

They’re cute, Link notes. Happily oblivious to apolcalyptic prohecies and evil beasts caged in castles. A part of him hopes the Calamity leaves them, at least, alone for good.

What's this? he asks a cool gust in a sun-dappled forest, picking a strange curved stem with blue bell-flowers from where it had grown under a broad tree.

Blue nightshade, Zelda answers easily. Toxic as is, but boiled down, small amounts can increase your levels of stealth. I believe it heightens muscle awareness and auditory receptions.

Link opts to not eat it straight like he does with some plants.

You know, you’d know this if you went to see about getting the Slate’s compendium fixed, Zelda says with a note of amusement.

You’re better than a compendium, Link ventures—partly because it’s true, and partly because she hasn’t had enough nice things said to her in a good century at least.

The cool gust turns warmer, and a smattering of sunlight strikes him brightly through the foliage overhead.

I am sorely out of practice! Zelda contends, sounding as though she’d be batting at his shoulder if she could. The thought makes him struggle to keep down a smile. And my information is likely out of date. So—thank you, but the compendium will be much more reliable.

He’ll take ‘better’ over ‘more reliable’ any day—just look at some of his weapons—but some old instinct tells him to let her come to that conclusion herself, so he doesn’t push the issue.

What is THAT? Link all but silently shouts to the freshwater breeze, staring wide-eyed in wonder at a pale green creature as long as Lake Hylia’s bridge, which is what it’s currently winding itself around. It’s floating. It looks like a lizard of some sort, but with a giant horn and many clawed feet that are probably as big as he is. The sight takes the breath out of his lungs. His hand trembles around a small sword that would probably not make a dent in this creature’s eyeball.

His instincts are all on edge. Fight—fight—protect—help, his head shouts, at the same time as his muscles threaten to give out at the fact that he could do nothing but flee or die if that thing came toward him with ill intent.

The air warbles oddly.

I can’t quite tell, Zelda’s voice answers. It’s a little louder now, which is good, because his heart pounds so hard in his ears he’s having trouble hearing his own thoughts. Is it not close to you? What does it look like?

The word tumbles out of him before he realizes he remembers what this type of creature is.

“A dragon,” he croaks aloud. He’s running already—up the hill he’s on the slope of, toward a thick old tree. He stays crouched in the long grass, because even though the dragon is slowly winding away from him, what if it sees him?

It doesn’t quite compute when Zelda seems to smile.

Is it greenish? That would be Farosh. ...Let me remember. An old spirit associated with electricity. Does that sound right?

There appear to be balls of greenish-yellow light, too bright to be normal, emanating from the air around the creature.

Y...eah, is all Link can think. It's so big.

Yes, Zelda laughs. Though I don’t believe it was ever known to bear any ill will toward people. It’s rare to see it. Perhaps it’s a blessing?

Link sits in the grass for a good long while and feels very small.

It is probably for the better that he comes to terms with the size and power of such creatures now. The beast Zelda is containing had looked every bit as big.

—

He doesn’t remember most of what he liked and disliked before.

But he likes talking with Zelda. He feels strongly sure of that. She knows so much, and yet she’s so curious to learn more. She seems to find joy in explaining any detail of nature she can dredge back to her mind after so long of not seeing it.

Even if it’s because he’s her only company outside of malice incarnate, she almost seems to like talking with him too.

How do you sound so calm when you talk? Link asks, before almost stumbling on the rocky path as he regrets asking. I mean—I have trouble speaking when I fight. If that’s not a rude question. Sorry.

Zelda laughs, though the sound is as solemn as her voice was that day he remembered on the hillside by Lake Hylia. No, it’s alright. It's a good question. My power is— She seems to try to figure out the words for something that must come so easily to her, and to no one else. —not physical. If it were, I would have had to let up long ago. It is spiritually taxing, though; some days more than others.

His heart drops into his shoes at that. He’d spent time exploring the land around Zora’s Domain for an entire day. He had thought she’d sounded like she was as curious to see the cliffs and plants and pools as he was, but—what was he doing? Making her fight longer just to satisfy his own impulses to explore?

He changes courses. Eldin next. The volcano is an easy landmark; he’ll go straight there.

I’m sorry, he thinks with every ounce of meaning in his heart. A flicker of resolve flares in him again, and he tries to catch and stoke it, because it’s a feeling he remembers. I’ll hurry.

Her tone isn’t what he’d expected. Surprised? Indignant?

Link, I’ve waited a century alone, and I’m alright. You needn’t rush in before you’re quite ready—or rush to be ready, for that matter. If it takes you a year, I’ll be perfectly fine. I promise.

He stops and sets his shoulders, trying to send her a feeling of indignation back.

You shouldn’t have to wait a year.

There’s a gust of wind that sounds like a resigned huff when it rustles the wildflowers around him.

I will be fine, she repeats. The sun seems to come out a bit more from behind a cloud. I have you, after all. Don’t I?

—

Can you see me? he asks curiously. 

Well—sort of. I can mostly—sense you? She sounds as if she's not sure there are words to describe it. I can sometimes see you clearly. Primarily when you wish to be seen, it seems. I suppose your intention strengthens the connection.

—

He still explores, at Zelda's insistence. Just faster.

Is that a good idea? Zelda asks on a cool dry breeze, and Link gets the feeling he’s being eyed with some amount of skepticism.

A troupe of tough Bokoblins and a Moblin—white? Black? Blue? It’s hard to see them all in the dark—dance around their campfire inside the massive skeleton of a creature called a leviathan. There are some bomb barrels conspicuously near them. Link is conveniently loaded with fire arrows.

Of course, he replies easily, moving in.

He may show off. Just a little.

He darts closer, running sideways until he has a clear shot, and starts sending off arrows. The skeleton lights up with massive bursts of flame and debris. Link readies more arrows and dashes even closer.

A posse of angry, flaming monsters thrash and try to stamp the flames off themselves, before immediately charging Link. He nails several in the faces with arrows. He faces the first Moblin that reaches him and dodges around its back to lunge in with his silver spear. A Bokoblin comes behind him and raises its oversized sword—so Link puts an hour of practice to good use and backflips cleanly out of the way.

It feels pretty awesome.

He draws his claymore and swings relentlessly—slashing, spearing, bashing, shooting, until all that’s left is black smoke and purple ooze and scattered monster parts and loot.

Link stabs the blade into the ground and leans on it for a moment to catch his breath. He pushes back his bangs from where they’d fallen into his face, paying no mind to the trail of sweat and monster dust his hand leaves.

Did I look cool? he asks with a little grin.

The earth rumbles a bit. There’s a noise like a little yelp that morphs into a more casual throat-clearing sound, as a gold light shines briefly behind his eyelids and the world stills again.

It sounds like the apocalyptic version of making someone nearly drop their teacup.

Don’t let me distract you, Link thinks, feeling a wry smirk work its way onto his face. (Which he immediately chases away. What is he doing? She’s not eating, not sleeping, constantly using her power, and he’s encouraging her to get distracted watching situations where he could die and then teasing her about it? What kind of Hero is he? Surely his old self was better than this.)

When have you ever? comes the almost amused, dry reply after the world has settled again. (...Was his old self not better than that?)

If he were able to see her, he wonders what her expression would be.

—

It’s night, he’s in a swamp somewhere, and he’s done the best thing he could’ve imagined.

A breath of fresh air wafts by, and he turns into it quicker than he‘s expressly proud of.

Do you see this? he thinks gleefully into the wind. Look!

Just—...minute, comes the choppy reply.

He wonders if he feels the ground rumble under his steed, or if he’s imagining it. He falls back into his newfound saddle slightly, forcing his face into a schooled and appropriately serious expression. She’s holding back the Calamity. Is it necessary to interrupt her for every little thing like this?

He’s almost convinced himself he shouldn’t be trying to show her things so frequently, or at all, when the heavy air lifts a little. His heart jumps a bit in a silly eagerness despite the notion.

When she replies, he forgets that whole train of thought.

Oh. He pictures her—because he thinks he can picture her fairly well, now that he’s remembered more—giving him the sort of expression that looks like a raised eyebrow of mild disbelief, but is actually hiding a smile. Oh, really?

Link is probably grinning. Probably. It‘s likely uncalled for how proud he is of this.

Beneath him, the Stalhorse he’d managed to catch shakes its head and stamps its bony hooves in the soft soil. It makes a sound like a dry wind through rattling bones.

What should I name it? he asks eagerly.

She’s definitely trying not to smile. No one sounds like they’re trying that hard to maintain a tone of fond disbelief.

They’re not going to let you register that, she sighs, and he can picture her rolling her eyes and relenting to smile. Fair warning.

That’s fine, Link thinks, and while he would give his Great Flameblade and a hundred more bundles of wood to register it, he means it wholeheartedly. It’s certainly not a dealbreaker. The saddle is rotting and not quite thick enough to mask the creature’s uncomfortably bony spine, but he’s still too inwardly on top of the world to mind. I’ll just bring him everywhere. What’s a funny skeleton name?

She’s laughing. It feels like dawn’s first rays of sunlight, but in his heart.

I don’t know—Philodendron?

His chest warms again, because he remembers this—that she likes and knows so many scientific names. Is that a bone?

No. That’s why it’s funny.

He waits a moment, letting the word scour his brain, searching for any recollection of it.

Finally—awkwardly, as if regretting deeming it humorous, because now she’s not so sure—Zelda clarifies.

...It’s a houseplant.

The word hangs so still in the air over this eerie stretch of marshland and bubbling mire pits, in the dark air that cloaks him on his monster skeleton horse he just stole from a reanimated monster skeleton, that his lips twist upward at the corner against his will.

A chuckle bubbles up inside of him and escapes in a barely-stifled huff. Another one follows. He rubs the bridge of his nose to hide a small grin.

Well—it’s not that funny. I have not tried to exercise humor in a hundred years. Don’t laugh.

That’s what you do at jokes, Link reminds her, dropping his hand in favor of smirking slightly toward the castle. It’s dark, and she’s far away. She gives a breath of a chuckle in return, as if acquiescing, one that doesn’t tell if she sees him or not.

He leans forward a bit, some hair falling beside his face—though he’s not sure how well she could see his face regardless—and strokes the bony knobs of the Stalhorse’s neck vertebrae.

You’re still funny, he adds.

There’s a feeling like an awkward breath, and Link has to pretend his hand doesn’t falter against the bones.

Still? comes the thought, and his shoulders almost sag in relief at her pretend-haughty tone that hides a smile. I somewhat doubt you have any memories of me being ‘funny’ to recover.

It’s dark, and her air is clear and cool in the fog of the swamp. He maintains a perfectly straight expression as he leans his shoulders back a bit, tipping his head into a one-shoulder shrug with a little flourish. Benefit of the doubt, you know? he imitates in his most fancy mental accent.

Her laugh leaves a ghost in the air as if someone had plucked a harp string—a faint echo just beyond his range of hearing.

The memory of it lingers in his head the rest of the night.

—

Philodendron falls apart into a pile of dusty bones at dawn.

Link solemnly stands over the bones (that he’d just been riding—tiredly, too; that was a slight scare) and tosses a Silent Princess flower atop them in remembrance. It was a good monster skeleton horse. One of the best. It will be missed.

Botanical sacrilege, her voice says in his head. It’s half teasing, and half serious. I hope you cross-pollinated several to make up for picking that one for this?

I didn’t pick it for this, he replies. It had looked like it might wilt before it reached who it was intended for.

He doesn’t hear an answer. The breeze grows warmer at the same time it grows colder.

—

I miss you, he thinks into the wind out of nowhere one day.

The sun is setting over the mountains in the west, casting the world in a brilliant orange light. From where he’s paused for a rest on a grassy mountain peak, he can see the dark shadow of the castle, silhouetted like a dark wraith in a graveyard of pillared stone.

He doesn’t hear anything for a minute. Only the fading song of birds settling to their perches, and the slow crescendo of insects amassing their orchestra for the night.

Do you remember me enough to miss me? the voice asks. It’s not a whisper, but not projected at him very clearly, either. It’s so quiet he barely catches it.

The thought sends a pang of pain somewhere deep under his heart. There’s a mark in that spot he doesn’t remember yet. It looks like a burst of burn damage around a center that’s bright white with scar tissue.

Do I remember enough? he repeats quietly. No. But enough to miss you?

Without hesitation, he tries to send the word louder than the others.

Yes.

The sun slips below the horizon. Perhaps it’s a reflection, a last ray of its light—but a window high in the castle gleams gold, and for far longer than he’s used to seeing it, it shines.

Chapter Text

With red-rimmed eyes (how shameful) and balled fists (and unmannerly), Zelda tried to steady her breath as she paced the room another time.

No more distractions, her father’s voice boomed through her head, over and over like thunder in a thunderstorm. I have let you play at being a scholar in hopes it would renew dedication in you to save the lives of all that you study. It clearly has not—and our time grows short. You are to focus solely on your training.

Link was always positioned a short ways down the hall, close enough to halt any intruder but far enough to lend her privacy. She had little worry of him hearing her.

So, she let out a frustrated breath and kept pacing.

Pacing didn’t do any good, but she would do it until that fact bothered her enough to distract her from her thoughts, and then both would stop. It might tire her, at least. She needed sleep. Not more fitful dreams of failures.

After a while—minutes, perhaps, or an hour—her feet and thoughts slowed. She stopped when the weariness grew too great, at the end of her long carpet by the door.

She eyed it woefully. Perhaps someday, if she didn’t fail and let the Calamity ravage all she truly did hold dear, she might enjoy things again. Perhaps she could work long hours into the night with Purah and Robbie, testing and hypothesizing and producing results and being too entertained by their respective ridiculousnesses to ever be tired. Perhaps she could spend more time with Impa, learning long histories and social customs and how best to serve and defend their people. Perhaps she could learn to make elixirs, or to cook in general. Link might teach her—he liked to cook, she’d begun to learn, and was quite a master at it. Perhaps she could someday finish cataloguing all of the kingdom’s flora and fauna and anything else of interest.

Perhaps she should go to bed.

Zelda rubbed her eyes too forcefully (as if she’d need any help looking tired and miserable in the morning) and huffed one final sigh through her teeth. It didn’t make her feel better, but it felt less fraudulent than holding it in.

She certainly wasn’t allowed out on any excursions this time of night. She found she lacked the energy or desire to try venturing anywhere.

Zelda turned and leaned back against the door, wallowing in the feeling of carved wood and metal against her spine. It was uncomfortable, but it was something. Better than all of the nothing that threatened to encompass her, the throne, the future of everything.

Another small indulgence she probably shouldn’t be allowing herself.

With stiff muscles and a small grumble, she pushed herself off the door and eyed her bed. It was the only messy part of the room, covered in stacks of parchments and letters from the research team, her harp and prayer books. The thought of clearing it all off made her wonder how much she would regret it if she slept in her chair.

There was a soft knock at her door.

Zelda jolted, disjointed thoughts struggling to whirl back together as she clutched one hand over her pounding heart. She stared sharply over her shoulder at the door. Who would knock at—where was her clock—half past midnight? It couldn’t be an emergency; the castle was quiet and the knock was too light to be urgent.

Perhaps Impa had heard what had happened and had come to offer condolences, or bring her a book. It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, her knock was always even softer and more rapid; near-silent but harder to ignore. This knock she could have heard and yet missed if she weren’t so close to the door.

She turned to face the door, eyebrows furrowed. One hand still clutched at her heart through the white blouse she wore for staying in studying and praying in the evenings.

Zelda listened for a moment. There was only silence.

“Link?” she guessed quietly, hesitantly, still too surprised to even guess at why he would be knocking.

Still silence. Maybe whoever was there expected her to answer the door. That probably ruled out a Yiga assassin, then.

“If that’s you—as I assume it would be, as anyone else would announce themselves—do something to show it.”

There was silence, somehow more hesitant this time.

Then, there came a funny, stilted rap-t-t-bump on the door, like someone rolled their knuckles along it. A few musical taps immediately followed it.

Despite the tiredness that wore into her brain and her still-red eyes, a tiny, disbelieving smile threatened to tug at her lips. She had a bit of trouble picturing Link doing that, but significantly less trouble than picturing anyone else.

Pursing her lips, she reached out and unlatched the door, opening it.

It was Link. He stood stiffly in the dim hallway, the periodic rings of candlelight casting him in a flickering, lopsided glow. He somehow managed to always look exactly the same, no matter the occasion or time of day or night—back straight, shoulders set, face perfectly expressionless. He still wore his Champion’s tunic from their appearance in regalia earlier. Dimly, she wondered why he hadn’t changed shifts yet. The night guard was usually on duty long before now.

Zelda blinked at him, a little part of her wondering if she should succumb to the urge to speak out of the frustration that threatened to creep up in her again. He had been there for every scolding she’d received from her father. Link—who had never so much as received a mark while on the guard, she’d been told—had seen her be chastised again for failing. For being distracted, for not being dedicated enough. It still stung.

But no. She wouldn’t. She’d been trying so hard to be kinder, hadn’t she? More fair to others’ struggles—more grateful to him. She was not the only one to bear the pressure of the world’s fate.

He’d trusted her enough to tell her as much. He’d already proven that he, at least, didn’t hold her frustrations against her—he’d thrown himself between her and death, brought himself to talk with her when it was hard for him, crawled around in the grass with her for hours and listened attentively to her musings. How could she entertain the thought of being unkind to him?

Suddenly, she wanted to cry again. She tamped down the sensation as far as it would go, and forced calmness into her eyes as she studied him.

“Anyone could have knocked like that,” was the first thing that came out her mouth—a needless observation. “That wasn’t particular to you.”

Link blinked, the stiffness melting from his posture just a little as he gave her a look. It was hard to read his expressions, usually, but his slightly furrowed eyebrows and blank eyes seemed oddly clear. You shouldn’t have answered if you didn’t think it was me?

Zelda let out a soft huff of breath. It was true. “I suppose I couldn’t think of anyone else who would knock like that.”

She regarded him with what she hoped looked like curiosity and not the look of someone who’d been stewing and crying for the past hour.

“Is... something the matter?”

Link shifted just slightly, and had the decency to look somewhat apologetic. For knocking at such a late hour, she supposed. Or for witnessing what he’d seen and heard today.

He drew back just slightly and held her gaze, before turning his head slightly and looking down the hall, as if drawing her attention that way. Zelda glanced in that direction, but from inside her room could see nothing. She somehow doubted anything was there.

“I’m not sure I understand,” she said, as politely as she could.

Link’s jaw worked for a moment as he swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet.

“Would you like some fresh air?” he asked. His eyes had a hesitance to them that Zelda did not recall seeing on him before. Even when he’d plunged in the path of a Guardian’s stray laser beam, with no shield but a hastily-grabbed pot lid, his demeanor had not belied any such lack of confidence.

It was a moment before she realized she was considering this and hadn’t replied. Link’s gaze had flickered away from her, and he shifted almost imperceptibly before his eyes met hers again, still questioning.

Zelda snapped back to herself. She drew a breath, eyebrows creasing—because even though Link was Link, surely he couldn’t simply take her anywhere without being noticed by the other guards?—before nodding slightly.

“I would love some fresh air,” she replied. Her breath came haltingly as she drew it. “Though I am not sure I am permitted such things at the moment.”

She couldn’t read his expression now. She let her eyes drop to the ground.

“I would hate for you to be—“ her voice caught, and she tried to steady it as it grew quieter. “—chastised, too.”

Link’s posture changed, if imperceptibly. When she looked back to meet his gaze, his eyes were slightly wide. He pursed his lips and shook his head a bit.

“I don’t mind,” he said, his own voice low and rough. She supposed it was from from disuse.

Something in her heart did a sad little flop at that. He must have heard her still awake—must have considered how she must feel after today. He was trying to be kind.

“If... you think it is possible, I would be... amenable, to such an excursion,” she ventured, trying to sound normal and adventurous and not at all so overwhelmingly sad.

He blinked back. Then, he nodded, then gave another smaller nod as he tilted his head and gestured slightly for her to follow him. He didn’t carry a light, letting the candles be their only illumination into the dark stone passages of the castle’s halls.

Zelda glanced at herself briefly and decided that being caught in casual wear would likely be the least of her father’s disappointments in her. Perhaps it would allow her to blend in more anyhow. Though if anything would identify her, it would be her hair. Did she own a hood or cloak? She wasn’t certain.

As if reading her thoughts, Link led her down the next hallway and grabbed a dark blue cloak off a bench. He turned and offered it to her.

“Oh,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice quiet as she took it and slipped it on. The hood covered her hair, and the cape a good amount of the rest of her. “Thank you.”

Link nodded, and Zelda wondered if she glimpsed him smile.

They turned down another hallway and traveled down a flight of stairs—was Link this knowledgeable about the guard shifts, that he could slip by the hall guards like this? Had he studied their patterns like she had?—and she pursed her lips in uncertainty.

“We’re headed to the library,” Zelda observed, cautiously glancing about. “...Which I would appreciate, but there’s a lack of fresh air there. Have you changed your mind? I suppose the librarian is off duty.”

Link didn’t look back at her. He didn’t nod, or shake his head, or shrug. He didn’t speak either, but she supposed that was less surprising. He was far more experienced at being quiet than she was.

She supposed he'd followed her all over creation enough. She could do the same, this once.

They passed old tapestries and banners, all looming in the darkness, and Link held both his hands to the library’s door handle in such a way that he opened it without a sound. He swung it open just enough, then stepped back and motioned her inside.

Zelda, mind now whirring with questions, forced herself to bite her lip and stay silent as she ducked in. She had snuck off to the library plenty of times. Why were they here now?

Link slipped in behind her, quieter than any non-Sheikah should be able to, and Zelda suddenly wondered if he’d done this before as well. Without hesitating, he walked past her to one of the dozens of old bookcases that lines the royal library’s walls.

Zelda followed him, trying to figure why he was staring so intensely at the shelf of naval history and trade, when Link reached to the edge of the bookcase suddenly and gripped his fingers around the edge.

He pulled. The bookcase moved.

Zelda’s eyes widened in alarm as she eyed the dozens of books on the higher shelves that seemed poised to fall. “Link, what are you—be careful—“

Then, the bookcase opened, finally given enough room to... pivot on what seemed in the dark to be an extendable hinge. A hand flew over her mouth as she stared in disbelief.

Behind it was a tunnel entrance. Carved steps traveled down into the darkness below. A cool, damp breeze drifted up through the opening, enough to billow her cloak and ruffle Link’s hair.

He turned to her, arms folded behind his back, with that signature nonchalant expression that belied nothing but somehow seemed the Link equivalent of the world’s most straight-faced tada. Zelda felt torn between shaking his shoulders at the magnitude of this discovery, scolding him thoroughly for not telling her about this, and just pinching herself to make certain this wasn’t one of her rare wistful dreams.

Her nails digging into her palm seemed to indicate this wasn’t a dream. So, she turned to Link and wondered how to combine her other two options.

“You knew about this?” she breathed, briefly forgetting to be quiet but voice hushed with awe anyway. “How? How did you discover it? Is this—I suppose it might be a guard passage for emergencies; do all the guards know about it? How old is it? Is it still used? Why didn’t I know about this?”

With reverence, she stepped forward and touched her fingertips to the cool stone.

Link let out a breath she thought could have been a chuckle. When she looked to him with shining eyes, he did shrug, presumably at all of her questions. He jerked his head toward it slightly and took a step inside, waiting to see if she was ready to follow.

Which—of course she was. This was the sort of thing she lived for.

Without hesitating—this was Link after all, and she was realizing more every day that perhaps she really did trust him, and truly was beginning to bare her soul with every experience they shared—she gave him her best smile, nodded, and followed.

—

The passage was dark and damp, and rather cold. Zelda found herself grateful for the cloak.

“Astounding,” she murmured, absently wishing she had a better presence of mind to appreciate her surroundings. Her mind and emotions still felt muddled and worn and blurred, but she shook her head a little and tried to look more alert. “Look at the erosion of the chisel marks in the walls. This must be centuries old, if not more. I wonder, could it have been carved when the castle was built?”

She couldn’t see Link’s expression as he walked ahead of her. She had no idea why she was getting the impression he might be smiling.

The tunnel turned and went down, down—until finally, Link stopped. A faint light flickered ahead. A doorway?

Link glanced at her, met her eyes, and held his index finger to his lips in a motion for silence. Zelda nodded, watching curiously as Link crept ahead to the exit.

That was definitely firelight flickering out there. Torches? They were often used in the underground areas of the castle. Where were they?

There was some distant sound outside, too much like white noise for Zelda to tell what it was. It grew louder, then faded to a dull constant. Finally, Link motioned to her to stand close.

She did so. Both of their breaths sounded painfully loud in her ears as she strained to hear any sounds.

Link leaned slightly to peer out the doorway—and after a moment of seeming to ready himself, looked back to her with a sharp nod and gestured for her to follow.

Heart pounding in her ears, Zelda hurried after him as he walked swiftly out into a cavernous room. Her head bobbed this way and that as she took in the sight—a huge torch-pedestal like a bonfire, illuminating a massive cave with wavering, dying red light. She could make out a railing, and more stairs. Stacks of crates crowded the area—stored supplies, maybe?—and barrels were lined in sets by the walls. The castle did have underground storage areas for emergencies. Perhaps this was one of them?

Link lead her to the top of a flight of stairs leading downward—down to long trails of wooden planks set on posts in the water, where smooth dark waves lapped an incessant sound against it and all the stone.

“The docks,” Zelda breathed, eyes lighting in recognition. She glanced to Link, half to convey her own excitement, and half with more questions. In the firelight, his eyes seemed to twinkle with something like amusement. Perhaps adrenaline, too. She would have supposed he did so many thrilling things regularly that this would be nothing to him. Was he feeling the rush of weary excitement she was getting too?

They must have arrived between guard rounds, or shifts. The area seemed empty—but Link again motioned to her, though a question was in his eyes as he tilted his head toward the stairs. He tapped his wrist, as if tapping a wristwatch. Perhaps they only had limited time until someone returned.

She was not immune to the thought of touching the water and walking the docks and trying to snatch a fish if she saw one—but the day had shaken her more deeply than she thought. Could they make it back to her room before the next shift, if they went down there? Or were there rounds being done?

Zelda drew in a breath, and found it was shaky when she let it out.

“Perhaps we should stay up here,” she offered quietly. A dull sense of longing came over her—for this to have happened mere days ago, when she would have been eager to go down without hesitation.

Link just nodded. Quickly, he motioned to her again, and led her to the center of the long railing.

The docks did look magnificent from up here. They were a bit of a secret—mostly used for supply cargo and emergency rations, well hidden in a cleft of the castle’s cliffs, low enough to the water that it was difficult to see the entrance. A few sparse torches lit the walls, and the large one burned low, mostly deep flickers and embers now. The water was black, and outside, she thought she could see reflections of the stars.

“It’s beautiful,” she noted quietly. A little part of her wished she could stand here for a long while, until her mind lulled itself to the restful sleep she so yearned for.

She watched it for a long few moments. Then, she looked to Link. He was watching her.

It was silly how much she hoped the torchlight would mask the way her ears warmed. She looked off at the sides of the cave for anything that would be of note or interest.

“Oh,” she whispered, eyes widening a bit. It turned out she didn’t need to search long. “Rushrooms? I suppose they would like it down here; they are fond of stone cliff faces.” Large clusters of the purple mushrooms grew at intervals along the walls. “I’ve read elixirs can be made with them to increase speed. I’d love to experiment with one sometime.”

She shook her head at herself with a dry chuckle, and corrected herself softly.

“Someday.”

She grasped the cold railing and stared down at the water again, the weight of her burdens starting to creep back onto her again.

Zelda closed her eyes tightly. It was unfair. This was beautiful, and fascinating, and Link was kind enough to show her here in what she assumed was an effort to lift her spirits.

Why was everything such—the world’s end on its way, herself doomed to doom others unless she awoke something she didn’t know; the pain of craving desperately a shred of the compassion her mother used to show her so often and her father seemed to forget—that her destiny dictated she could not enjoy it?

From somewhere behind them, a noise reached her ears. When she glanced to Link, a strange look in his eyes quickly turned to something guardlike that masked it.

He visibly hesitated—a rarity, for him—then motioned to her again. She followed him along the railing to where stacks and stacks of huge crates clustered near the wall.

There was just enough room to slip by them. Link glanced at her, and something pained in Zelda’s heart melted a little bit at the oddly accurate gesture.

This was the sort of thing she could let herself do—just for now, without infringing on her duties or heaping weight upon her guilt. She edged by, looking around for a good spot to sit and rest for a while.

There was a spot on the ground between the last stack of crates and the wall that looked big enough to be suitable. It had a view of the harbor, and seemed out of sight of the world.

She stared at it for a moment.

“Come sit with me,” she said hesitantly, well aware of the way her voice bobbed and listed with sadness.

Without looking at him, she knelt and eased herself into a sitting position in the little nook. The stone was cold, but the wood of one of the crates against her back felt comfortable by comparison. She stared out at the water.

Link followed. He paused for a moment as he looked at the space beside her—and just as Zelda closed her eyes and readied herself for the shame of asking such a thing and it being declined, she heard the sound of leather moving. She opened her eyes to see Link with the Master Sword’s scabbard in hand. He leaned it against the crate, then crouched and sat beside her.

The footsteps of guards passed by somewhere almost out of earshot. Then, only the sound of the river could be heard.

The silence rung louder than the waves for a good while. Zelda drew a shaky breath.

“Father wants me to visit the Spring of Power within the week,” she confided, as if Link weren’t there when her father had said that. Certain no one else was still here, she spoke softly—there was no need to speak at any volume either, so close to each other. “I’ll have to leave soon to make the journey. I don’t suppose I could ask you to leave tomorrow morning, but perhaps we could try for tomorrow afternoon. And make a half day of it, to start out.” She drew another breath and tried to let it out calmly. “I’ll just... have to gather my gear and supplies for the trip, and assess the route. I can do so after my devotions in the morning—though they may run long.”

She ducked her head slightly and stared distantly at her hands where they rested on her bent knees.

“I’m... sorry, not to have given you more warning. I will strive to ensure it does not happen again.”

To her surprise, Link shook his head. The motion was slight, but so firm that it made her blink and glance to him in uncertainty.

Link’s features shifted oddly, and Zelda realized he was trying to overcome his habit of not showing much expression. She ventured a glance sideways to meet his gaze, and her tired heart flipped again. It was faint and maybe a bit stiff, but he was looking at her with such an expression—of sympathy? Protectiveness? As if her troubles were assassins after her throat, and he would jump to stand guard over her like he’d already done, to slay any that came near—that she nearly regretted looking, or sitting so close. A disquieting, embarrassed warmth threatened to turn her heart inside-out.

...She was imagining his feelings. She was so tired. He only meant to show concern, she was sure.

When he whispered, his voice still sounded a touch raw.

“You need to rest,” he said, not lifting his gaze from her. She couldn’t hold it, and looked down at the stone balcony, toward the railing over the docks. “Would you like to do it here, or on the way?”

A lump rose in her throat. Her tired eyes prickled with tears that threatened to form. He was being compassionate. What would it be like, if she didn’t feel too embarrassed to deserve such a thing? To think of accepting kind sentiments without guilt, and not just when she’d so distracted herself with research that her duty didn’t weigh on her?

Zelda let out a soft, uneven breath. Her fingers entwined in her lap, gripping each other in a subtle attempt to work off some emotion.

“I can’t,” she whispered solemnly, staring out unseeing at the darkened stone. “Everyone will die if I do not awaken my power. My father isn’t wrong.”

“I’d rather die knowing you got enough rest,” he muttered.

His voice had perhaps a touch of teasing that felt a bit weary, but his face was straight, and there was no gleam of any humor in his eyes. There was no way to take that but that he meant it honestly. A low, stilted chuckle bubbled up in her.

“I haven’t been dedicated enough,” she added, her gaze now a dozen miles through the floor.

After a moment—a few moments? A minute? Her mind was lapsing; perhaps she did need sleep—she realized that she felt his gaze on her again. Against her better judgement, she looked.

His face was mostly blank again. But his eyes seemed as though they bored through her, and still had such a strange tenderness she couldn’t grow used to.

“It takes more dedication to work at something before you've seen results,” he whispered lowly, “than it does to work at something after you've started seeing them.”

She was sure she would cry. She wanted to, at that. The lump in her throat returned—but in an instance she supposed could have been a divine mercy, no tears came.

“I’m not sure,” she whispered. Her voice broke, but for once, she found she didn’t mind. “But... thank you.”

They stared out at the gentle roll of the current in the moat, and at the boats rocking slightly in the water, and at the dark grassy hill and reflections of stars beyond for quite some time. The sound of the water was lulling, and it was dark, and she had warmth beside her to ward off the chill of damp stone.

Zelda was faintly aware of her breathing evening out for the first time in hours. She was faintly aware that Link’s shoulder was warm and somewhat soft against her temple.

She slept deeply, and had no dreams.

—

Zelda awoke in her bed, the sky outside lightening to a pale lavender grey. Her books and papers were stacked neatly on her bureau, and her harp hung in its place.

She let her gaze flit around the room as the previous night came back to her in a tumble of thoughts. Where had she fallen asleep? Not here. At the docks, it seemed. How Link must have carried her up here, and cleared her bed was beyond her. Had he really walked so softly, that she hadn’t woken up?

For some reason, her gaze flickered sideways, to the space beside her bed.

There, on her nightstand, sat a lone rushroom.

Chapter Text

“What would you write in a letter to someone?”

Link isn’t sure why he’s asking. More notably, he isn’t sure why he’s asking a Korok. If he pretends hard enough, he can even be unsure why he’s asking this Korok.

The root-shaped forest creature is still on its back like a beetle that was flipped upside-down, at the mercy of the gigantic backpack it’s wearing. Or maybe the backpack is wearing it. Its feet don’t touch the ground.

“A... letter?” it asks, its chimelike voice uncertain.

Link swallows and tries not to look too overtly like he’s staring at the horizon to avoid the Korok’s confused gaze. It can raise an eyebrow-hole and frown slightly like nobody’s business.

“Yeah,” he tries to reply as if it’s no big question, with no big implications. “To... someone you want to find your way back to.”

He’s being too on-the-nose here. He probably sounds like he’s looking for a specific answer. Why is he even asking? What kind of answer is he looking for?

(There’s a part of him that’s at least a little desperate, chasing after rumors and visions and memories until his head spins and nothing makes sense. Maybe he’s trying to ask for advice. He could use some, for certain.)

The Korok seems to think about the question. It puts a pointy branch-hand to where its chin should be and rubs the spot pensively.

“I can’t write,” it finally announces, with all the matter-of-fact innocence of someone who could declare that the world was ending without adding any particular inflection to their voice. The Korok wriggles a bit, rocking in place and throwing its weight sideways until it faces him more. “Can you write, new friend?”

Link is sitting here on a rock on a clifftop on one of the many Great Sky Islands, his feet shrouded in yellowed grass and a mostly-empty notebook open in his lap. He holds an ink pen too tightly in a clawed hand—but he still hasn’t written anything, so really, it’s easy to see why the creature would ask.

He wishes he could blame Rauru’s arm. The fingers are longer than he’s used to and the hair is slick like goat’s hair and the claws seem a little much for doing practical, everyday tasks, like writing. He’s tried already though—and Rauru must have done his fair share of writing in the past, because there’s a muscle memory to the action that actually makes it come easily to him.

Finding words, however, is a Link problem. And that makes it another story.

“Yes,” Link answers, staring down at the blank page. He’s already gotten a couple small ink dots on it from poising the pen and then hesitating. The page yawns before him.

“Oh! If I could, I’d write a letter to my friend!” the Korok exclaims, as if it’s just now caught on, if not fully. The two Koroks who seem to be on a camping tour of Hyrule together would seem inseparable if it weren’t for the fact that they were constantly getting separated. (Relatable, a deep part of his subconscious thinks.)

The Korok gestures in a motion that looks vague to Link but must be an eloquent-looking speaking gesture to a Korok.

“I’d tell my friend that I like traveling with them!” The more it appears to think about this, the more the Korok seems gleeful at the idea of writing a real letter. “And that I see so much more when we go on adventures! It’s way better than going alone.”

Link takes notes. It’s embarrassing that he’s taking notes, but he’s desperate to put something on the page that’s been threatening to swallow him with its blankness.

He might not even write a letter. It's silly, anyway, and he should be out investigating, not pausing up here to clear his head enough to write. But—he knows she'd appreciate it.

“And I’d say that it makes me sad when we get separated. I don’t like feeling alone,” it confides, its tone and demeanor and whole body drooping for a moment. A lump has crept up Link’s throat—a dumb one, considering that the Korok’s friend is always not far off, sending up a super obvious smoke signal so it can be found (are you sending one, Zelda? Why don’t I see it?).

The Korok seems as though it can only look downcast for so long. It brightens, as much as a leaf mask can allow it to.

“But I’ll always catch up!” it decides. “Even if I need help getting there. I’ll reach them soon!”

Link's throat is too tight to offer much of a reply.

He's not sure how he can better rephrase his notes into a letter.

Chapter Text

The statue stood tall over the spring.

It had begun to weather in places with age, and moss cloaked it wherever it could withstand the sun and rain. The size of the stone, along with the triplet waterfalls that crashed in tandem behind it, made the features carved in it impressive, even imposing. The full moon above the waterfalls cast the world in an ethereal hue.

The statue's stone eyes were closed. Of course. Just like those of any such statue—but it seemed stark, now, like a message she had pretended not to see.

Unseeing emptiness washed down relentlessly on her. Like the thorns that wreathed so many paths and rocky cliffs here in the wilderness, a briar vine seemed to wrap around inside her chest, caging her well-protected heart that was buried deep with thorns, yet numb to the pain.

The statue was unseeing, the spirits were unhearing, and she was unfeeling. Something was wrong—and far was it from her to believe that the fault lay in ancient forces that once spoke to so many.

That just left her.

Zelda tried not to tear up, tried not to let her voice grow thin and reedy. That went the same way that everything did these days, it seemed. She failed.

“Just, tell me, please,” she whispered, fists clenched in the cool water and eyes shut tightly. She wasn’t certain anymore if she was still speaking to the goddess, or to Link, or merely to herself—but her voice rose and grew more fragile all the same. “What’s wrong with me?!”

The waterfalls crashed the same as they had when she’d prayed. Now, they drowned out her hitching breaths, veiling her from the world in their mist.

Zelda clenched her jaw and ducked her head, tears finally leaking from behind scrunched eyelids and tracking down through the dampness that clung to her cheeks. Despite her best efforts, her shoulders shook once, and a pitiful sob escaped her.

Why, why? Why must she be doomed to receive no answer? Why must she endure pain and then shame as well, when she truly was doing all she knew how?

More tears slipped out, faster now on the trails of the first. Her shoulders shook again, and to her embarrassment, more sobs tumbled out, sorry and choked. The stones cast their shadows over her, deaf to her cries.

Absently, she thought she heard the noise of shuffling from back where Link stood guard.

There came an odd, soft splashing behind her, then the rippling of water in a way that washed her own waves into a churn.

A presence was beside her—and then she was only faintly aware that Link was there, standing so that his shoulder was only the smallest gap from hers.

For a moment, she wondered if it wasn't blasphemous for him to be in the spring too—but no, how could it be? Improprietous for him to be in the water when she was, maybe, but he was the goddess' chosen hero. If someone as disconnected from her as she was was permitted here, certainly Link was more than welcome by comparison.

Her breath hitched, then hiccupped. Her clenched hands shook in the water—though she only noticed because the water stirred and lapped back against her wrists.

Please, something deep enough in her to be her spirit begged. No one else—struggles as I do. Why? What's wrong with me?

The water was cool in Akkala's eternal autumn, and the night air was beginning to chill. Cold sweat clung to her arms and damp hair. The air beside her smelled of grass and cedarwood, and it was warm.

She numbly wound her forearm around Link's, grasping awkwardly at his wrist. She almost didn't register when she bowed her head and slumped her shoulder against his, leaning just slightly, then more heavily, desperate for any support at all.

Link didn't falter. He didn't move away from her. If he was surprised, he showed no sign of it.

Should she be ashamed of that too—that on top of every pressure he already bore, he was shouldering her burden as well?

When she glanced sideways at him through a blurry haze of night and tears, she could just faintly see his eyes closed, eyebrows creased together just slightly, face forward but downcast somehow, and his lips moving.

Was he praying? For her?

She didn't know if she could bear it if he were. Perhaps that was another immature notion, to not want intercession or others to mingle in her issues—but the thought stung deep. Was it that she was desperate to do this herself, to prove herself worthy on her own? Surely it wouldn't count if it was anyone's devotion but her own that pled for her.

Or was it the kindness of it that hurt so deeply?

“I just—“ she began in a whisper, though her voice curled and peeled and broke. “—want to understand.”

His shoulders shifted as he glanced at her, as if he were drawing a deep breath to speak. His lips parted again, but nothing came out but a hoarse breath, and she looked away.

She could feel him looking at her, searching for her gaze.

She was juvenile. No wonder the spirits wouldn't speak to her. She kept her head down and eyes closed, finding it easier than looking at him to see what he was trying to say with his eyes.

Link's arm twisted beside her, and his hand found hers.

His fingers laced with hers with more ease than seemed thinkable; a gentleness to their touch that she couldn't fully comprehend. Even through his leather bracers, everywhere her forearm touched his felt warm. Their fingertips mingling together seemed almost electric.

Perhaps it was mostly the distraction, the fact that he was holding her hand, so gently, and though her face had been hot with tears, her ears too were now warm—but some of the thorns in her chest slipped out without pain. The current ebbed around them, like cool balm to her throbbing heart.

They stood that way, hand in hand in the cold water of the spring, for a long while.

Chapter Text

Zelda doesn’t know how he’s still standing.

The air is thick with smoke and the smell of things burning. The sky churns overhead like the Calamity does over the castle—forceful and too-fast and seeping with an otherworldly darkness. It’s raining and gusting in torrents, but somehow not enough to quench all the fires.

Link won’t stop fighting. He’s been swinging his sword in a nonstop flash of oil-stained silver, hacking and piercing with the terrible clang of unbreakable metal on nigh-unbreakable metal. He hasn’t stopped for what might have been an hour or more. The field is swarming with Guardians, many dark and dead now, but so many more still moving. They glide swiftly on their many legs, unfazed by any terrain or obstacle, their heads all swiveling and looking, looking, looking.

He is brave—but he is not immortal. He’s still human. His movements get slower with each Guardian he takes on, always drawing their fire from her and ensuring they can’t stop fighting him to attack her. One of the machines could destroy a troop of soldiers. Link has taken down twelve.

He’s stumbling. His shoulders heave like he can’t get enough air, and he staggers like his muscles are beginning to lock up and refuse him.

Still, covered in ash and dirt and smoke, his eyes stand out—even more than the Sword does—blue, and more than that, unyielding.

“Link, you must go! Save yourself,” she pleads with him. The air is so loud with the whirring of thousands of gears and the Guardians’ incessant chimes—signals which she knows, she’s memorized many; they all say searching, searching, locking target, destroy—that she isn’t certain he hears her. When he stumbles back to her, still between her and the closest machines, she raises her voice urgently. “I’ll be fine! Please, run!”

He barely spares her a glance, barely seems to have the energy he diverts to shaking his head. Overwhelming affection and unbearable dread flood her in equal measure. Too brave, too good, please give up and run, I can’t lose you too, echoes though her mind like a nightmare from long, long ago.

The last Guardian comes. It glimpses them over a pile of its dead brethren, and whirs as if it’s been given its purpose. Lights, unnatural and blinding, flash and spin as giant clawed arms carry a ton of metal over the carapaces. It stops at the highest point and focuses its red guiding-beam down on him.

Link grunts and braces himself in front of the light, without so much as a shield, too weak to hold his sword up high enough, the Guardian winds up its power and its eye sears blue and—she—

NO.

It doesn’t end like this.

There’s gold like heaven come to earth and a light that shines deeper than evil can scar. She’s standing in front now, one hand up palm-out, eyes and heart blazing like the Triforce on the back of her hand.

Her own voice has an echo to it it didn’t before. In her mind, at least—like she’s speaking in tandem words shouted in brave wise power at the beginning of the world.

Every Guardian within a half mile falls down. Falls still.

So does Link.

He’s curled on his side in the wet burn-scorched field, his hand stiff and empty, the Sword out of his grasp for the first time in hours. She rushes to him, kneels by him, holds him, speaks softly to him. You’re going to be just fine, she speaks out of hope and denial, and thus doesn’t lie.

He coughs out a sound that makes her wonder if her light had masked the Guardians’ own—if she’d really stopped it in time.

One glimpse at his side makes her hold him tighter, whisper faster, thinking she might be right. Her tears drip to his chest and join every other manner of spot and stain on his once-bright tunic.

When she releases him from her, he’s still. Her hand over his heart can’t feel anything—no heartbeat, no rise and fall as he struggles for air.

There’s a sound from beside them. A soft sound, silvery and ethereal, and a weak light.

When the sword flickers, chiming to her—the voice inside the sword!—that there’s a probability he won’t die, that he can still be saved, a dying ember flares in her more scorching than any beam or fire.

There’s hope—and maybe that’s enough to help her fight off the darkness.