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Perhaps Link should have realized he was doomed from the moment he first laid eyes on her.
But he’s oblivious to those things at the best of moments, so it’s not exactly apparent to him at the time. Especially considering their situation– he a shaggy, hulking beast with curved and bloodied fangs and rain-wet fur; she a hooded figure standing silhouetted by the window, revealing herself to be neither friend nor foe, shadows wrapping her in their grasp.
Link growls at her deep in his throat and bares his teeth, body crouching low to the cold stone floor, just before she turns away from the water-frosted windowpane to face him. She stares down at him with calm blue eyes, solemn and mysterious with her hood wrapped over the lower portion of her face, yet beneath the weight of her gaze something deep within his soul jumps in joyful, yearning recognition.
He approaches her slowly as she speaks with Midna, and then unexpectedly her attention turns to him and she kneels on the stone before him, which catches him off guard because he imagines his wolf form must be rather intimidating. In spite of it, she crouches before him as an equal, hood overshadowing her face as she studies the rusty shackle biting into his leg and tells him gently that she is sorry he was imprisoned.
Midna makes a snarky comment, blame evident in her voice as she addresses the cloaked figure, and Link waits in some confusion as a soft sigh escapes the latter before she rocks back on her heels, head bowing downwards. She explains the twilight to him in a soft and lovely voice, speaking about the fall of the kingdom and of its people, transformed into spirits, who now burn like ghostly candles across the land. And then, as the deep sadness in her eyes etches its way further into her expression, she tells him something he should already have figured out.
She is Zelda.
The princess.
She is the one who he was meant to present the Ordonian sword to back before the invasion, the ruler of Hyrule, the one who is reported to be as cold and bitter and unfeeling as ice. Yet there is nothing cold about the grief in her voice, about the way it trembles with pain and exhaustion as she at last finishes speaking, her head dipping downwards in anguish for the blood that has been spilled in the days since the invasion began.
Link is still processing her heavy-hearted words when she lifts gloved hands to grip the edges of her hood, pulling it slowly away from her face and hair. Weak yellow light filters in through the window just behind her and settles over her skin, her lashes sweeping briefly against her cheeks before clear blue eyes look down at Link once more, though this time they are sharp against the loveliness of her face.
Even in wolf form, Link is fairly sure he stops breathing.
He’s not entirely sure what she says after that, just that he cannot stop looking at her, at the sad tilt of her mouth, at the wintry grief in her eyes. Before he knows what is happening she is saying something about a guard returning soon, and that he and Midna ought to leave before they’re caught, and Midna is nodding in agreement and patting Link’s spine with one hand to urge him forward. His time in her presence is dwindling by the second.
Link’s jaws part for a moment, his tongue lolling briefly between his teeth in a wolfish attempt at a smile as he casts a final look at the princess. She blinks a little as she meets his gaze, and he thinks that her pale lips tilt upwards just barely in return, but the light filtering through the rain-streaked window is too faint to be sure.
“I wish you safety on your journey,” she says to him quietly, her head tipping downwards in a gesture of deep respect, and then Midna is prodding him forward out of her chamber and her figure is lost to his sight.
He does not stop thinking about her for days, though he doesn’t really know why.
All he knows is that he cannot shake her from his mind.
It is weeks before he lays eyes on her again, and as before it is storming outside, though more violently than the first time. Rain lashes the windows of the castle like arrows, and thunder cracks outside, lightning suffusing the princess’ chamber every few seconds with an eerie white glow before the room plunges into blackness again.
The princess looks the same as she did weeks ago, still wrapped in her cloak and hood, though her eyes look significantly more tired and careworn as she once more kneels before the two of them, golden light shining through one glove. She gives soft instructions that Link listens to carefully, never once taking his eyes from her own, and then holds up her hand, glowing with the same symbol that was once visible on his own skin as she mentions the sacred power that both of them share.
Perhaps it is then that he fully understands their connection, that they are not just merely a goat herder and a princess forced together by unfortunate circumstances. Instead it seems that they are linked in ways he cannot possibly imagine– a handful of souls, memories, lives, sealed in blood and unable to be broken. The spirit of the hero and the blood of the goddess, thrown together not by accident but rather by fate, two beings destined to meet again and again and again throughout the threads of time.
The princess seems to come to an understanding at almost the same moment as he, though hers would appear to regard Midna. Link does not fully understand what she is speaking of, but suddenly Midna is screaming at him to stop the princess, and Zelda’s hands are clasped and glowing with sacred light that flows down towards the Twili, and there is nothing he can do.
She fades away before their very eyes, dissolving into the air until it is as if she was never there to begin with. Gone. The air seems suddenly icy cold as her light disappears from the chamber.
There is a sharp and stabbing prick in Link’s subconscious as he stares at the empty stone where only seconds ago she was kneeling. It feels as if half of his soul has just been torn away, lost to time and shadow, and he is helpless to do anything about it.
A whine builds in the back of his throat as Midna, fully restored by Zelda’s sacrifice, for once has no snarky comment to make and can only stare in grief. Bring her back, Link wants to tell her, but it comes out as a growl as he crouches low to the ground, not entirely understanding. All he really knows is that the light seems to have left not only the chamber, but the world itself. Dissolved into nothing along with the princess.
He and Midna leave the castle soon after and head out into the storm once more. Rain lashes Link’s pelt as he runs, furious, splashing through mud and water, ears pinned and teeth bared because of the injustice of it all, making a pledge to himself. He will not let her sacrifice crumble into nothing in the end. He will accomplish the tasks set before him, and defeat the evil plaguing Hyrule, and restore the kingdom to its original state.
For her. For the princess cloaked in sadness, for the leader who he knows must be scarcely older than he is, for the girl who returned his attempt at a smile even though her own heart had shattered with grief long before.
He will do it for her.
He will do anything for her.
Yet something feels wrong, deep inside of him. Something feels different.
For that night, as he lies beneath the stars in Hyrule Field and tries to rest, there is a strange, persistent ache in his chest that he can’t quite explain, like a fog is creeping over his lungs, so slowly it can scarcely be felt.
Link tries not to think much of it as he falls asleep.
Weeks pass.
Months.
The strange ache in Link’s chest does not go away, no matter what he does. He thinks, after a week or so of waking up to heavy pressure in his lungs that he gradually becomes accustomed to, that it must be due to some sickness he has picked up during his travels. But as the weeks slip by and the ache seems only to swell in intensity, unaffected by potions of any kind and persisting with a strength that confuses him, he begins to realize it must be something else.
He has no idea what. But he’s never experienced any kind of sickness like this– one that settles deep into the lungs with no other symptoms aside from a dull pain, clawing at the interior of his chest like a thicket. He tries not to think about it as he travels mile after mile across the kingdom, slashing monsters, battling fatigue, downing potions and forcing himself onwards even when his muscles are ready to give out. And always, always, when the blood is leaching into his tunic and his temples are pounding with exhaustion and his throat is so dry he can scarcely draw breath, he thinks of her.
Silhouetted against the faint light from outside the windows in her chamber, chestnut brown hair falling on either side of her face, blue eyes deep and burdened with grief. Skin winter-pale from a lifetime of confinement, a youth that should have been spent outdoors in the sun but that her guardians instead wasted by forcing a child into the role of an adult, giving her burdens too heavy to carry.
No wonder the kingdom has always viewed the princess as ice-cold and unfeeling. She has never been allowed to feel, to be happy, to have the life of a normal child or teenager. And now perhaps she never will have the chance to feel or be happy again, not unless he beats back the evil that has settled into the very roots of the kingdom like a parasite.
So he persists, through all the pain and blood and exhaustion, through all the abandoned rooms of stone and crumbling ruins and bones in the dark. For her.
The ache in his chest persists, growing stronger with each day. He ignores it, like always, by envisioning the princess, not realizing in the slightest that thinking of her is the one thing that will cause the pain to worsen.
He reflects later that had he known, he would have still done it anyway.
More time slips by. Link’s sword pierces twilight yet again, this time in the very realm from which it came. He chases Zant’s laughter through halls of dizzying teal and ebony, Midna whispering at his side, darkness wrapping around him in a shroud. He at last sees Zelda again, much to his joy, but then her skin glows green and her eyes shift to a sickly yellow and she transforms into a puppet that he can't possibly bring himself to harm.
But eventually she is safe. Eventually they stand together, hand in hand, as equals; eventually they ride out to fight the dark lord with Zelda, bow in her hands, perched behind him on Epona. Arrows fly through a field wreathed in smoke, and hoofbeats tear across the grass like thunder, and Zelda's breath is warm against the back of his neck as they pursue Ganondorf in a final attempt to bring him down.
And at last, beneath a roiling sky shot through with gold, the sword of evil’s bane stabs through the dark lord’s chest and splashes Link in a spray of blood.
It is over.
The princess, silhouetted in golden light, turns to look at him with eyes blue as forget-me-knots, and, in a moment that feels all too familiar to their first meeting, Link finds that he cannot breathe.
He barely hears what she says to him, barely even understands that she is speaking. A gust of wind sweeps past her, catching hold of her hair and lifting it away from her neck and jawline, and Link swallows, mouth drier than a desert as he stares into her eyes, tongue swiping over his lower lip. The ache in his chest seems to intensify as he looks at her, pressing against his lungs so that he can scarcely draw breath, but he ignores it, his eyes tracing over the lines of her face.
Perhaps it’s then, standing with her beneath a glorious sunset with blood slowly drying on his skin, that he first begins to realize he is doomed.
Midna leaves them that evening, without warning. Without a goodbye. Just a see you later, and then the mirror shatters into a thousand shards of glass, leaving only empty space and cold fragments of wind behind.
He should have expected it, he thinks. He should have known, because he knew her. Or he thought he did. But maybe he never knew her at all. Not really.
The thought stings, but at the same time perhaps it’s better that they did not have to endure the pain of saying goodbye. He takes a step backwards, away from the shards of glass that now litter the ground at his feet, and turns to look over his shoulder at the princess. She folds her lips together and doesn’t meet his gaze, shoulders thrown back and chin held high, the last rays of sun gleaming on her hair.
“We should go, before it gets too dark,” she says, in a voice that is lovely and deep but pierced with lingering threads of sadness.
He nods, wordless.
On the ride back to the castle he can’t help but feel the pressure of her arms around his waist, her hands resting lightly over his ribs, her chest pressing against his shoulder blades. He wonders if she can feel his heartbeat, slamming against his ribcage with such force his bones may as well be breaking, and scoffs a little to himself. He is no lovesick teenager, stumbling over his own words after only speaking with her a mere few times. He is…
He doesn’t know what he is.
All he knows is that her arms tighten around him just a bit on the return to Castle Town, her breath warm against the back of his neck, and it does things to his heart that he can’t explain.
That night he steps silently into the throne room and watches as she kneels amongst the rubble, gloves discarded at her side, hair unbound and flowing freely down her back as she sifts crumbled stone through her fingers. She seems to sense his presence after a moment, piercing blue eyes lifting to meet his own, and he falters for a moment before walking towards her, boots scuffing on the stone floor.
Her gaze softens as she looks up at him, and the ache in his chest lessens just slightly.
“Is there anything I can help you with, your Highness?” he asks slowly, reverently, lowering himself to one knee in front of her on the cracked tile.
She watches him for a moment, eyes narrowed and lips unsmiling, before gently shaking her head. “No, you’ve done more than enough. You ought to get some rest.”
“Then so should you,” he contradicts, and her eyes go wide in surprise. She rocks back on her heels a little, brushing a stray strand of hair from her eyes and leaving a smudge of dirt on her face in the process. She doesn’t seem to notice, studying him silently with her head slightly tilted, and he can’t resist. He tugs off one leather glove and reaches up to rub the smudge from her skin, his thumb moving quickly across her cheek.
Her eyes widen further, and her face feels warm beneath his hand.
“Dirt,” he rasps by way of explanation, voice hoarse and cracking, and then says nothing else, because words have suddenly abandoned him.
“I see. Thank you.” Her voice is even-keeled, steady. She breaks eye contact and looks down, sifting another handful of rubble through her fingers.
He waits, unsure. His fingertips burn with the memory of her skin.
“Link. You ought to get some rest,” she says again after a moment.
He thinks he would be content to hear her say his name for the rest of his life. “Not until you do.”
She blinks at him, then sighs, sweeping her hair to one side so it rests against the curve of her neck and shoulder. “I doubt I’ll find any rest tonight, hero.”
He hums, then startles her by sprawling backwards on the cracked tile, arms moving to rest behind his head. “And you think that I would have more luck than you?” He stares up at the vault of the castle, far above, and lifts one hand, fingers splayed as if he is trying to touch the cold stone of the ceiling.
“I suppose it would be hypocritical of me if I told you yes.” Her voice has a slight hint of wryness to it.
He laughs, a breathless sound as he lowers his arm. “I suppose it would be.”
He hears her give a light chuckle, and then there is movement and he turns his head to see her lying beside him on the floor, hair spilling out around her, her chin tilted to stare up at the ceiling.
“It’s funny, you know,” she murmurs after a moment as Link’s eyes trace over her profile.
Once a few seconds have gone by Link remembers that he possesses a voice. “What is?” he whispers in reply.
One corner of her mouth lifts slightly.
“Lying on the floor is not exactly something I would associate with comfort, and yet…” Her head rolls so that her eyes are locked with his, the soft smile on her face only widening. “This is the safest I’ve felt in the past several months.”
Oh.
He can’t find a response to that, or at least not one that would be at all coherent, so instead he reaches out with one hand in search of her own, his calloused fingers curling hesitantly through her own slender ones.
She smiles warmly at him, her deep blue eyes crinkling up at the edges, and the ache in his chest all but disappears for a few moments, soothed by the gentleness of her gaze.
A few evenings later, after several days of sifting through rubble and attending to the various needs in Castle Town, they sit in a large stone windowsill together and look out at the sunset. Streaks of red and purple wing their way across the sky, which is gradually shifting into deep indigo further up. Pearly clouds scud across its surface, and the last burning sliver of sun, white-hot, can be glimpsed far in the distance over the hills.
The hero and the princess watch in silence for a while, neither speaking as the sun disappears over the horizon, leaving flaming gold and orange in its wake that rapidly begins dissolving into a deep purple.
“You know, the twilight really is beautiful,” Zelda says unexpectedly, causing Link to look over at her in surprise. She’s staring out across the fields in the distance, profile silhouetted in fading golden light, wisps of hair loose about her face. “I hated it, during the invasion. Trapped in a never-ending gold like a cage. But here, now that there’s really no danger, now that everything’s back to normal…” She hesitates, glancing over at him with ears tinged pink at the tips. “Now that you’re here–”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but he smiles at her regardless, understanding what she left unspoken. He drops one leg casually over the windowsill, swinging it loosely back and forth as he comments, “Rusl– you know him from the resistance, I think– told me that twilight is pervaded by the lingering regrets of spirits who have departed our world, and that’s why dusk always feels so– lonely. Like you’ve lost all that is dear to you, and you alone are left to wander in the shadows.”
“Like all your hopes and dreams have crumbled to ash,” Zelda continues slowly, turning again to look out at the sky, which by now contains only a few faint traces of orange and magenta as indigo melts rapidly across it. “Like something terrible is about to happen, or perhaps has already happened, and there is nothing you could ever do to stop it.”
Link blinks at her, then nods thoughtfully. “Yes. Exactly that. But, I was going to say… somehow, it feels different right now than it used to. Less haunting and more so just… beautiful.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off of her as he speaks, and she seems to sense it, her head twisting to look at him yet again. But he doesn't look away.
“It doesn’t feel so… lonely anymore, does it?” she whispers. A stray breeze floats through the window and sweeps a strand of hair into her eyes.
Automatically Link’s hand reaches out to brush it away, a smile curling one corner of his mouth as his fingertips sweep over her cheek.
“Yes. Exactly that,” he breathes once more.
When she smiles back at him, warm and soft and so unlike all the reports of the cold princess everyone seems to believe, he thinks that for the first time in his life he might be in danger of falling in love.
Weeks go by.
He has fallen for her, head over heels.
He knows it now. It’s not mere attraction or admiration, like he’s thought on occasion now and then- instead he’s absolutely, hopelessly, yearningly in love with her, so much that it hurts to breathe, so much that his fingers ache to interlock with her own. But protocol dictates that they not stand too close together– after all, she is the princess, soon-to-be queen, and he, hero though he may be, was born and bred an Ordonian farm boy. There is no place for him in her world.
And yet, in spite of everything, in spite of what protocol says, she makes a place for him.
First it’s balls and banquets, attending them to ensure no harm befalls her and to take care of anyone with malicious intent. Then it’s walking with her around the castle on a daily basis, helping her with paperwork and fending off pesky noblemen. Then it’s taking long rides through Hyrule Field together, racing their horses through the grass and returning to Castle Town laughing so hard they can barely draw breath. They have the most ridiculous discussions– what’s your favorite plant? (Hers is a moonflower). Would you rather be able to turn invisible or fly? (She would prefer flying). What’s your favorite color? (She loves purple).
The ache in his lungs has all but vanished these past few weeks, as if it were never there to begin with, as if it were merely a figment of his imagination. It is replaced with yearning he never knew was possible, yearning to hold her in his arms and run his fingers through her hair and feel her lips on his own. He wonders if she feels it too, sometimes, the way she looks at him. The way her lips curve into a soft and perfect smile when she sees him. The way her eyes light up like candles when she spots him coming towards her. The way she sometimes brushes his arm with her hand, casual and fleeting as she reaches for a document or quill beside him, yet it never fails to set his heart racing.
Every night as he falls asleep, lying on his back and staring into the darkness, the last thing he pictures is her smile. She pursues him even into his dreams, laughing, seizing his hands, whirling him around, a crown on his head as they announce their marriage to the kingdom. A marriage that dissolves instantly upon waking, but he never forgets the feel of her in his arms, the sound of her laugh and the adoration in her voice as she tells him she loves him.
There is nothing more that he desires than to hear those words from her in real life, not just in a dream that will crumble to nothing when he opens his eyes. Not just in his imagination when he’s standing guard at a banquet. He wishes to hear them from her own mouth, and to return them with genuine devotion.
But it was never meant to last.
Nothing ever is.
He is walking through the castle one day in search of her when he stumbles across two maids, standing just around the corner and unaware of his presence, holding a whispered discussion about the princess and her future husband.
“He’s tall,” one murmurs, eliciting a surprised giggle from her companion. “Tall and beautiful. They say he’s madly in love with her.”
“And– they’re to be married? Truly?”
“Oh, yes.” The first maid pauses. “She’s not really one for showing emotion, you know, but– I’ve seen it. She loves him, too. She’s always walking about the castle with this dreamy look on her face.”
Link’s breath hitches in his throat.
“What’s more,” the maid continues, sounding overly pleased, “it’ll be such a good union for both their kingdoms. Hyrule’s been struggling since the invasion, and– well, I’m fairly sure they’ve been planning this for a good long while now. It’s the perfect thing– both their kingdoms strengthened by the marriage.”
Both…
Both their kingdoms?
Link’s breath shudders in his throat with sudden horror, and he turns and fairly bolts down the hall, stumbling down corridor after corridor until finally he comes across her, giving directions to a maid. “Ze– Your Highness,” he corrects himself quickly upon seeing her, and the maid curtsies and scurries away as Zelda turns to look at him.
“You’re– you’re getting married,” he says, the words bursting out of him before he can reel them back in.
The color drains from her face.
He stares, feeling the blood pound weakly through his veins. “It’s– true, then? You’re marrying someone from another kingdom, to…” He pauses, swallows, clenches his fingers so tightly that sharp indentations dig into his palms. “Why wasn’t I told?”
She avoids his gaze carefully, adjusting the stack of books in her arms. “It wasn’t…necessary. Not yet, at least. I haven’t yet made it public.”
“Not necessary? And here you’ve–” Link cuts himself off, drawing a long breath to steady himself. “I thought–”
“I cannot control what you may or may not have thought,” she returns evenly, though it seems her voice is trembling a little. “Nor can I control this marriage. I have been destined to marry Prince Vaati since I was a very young child. But I– I forgot myself, for a time, and I am sorry . But now, with the invasion– Hyrule is weak. This marriage is the best thing for the kingdom right now.”
“I–” He is about to say something, about to protest that she can’t go through with this, when suddenly his lungs are being squeezed so tightly he cannot breathe. He gasps, stumbling backwards and slamming into the wall as Zelda’s expression shifts to one of concern.
“Are you all right?” she questions, hesitant, taking a step towards him.
No.
No, he is not all right. He–
A horrible, hacking cough explodes from his mouth, bursting from his lungs as stabbing pain sears through his chest. He thinks he tastes the searing metallic flavor of blood as he doubles over, gasping air between his teeth, eyes wide in shock.
“Link,” she says, more urgently, moving even closer as her brow furrows in worry.
“I’m fine,” he manages to rasp, even though he isn’t. “Just– my throat is dry, that’s all.”
She doesn’t look like she believes him, but he can’t exactly change that, and right now he needs space to think over what she has just told him. He doesn’t have time to be concerned over a cough.
Link wipes his mouth with the back of one hand, offers her a rather hasty bow, and fairly flees down the corridor. Her gaze burns into his back as he leaves.
A few days later, at a massive banquet full of nobles, Princess Zelda’s engagement to Prince Vaati of a neighboring kingdom to the east is announced.
Link, positioned at the back of the ballroom, cannot tear his eyes from the princess as she stands, hand in hand, with her betrothed, a sour-looking man with hideous purple hair. He seems oddly triumphant as he poses next to Zelda, like she is some prize or trophy that he has won and not a human being worthy of love and respect.
Link feels suddenly sick to his stomach as he watches.
Though she undoubtedly looks normal to her citizens, he knows her well enough by now to read the look on Zelda’s face– panic. Terror. Regret. She doesn’t want to go through with this. He locks eyes with her from the back of the ballroom, pleading with his expression. Begging her to rethink her decision and refuse to marry a man she does not love.
But she looks away from him after a moment, chin lifting, and tightens her hand in Vaati’s. Perhaps as a grim act of acceptance, perhaps one of defiance– he cannot tell. And there is no time to figure out which one it is.
Because suddenly he is coughing, and he cannot stop. His lungs are burning, aching, full of pain that is both searing and delicate. He tastes the metallic tang of blood at the back of his tongue as he doubles over, hands braced against his knees, choking for air with rasping, explosive coughs, ignoring the disgusted looks that a few nobles standing nearby are giving him.
Something is stuck in his throat, he realizes. Something soft, but it is choking him, squeezing his throat, blocking his airway. He can’t breathe.
Link slips from the ballroom by a side door into an empty hallway where he can cough without drawing attention to himself. There he hacks for breath, tears stinging his eyes, blood coating his tongue as he coughs and coughs and coughs until the thing lodged in his throat flies between his lips and falls limply to the floor.
A white flower, its petals doused in smears of thick crimson.
Link stops coughing after a moment, gasping for breath as he stares down at the plant in disbelief. A flower. He would have remembered accidentally swallowing that, he thinks, wouldn’t he? And anyway– he plucks the limp plant from the floor, staring in disbelief and heedless of the blood that seeps from its petals onto his fingers. Surely this flower is too small to have restricted his air flow like that. Surely–
Link’s fingers freeze, and he sucks in a breath through lungs ragged from coughing as recognition dawns on him.
It’s a moonflower.
Zelda’s favorite plant.
He can still remember their conversation about moonflowers as well as if it happened yesterday– Zelda explaining they were a kind of morning glory that only bloom at night, beneath the cover of darkness or the glowing light of the moon, hence their name. For that reason they are her favorites– she loves that they only bloom during a time when hardly anyone is around to see their beauty.
It’s a bit odd, then, that one was seemingly lodged in Link’s throat, choking him.
Before he can dwell too much on it he has crushed the flower between his fingers and stuffed it out of sight into his pocket. It’s nothing, is what it is. It’s a mere fluke. It doesn’t mean anything.
It can’t.
But, when he enters the ballroom again and sees Zelda standing towards the front with Prince Vaati, forcing a smile that in no way is soft or genuine, there’s a sharp and stabbing pain in his lungs, and for a moment Link swears there’s a taste of mingled blood and perfume on his tongue.
But it will be fine. He will get better.
He has to.
He doesn’t get better.
Only a day or so after the engagement is announced, Link coughs up another flower, and a second, and a third, until at last he loses count and there’s a pile of bloody white petals and withering green vines at his feet. These are bigger than the first, but still moonflowers, and they hurt. They feel less like delicate, beautiful plants and more like knives, digging into his lungs and throat and choking him, strangling the life slowly from his body.
He wipes the blood from his mouth and tosses the flowers out of sight into a dirty alleyway in Castle Town and says nothing to anyone. He’ll be fine. He’s always fine. It doesn’t mean anything.
But it keeps happening again, and again, and again.
Until his throat is raw and torn from coughing. Until his lungs won’t stop hurting, even when he’s not drawing breath. Until even when he’s eating, the taste of blood still coats his tongue and invades his senses, thick and metallic till he’s choking on it.
The Castle Town alleyway quickly fills with a layer of jumbled white petals and green vines, spotted with dried blood and tangled together in a jungle of death and decay. Yet no matter how many flowers Link coughs up, there are always more, filling his throat, burning his lungs. He can practically feel them growing deep in his chest, forcing their way through muscle and bone with agonizing slowness, making his every waking moment a nightmare.
With each flower he coughs up, with every drop of blood that stains his teeth and tongue, it becomes harder and harder to tell himself that he is fine.
Finally out of sheer desperation Link goes to the Castle Town doctor, a vile, crusty hermit of a man who squints at him condescendingly through his glasses as Link describes his symptoms and then sneers that there’s no such condition.
Not even when Link coughs up a flower in front of him and holds it out, dripping blood and withering into decay before both of their eyes, does the doctor believe him. He merely kicks Link out into the street and slams the door in his face, jeering at him to waste his money elsewhere.
It’s sunset as Link weaves his way through the streets to return to the castle, coughing into the collar of his tunic and wiping strings of blood from his lips. Shadows wreathe the imposing fortress when he finally reaches it once more, staggering half-blind into the main hall and sinking to his hands and knees on the floor to catch his breath. He draws air into his lungs like a drowning man, fingers squeezing against the tile until they turn white.
It is there that the princess finds him.
“Link?”
Her voice is raw and concerned in the final clutches of twilight, threading across the hall and brushing his ribs and heart. He starts at the mention of his name and looks slowly up at her, palms pressing into the floor so fiercely his hands go numb.
“Yes, your Highness?” he says hoarsely, looking anywhere but her eyes, praying there isn’t blood on his lips.
“Are– are you all right?” She hurries forward and kneels beside him, heavy brocade skirts brushing his leg as she reaches to lay a hand on his upper back. He flinches at her touch, a burst of pain welling in his lungs as he nods his head.
“I’m fine,” he mutters.
“You don’t sound fine.” She hesitates, unsure. “It’s– been a while since I’ve seen you anywhere besides the back of a ballroom or the far end of a hallway. Are you… avoiding me?”
Link swallows, debating how to respond, and finally twists his head to meet her gaze, taking slow, even breaths to keep the coughing at bay. “I thought you were avoiding me first,” he answers simply. “You didn’t look too pleased to see me at the…engagement party.”
She winces a little, acknowledging. “I was– not myself that day,” she tells him slowly. “I suppose that I was–”
“Let me finish that sentence for you,” he interrupts, shifting to sit comfortably with his right arm balancing against one knee. “You were afraid because you had just become engaged to a man you don’t know or trust. A man who is clearly a brute. A man who won’t respect you whatsoever and who will probably abuse your power.”
She stares at him, eyes wounded because she knows he is right.
He stares back.
Or he tries to, at least, until the coughing seizes him so sharply he can’t avoid it any longer. He flinches, turning away from her, one hand covering his mouth to catch any flowers that may fall out.
“You’re sick,” she states quietly, not to point out the obvious, but just as a form of realization. “And clearly not for a short time either. How long has it been?”
Link shakes his head, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and not meeting her gaze. “Doesn’t matter,” he rasps.
Cool fingers slide beneath his chin, and he blinks as she turns his head to face her. “It does matter,” she returns quietly, smoothing bangs away from his sweaty forehead with her other hand and looking deep into his eyes, as if she is trying to read his very thoughts. “You’re not just some mere stranger I don’t care about, you know.”
His heart leaps in his chest, and for a moment the splintering pain in his chest fades away, the ever-present urge to cough vanishing with it. He leans into her touch, his eyes drinking her in– her pale face tinged with just the faintest hint of pink; her long, curving lashes; her mouth, mere inches away, so close he could just–
“Zelda,” he starts to say, a whisper meant only for her ears as he leans forward, brushing the knuckles of one hand across her cheek. She releases a shaky breath, eyes half-lidded as she waits for him to go on, her forehead pressing against his. “Zelda, I have to tell you–”
Before he can finish the sentence, before those three words can leave his mouth, she presses a finger to his lips, head shaking back and forth as she pulls abruptly away from him. “Don’t,” she whispers, pain crossing her face as his heart shudders, collapses, crumbles to ash. “Don’t. You can’t. I’m– my wedding is in two weeks. It’s for the good of the kingdom, it’s for Hyrule, you have to understand–” She looks at him helplessly, pleadingly. “We can’t–”
“I know we can’t, but what if–” He reaches out, catching her wrist, lacing his fingers through her own. “But what if we did?”
She shakes her head again more firmly, blue eyes welling with tears. “No. No, I’m– I’m sorry, Link, I’m so sorry– but I’m to be coronated soon. I’m to become queen. And I’ve grown up knowing that a ruler, that a queen, must always look to the good of her people before her own desires, before her own wants–”
He starts, open awe on his face.
“Am I one of them?” he says in a hoarse whisper before he can stop himself, tightening his grip on her hand as she tries to withdraw. “Am I one of your desires, Zelda? Am I what you want?”
She goes pale at the question, stammering as she wrenches her hand free of his grasp and gets to her feet in one rapid motion. “I can’t– I can’t answer that. You know I can’t. Please…” Her tone is pleading. “Spare yourself heartache, Link, go far, far away from here. Go back to Ordon, marry a nice girl– forget all about me. Surely… surely you must know that we were never destined to have a happy ending. It’s our fate, to stumble blindly through the dark, never to meet save to fight back evil, then to separate and die all alone. Surely you must know that.”
He swallows and shakes his head, getting to his feet no matter how weak his legs feel. “Maybe I do know that, maybe I’ve always known. Maybe I’ve known almost from the first time that I met you that we were doomed. And maybe–”
His gaze softens, even as her eyes become glassy, even as she steps away from him with her breath shuddering in her throat.
“Maybe I’ve always loved you, in spite of it.”
A single tear spills down her cheek, and her regal, collected countenance shatters like the glass of the mirror they both left behind.
“Don’t,” she whispers again weakly after a moment, hands trembling at her sides. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t tell me that, when I can never love you in return. Don’t give me hope that we could ever have a chance.”
She swallows, shuddering, eyes closing for a brief moment. “People like us, Link– it has never been our fate to be happy.”
Before he can reach for her, before he can pull her into the empty space of his arms and tuck her head against his heart, she has whirled away from him and disappeared down an adjacent hallway in a swish of brocade and silk. Link watches her go with stinging eyes, and once she has vanished from his sight, he sinks to his knees again, a weak cough ripping from his lungs. Perhaps she is right. Perhaps happiness was never meant to interweave with their lives.
He shuts his eyes, breath rasping in his lungs as he falls over onto his side and curls his arms around himself, too weak to move any further. Too weak to fight it off any more.
Blood trickles down his chin as another cough tears from his body. A white petal drifts between his lips.
Another week passes, and Link finally begins to accept that he has little time left.
He is dying.
He knows that now.
He thought, hoped, prayed there would be a chance this mysterious affliction would go away, that his lungs would heal, that the cursed white petals would cease to fall from his mouth. Yet finally he has realized that there is no cure, there is no remedy, save for a love that can never be his, a heart that is not free to choose him. He watches her from afar, lurking in shadows and doorways and staring as she paces through the castle with her maids, her once-light footfalls heavy on the stone, brocade skirts dragging her downwards like chains. Sometimes she meets his gaze in the shadows. Other times he withdraws to cough in a distant hall before she can see him lingering.
I am dying, Zelda, he wants to tell her. I am dying for lack of your love. But he cannot say it. He will not. He will not let her think that she is the one killing him, because she isn’t. It’s his own fault for ever allowing himself the luxury of falling for her, and now he is reaping the penalties. Now it is his time to pay with what little life he has left to give.
He is growing paler, weaker by the day, skin pasty, dark circles etched beneath his eyes from exhaustion. The maids notice and comment on it, whispering amongst themselves, shrinking away from him when he passes them in the halls, but he no longer cares. There is only one thing he can think about now, and even she is overtaken by the taste of blood, the sickening smell of flowers mixed with copper, the sensation of vines twining through his lungs and throat. He drifts about the castle as if in a dream, helpless, yearning, but too afraid to tell her. Too scared to give either one of them hope, or to shatter either of their hearts further.
I’m dying, Zelda, because of how much I love you–
But it would be useless to tell her. It’s just like she said– it has never been their fate to be happy.
He may as well accept it now.
The day of Zelda’s wedding finally dawns, gray and rainy, brooding clouds spitting water upon the castle like the sky itself is weeping. Link wakes in the early hours of the morning to discover his pillow is soaked through with dried blood and covered in crushed flowers, a fresh reminder that even in sleep, he will never find true rest again. Not while the vines twist their way through his lungs.
When he finally manages to summon the energy and motivation to drag himself out of bed, away from the coppery smell that now permanently clings to his sheets and clothes, his reflection in the mirror startles him, hollow-eyed and pale enough to pass for a ghost. There are dried smears of crimson on his lips and chin, and he does his best to scrub it off, but there is little he can do about the deep, dark circles beneath his eyes or the gauntness of his cheeks. He no longer recognizes the face in the mirror these days– he wonders what the villagers back in Ordon would say if they could see him now.
Link splashes some water on his face and dresses slowly and painfully, each action harshly interrupted by violent fits of coughing that only serve to weaken him further. The smell of blood surrounds him like a shroud, choking his senses, dripping down his throat– now the only thing that he ever smells or tastes. The only thing that haunts his dreams.
When his hair looks a bit less like the aftermath of a hay bale exploding, Link slips out of his room and makes his way to the chambers where he knows Zelda must be getting ready. As he expected, there are maids milling around inside, chattering amongst themselves as they help her prepare, so he waits in the shadows outside the door until at last a stream of women pours from the chambers, gossiping and laughing as they leave Zelda behind for a few final moments to herself.
When they are gone and the halls are silent, Link knocks on the wooden door and waits until he hears a faint answer from within, bidding him to enter. The door is a bit heavy for him to manage in his weakened state, but after a moment he pushes it open and slips inside.
His breath– weak and rasping as it’s been these past few weeks– stutters to a halt in his chest when he sees her, her back to him as she perches on a stool before a mirror in which her reflection is visible. Her hair, loosely curled, spills down her back, half-woven into an intricate braid that wraps around her head like a crown, a sparkling tiara tucked carefully atop her head. Her dress is a rich white silk, layered skirts spilling out from a lace bodice with billowing, transparent sleeves cuffed with silk ribbon. Blossoms– a few deep purple violets, some daffodils, a handful of tiny white starflowers– are wound into the braided crown in her hair and throughout the waves that cascade down her back, and her eyelids are painted in gold and lavender shades, a light blush across her cheeks and faint red on her lips.
She’s stunning.
Zelda doesn’t look back at him when he enters, seeming to think he’s her lady-in-waiting come to help her finish. “What do you think about the veil, Hilda?” she murmurs, her tone monotonous, dejected. “Should I wear it over my face, or draped across my hair?”
Link swallows painfully, chest burning. “I don’t know,” he whispers, and she starts at his voice, whipping around to look at him with wide eyes as he continues speaking, a broken man. “All I know–” He pauses, eyes moving over her face, sheer awe radiating from his gaze. “–is you’re beautiful.”
Her lips part slightly, and he thinks her eyes are glistening.
“You’re here,” she says after a long beat, quietly, like she wasn’t expecting to see him ever again.
He nods, only half-aware of the action as he stumbles back a step and slams hard against the door, which falls shut behind him with a resounding thud.
“I’m here.”
He sees her swallow, her lips parting slightly as she debates what to say. A sad half-smile curves her mouth after a moment as she looks at him. “So…you think I look presentable, then?”
“You–” He can scarcely bring himself to say the words, because he is not the one she will be meeting at the altar. “You’re breathtaking.”
Her eyes go wide, cheeks flooding with color. “Thank you, Link,” she tells him softly, mournfully. A moment later she gets up from her stool and moves towards him with her skirts sweeping behind her on the floor. “You know, it’s almost time for me to go out,” she murmurs, halting a pace or two away from him, her eyes moving slowly across his face.
He waits.
Zelda sighs, gaze flicking to the floor as her fingers curl into fists at her sides, and then she looks up at him again, deep blue eyes full of the same grief they carried the first time he saw her.
“Tell me to stay,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Tell me to be selfish for once in my life.”
His heart stops beating for a moment, then begins pounding at ten times its normal speed because suddenly he has hope.
“Stay. Please,” he chokes, stepping forward, closing the gap between them. “Forget about the kingdom. Forget about– all of it. We can rebuild without funds, we can survive. Hyrule can still flourish without you having to marry someone you will never love.”
She wilts before him, a flower that was never given a chance to bloom, that was forced to shoulder staggering burdens at too young an age. “But what if it doesn’t?” she whispers. “What if it crumbles away to nothing, all because I chose myself over my kingdom?”
“You don’t know that. You can’t know that it will. Please stay,” Link implores again, yearning, broken, voice cracking with grief. “Stay with me. Please. You know you want to.”
A laugh devoid of mirth escapes her, harsh like the winter she is so often compared to. “What I want,” she tells him, scarcely audible as one of her hands reaches out to brush over his jaw, “will never be mine to have.”
“And how would you know?” he whispers, one of his own hands lifting to fit over her own. “What would possibly make you think that I don’t want you?”
She seems taken aback by this, unable to reply for a moment as her eyes shimmer with tears. At last she says falteringly, “I’ve told you before– my fate was decided for me at a young age. I’ve been betrothed since I was a small child, forbidden to love. Forbidden to be happy.” She swallows, then continues in a whisper so faint he can scarcely hear. “No matter how much I want you, you can never really be mine.”
Her hand starts to slide from his face, but he tightens his grasp on it, shaking his head. “No. No, Zelda– please, listen to me–”
“It’s for Hyrule,” she interrupts him, imploringly, as if she’s trying to convince herself as well as him. “This marriage is something we desperately need right now. When I was young– I swore to always do what is best for Hyrule.”
“No matter your own desires.”
She shakes her head mutely. “No matter my own desires. It would be betraying that promise to do anything else. You must understand.”
His teeth sink into his lower lip, salt stinging his eyes because no matter what she says he will never understand.
“Link, please don’t be angry with me,” she whispers. “Please. I– I couldn’t bear it.”
Pain blooms in his lungs as he finally releases her hand, his gaze tender. “I could never be angry with you.”
A weak smile crosses her face.
“I– I should be going now. The wedding will start any minute,” she says brokenly, starting to step past him, and suddenly it sinks in fully that this is the last time he will ever be able to see her like this. He reaches out to her, desperate, as she sweeps past him in a haze of perfume.
“Zelda, wait,” he says hoarsely, lungs splintering apart with pain.
“Link, I—”
“Please, Zelda, tell me you love me,” he pleads, his fingers catching in the billowing fabric of her sleeve and halting her in her tracks. “Tell me you love me. Please. It’s all I ask. Just once, just today. Before you go. Please. Say you love me. Please–”
He’s begging, but he doesn’t care. The flowers are choking him. There’s blood in his throat, on his tongue. Forcing the air from his lungs, squeezing the life from his skin. He is drowning, sinking below the waves, plunging into the darkness as tears stream down her face in a flood because no matter what he says she will put the kingdom before herself.
His fingers slide weakly away from her sleeve, leaving an unsightly wrinkle in their wake, and he steps backwards, away from her, away from a princess he was never fated to touch.
“I’m sorry, Link,” she whispers, broken, fragile, longing for him as much as he longs for her but refusing to let herself give in as she turns away from him.
His fingers twitch at his sides as she steps towards the door, out of his reach, but then his brow furrows in desperation because this is not how they will end. They will say their farewell burning, or they will not say it at all.
In an instant he has crossed the distance between them and snagged her sleeve once more, whipping her around to face him. Before she can object he is leaning towards her, his hands carefully cupping her face as he kisses her with tears leaking from closed eyes.
She goes perfectly still against him, her pulse hammering rapidly below his fingertips, and then slowly, unexpectedly she returns the kiss, so gently that for the briefest moment the blood, the flowers, the vines in his lungs disappear and there is nothing, nothing but her. He feels himself smile in spite of everything, her perfume filling his senses, her hair sweeping his arms, neither of them aware of anything but each other.
It’s like falling. It’s like flying. It’s like being given a miracle and having it torn from his grasp in the same breath. It’s like closing his eyes and letting himself plunge into the dark, because the light has just vanished forever.
She is the first to pull away.
He stares up at her with eyes that shimmer with tears, the back of his head thumping against the door behind him, the vines curling through his lungs once more because in front of him is a woman he was never meant to touch, and now is the time for their farewell.
Link’s thumbs brush gently across her cheekbones for a final moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of her before him while he still is able. He feels her exhale, her lashes sweeping across her cheeks for a moment as she lingers, unwilling to withdraw, unable to stay.
“Goodbye, my love,” he whispers after a long moment, after the silence has become too thick, and presses his forehead gently to hers. “Go marry your prince. I hope it makes you happy.”
Tears flood her eyes, because they both know it is a lie. They both know there is no happiness destined for her future, but perhaps denying it in these last few moments will help, if only for a little while.
Her arms slide around him, pulling him in close, and he hugs her tightly in return, eyes squeezed fiercely shut as he breathes her in for the last time. He feels her press a lingering kiss to his hair, her hands brushing over his back and up to his shoulders before reluctantly they pull apart.
She smooths her hair and wipes smudged makeup from her skin as he helps her adjust her veil across the back of her hair. “You have a greater chance at happiness than I do, Link,” she says quietly once she is ready and it is finally time for her to leave. “Go find it. For me.”
He intends to do no such thing, because the only thing he desires in life would be to stand by her side forever. But even that has been denied to him.
She gives him a final, broken smile and is about to turn away when he snags her hand. “Zelda?”
She glances back at him, eyes red. “Yes, hero?” she whispers.
Link presses a kiss so reverent against her knuckles that her hand trembles in his own.
“I love you.”
Her other hand presses over her mouth as tears well in her eyes, and then she is gone in a swirl of lace and silk, leaving him alone in the chamber. Alone to think of what he has lost.
What was never truly his to begin with.
He makes his way to the wedding almost without feeling, hovering at the back of the crowd. It would have been custom for he, the captain of the guard, to perform some sort of ceremonial act during the ceremony, but Zelda had seemed to understand when he all but begged her to be excused from doing so earlier that month. So instead he lingers with the rest of the wedding-goers, people who are chattering with excitement as the world falls to pieces around him.
The wedding finally begins, and Zelda appears, radiant and stunning in yards of lace and silk, a bouquet of purple and gold flowers held in her hands. Only Link can understand the subtle sadness in her expression as she makes her way slowly up the seemingly endless aisle to where her future husband waits at the altar.
He watches her take the hands of her betrothed, bitter regret rising in his throat, and cannot help but think that he has always imagined it would be him standing up there with Zelda, gazing into her eyes and saying their vows. Pledging their undying love as they start a new life together, till death do them part.
Strange how things turn out.
Pressure builds in his lungs as the wedding progresses, shifting rapidly into pain so sharp he can scarcely draw breath. Towards the end of the ceremony, as it is declared that the groom may kiss his bride, Link slips away, arms clenched around his sides as he flees from the joyful crowd behind him and into the twisting streets of the town. He finds an empty alley somewhere amongst them and stumbles into it, coughing and gasping for air, vision blurring as he falls to his knees in agony.
Vines curl from between his lips. Petals burst from his throat. Blood fills his mouth.
And Link, hero of twilight, the farm boy who defeated both Zant and Ganondorf, coughs until he is soaked in his own blood, until heaps of gory flowers surround him in a shroud of white and red, until a veil at last drops over his vision and mercy leads him away into the dark.
The wedding finally ends and gives way to a succeeding banquet, where Zelda and her new husband have just finished a toast to their guests when a Castle Town soldier rushes in, apologetic and stumbling over his words. “I’m sorry to intrude, your Highness,” he says falteringly, bowing again and again before her, “but there’s something you’d better see.”
Zelda doesn’t understand the strange fright that leaps into her throat at his words, but she follows the soldier out of the castle and into the empty streets of the town, listening as he tries to explain that he was on patrol during the wedding and that he found something in an alley. He’s about to continue when suddenly they round a corner and he cuts himself off and points straight ahead, towards the darkened opening of an alleyway just a few feet in front of them.
Zelda paces forward a few steps to see what he is gesturing to and freezes.
Link.
She should have known it would be Link.
He lies curled on his side towards the back of the alley, eyes closed and one arm outstretched and blood drying on his chin, surrounded by a strange, irregular pattern of red and green and white. It takes Zelda a moment to realize what it is.
Moonflowers. Dozens upon dozens of moonflowers, green vines trailing in their wake, their snowy white petals doused in blood.
She forces the shock away and rushes forward, falling to her knees beside him and heedless of the blood that stains the pristine skirts of her wedding dress. Link’s torso is limp and heavy as she slides her hands beneath his arms and lifts him into her lap, his head falling back against her shoulder and sandy-gold hair hanging across his bloodless face. White petals cling to his lips, and his skin is ice-cold beneath her hands, a sure sign that he is too far gone for any help.
Nonetheless she cups his cold face in her hands, tears spilling down her cheeks as senselessly she tries to get him to breathe. “Wake up,” she cries, smoothing hair back from his forehead, wiping blood from around his mouth with one sleeve.
But he does not move, does not open his eyes. He is still and heavy and silent in her arms, lips parted and stained with smears of red, lashes dark against freckled cheeks, tunic covered in splatters of deep crimson.
“Wake up,” she pleads again, louder, cradling him in her arms and tracing her thumb over his bloodied lips, but he does not move. His mouth is cold and still against her own.
Zelda squeezes her eyes shut tight and pulls his head to rest against her chest, tears leaking into his straw-colored hair as she rocks back and forth, a bride whose wedding dress is now stained in blood.
“I love you,” she murmurs, to a corpse who waited too long to hear those words, who now lies bloodstained and lifeless in her arms with petals dried against his lips. She should have said it sooner, she should have told him a thousand times. “I love you, I love you, I love you…” Please wake up, please look at me, please– I love you, I love you, don’t you know I love you, don’t you know I’ve loved you since almost the moment we met, don’t you know I’ve fought it off for so long and now it’s too late and you’re dead and it’s all because of me–
Grief overtakes her fully, and suddenly she is sobbing, shrieking into his hair like a lunatic, holding him tightly against her as if at any moment he will open his eyes and breathe. But he never will again, he never will, and all will fall to ruin, and his body will be buried beneath the earth, and she will never hear his voice again or see the adoration in his eyes for as long as she will live.
She should have said something. She should have said something.
But now it’s too late, it’s too late, you’re dead, I’m too late– I should have known we were doomed from the moment I saw you– I told you we were fated never to be happy— I told you we were fated to die alone–
Overhead the sky turns flaming gold and purple as the sun sinks behind the horizon, as twilight spreads its cloak across the kingdom. But still its future queen remains where she is, sobbing and screaming, rocking the hero’s cold body back and forth in an alley filled with bloody and decaying flowers that she now will despise until her dying day.
But it’s strange, really, because–
There’s an ache in her lungs that she can’t quite explain.