Starache

 The devil makes work for idle hands. Or at least that’s what her castle tutors always told her. So Zelda cleans, and cooks, and then cleans again. She rearranges the five books stacked on the desk in the loft nearly a dozen times, dusts every square inch of the house, and makes enough fruitcake to give a horse a toothache.

And still, she is idle. Her hands, constantly blazing and vibrating with energy, tremor at every movement. Hylia’s gifts flow through her, begging for release, and so she scrubs harder at the floor with a crease in her brow and a scowl on her lips, and ignores Link’s pitiful stares.  She crawls into bed every night, limbs sore and aching from nonstop use, and lies awake in the dark listening to the sound of Links battered breathing.

 When he wakes each day Zelda helps him dress, a shoulder under his arm and a hand across his chest to support him as he clumsily forces on his trousers. His leg is no longer broken, but it is weak in a way that aggravates him to no end. He curses when his weight leans too heavily to one side and his leg begins to buckle, or when Zelda rushes to his aid to help him up or down the stairs. He thanks her, begrudgingly, for her assistance each time - and Zelda bears her guilt silently.

 The split in his head, having been stitched and bandaged to the best of her ability, is nearly healed completely. The scar is ragged and deep, stretching from his hairline to his brow bone. It’s still an angry dark pink, the contrast stark against his slightly tanned skin. He bears it no mind - what’s one more amongst and array of many? But Zelda memorizes the shape and feeling of it with her fingertips while he sleeps just as she does the starburst scar against his chest. Another failure notched under her belt, she thinks bitterly.

 The first time she had almost lost him, The Goddess’ power had saved him. And now - .

 She sits across from him at the table, watching silently as he devours a breakfast she knows is not nearly as delicious as he keeps saying it is, and smiles half heartedly when he meets her eye. Her own plate is untouched, just as the day before that, and the day before that. He eyes her plate with barely disguised worry, and she picks up her fork and twirls her eggs around to placate him. When she shoves a small bite into her mouth it turns to sand on her tongue, and she fights back the urge to gag. Link watches her, and she forces herself to swallow.

The sunlit grass sways and glimmers in the dimming evening light, grazing and tickling at the bare skin of her neck as she blinks up at the orange and pink streaked sky.

Gentle fingers comb through her hair, pressing enticingly against her scalp as they retreat and return over and over. She hums happily, tilting her head towards the feeling and shutting her eyes.

A low chuckle drifts from above her, light and airy and full of love. She opens her eyes, meeting blue richer than any ocean.

“Are you laughing at me, Sir?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Majesty.”

“Good.” She smirks, snuggling deeper into the warmth of his lap as her eyes slip closed. “I would have to exile you for that.”

“We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

“No.” She agrees, hearing the smile in his voice. “I quiet enjoy your company.”

He hums deep in his chest, fingertips pressing against her temple.

“And I, yours. But you will eventually have to wake, love.”

She bats an eye open at him, huffing.

“Oh, wake from what? I’m perfectly content to stay here forever you know.”

“Zelda...” He murmurs, and she lifts herself from his lap and onto her knees to look him in the face. His eyes are glazed and sad, his lips downturned.

His lips, soft and warm and plaint and so easy to be kissed. So she does.

They are no less perfect than the first time he had pressed them to her own. She sighs, a delicate hand tracing the hard line of his jaw. When she pulls away, the harsh line of his frown has disappeared - but there is a crease in his brow.

The evening sun bathes him in golden light, a heavenly glow radiating from around his body. Hylia’s chosen.

She smoothes the line with her finger, following the path down the bridge of his nose and across his kiss stained lips. When she is done, the crease has disappeared - but his eyes are still heavy with sadness.

“You have to wake up.” He whispers, a calloused hand lifting to grasp her own where it curls around his cheek.

Her smile is radiant and she shakes her head.“Link, I-“

His fingers are ice cold where they touch her lips, and she nearly startles.

“Don’t do this to yourself Zelda...please. It’s time to wake up.”

She leans away from his touch and looks around her. Hears the birds chirping and feels the soft breeze of the autumn wind. She looks to the tree they’re under, across the creek only a mile from her summer cottage, tucked away in privacy. It was here that they had spent most of their time as newlyweds, simply reveling in the luxury of being alone. They would pack a small lunch from the house, take the short hike into the woods and set up a picnic underneath her favorite tree. She can recall the taste of sweet snow berries and the slight tang of his skin as they fed each other beneath the sinking sun.

Their simple acts of adoration would divulge into the holy worship of one another’s bodies, the barely there brush of fingertips and the gentle breathes of pleasure filling the air.

They would bathe in the creek afterwards, blessing themselves in Hylia’s waters, and walk back to the house hand in hand to repeat the same routine the next morn.

She smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There is no mirth in his tone when he answers her, eyes hard.

“Yes. You do.”

It shakes her from her reverie, hearing such darkness in his tone. He had never spoken to her like that in this place, under this sacred tree.

She reaches for his hands, still cold to the touch.

“Link, you’re scaring me.”

He searches her face, pity gleaming in his eyes.

“I’m gone, Zel.”

His words are soft, but she can feel the agonizing crush in her chest as if he had screamed them in her face. She scrunches her nose, defiant till her last breath.

“You’re not. You’re sitting here in front of me.”

His gaze melts even further, and he grips at her wrists.

“I’m not real, love. You know that. You have to wake up now.”

“Stop saying that!” She bellows, shoulders trembling. He is unfazed, simply smiling at her sadly and shaking his head. She feels panic grip her around the throat, and when she blinks the world tilts and splits.

Understanding tightens it’s noose around her, and she can feel her consciousness bleeding into her mind as she struggles against it.

She throws herself towards him, burying her face in his chest and wrapping her arms around his waist as tightly as she can.

“No. Please, please don’t go. I can’t do this. Not without you.”

He kisses the top of her head, sweet and chaste.

“You can. And you will.”

Her tears are hot and treacherous where they flow down her cheeks, burning a trail down her throat and into the dip of her chest. He lifts her head with a hand under her chin, brushing tears from her face with the pad of his thumb.

“I miss you...” she sobs, and he nods in understanding. He presses his lips to her forehead, and when she opens her eyes he is gone.

The grass beneath her knees scratches at her skin, and she takes in a shuddering breath.

“Link...? Link!”

“LINK!” She screams into the empty dark of her bedchamber. There is sweat staining the silk of her sheets and seeping through the fabric of her nightgown.

She reaches a panicked hand towards the side of the bed, her palm smacking against cold fabric and a pristine pillowcase. Unused.

She chokes on a sob, clutching her hand over her mouth until her fingernails dig crescent marks against her cheeks. When she is finally able to breathe again, she wails. The unused pillow is thrown to the floor, her sheets are ripped from her bed, her hair torn from its braid.

She rampages in her agony, her chambers destructed. She would be concerned at the lack of response shown by her guards, but she knows the nightly terrors have trained them to be less hasty in their involvement and more capable of distinguishing when she is truly in trouble.

There is nothing they can do for her now. No evil to slay our enemy to fight, nor an intruder to disarm. They know better than to disturb her when she is lost in her grief.

She crawls back into her bed in the early hours of the dawn, simply laying with her eyes closed as her heart threatens to beat out of her chest. It is only a few short hours later when her maid comes knocking.

She bids her good morning, and brings her a breakfast that she promptly retches up.

Two more maids come in to help her dress as her housekeeper cleans up the evidence of the nights destruction.

Her hair is brushed and twisted and pinned in place, pink rogue tapped onto her cheeks and oils rubbed underneath her eyes to disguise the sleepless nights.

She stares at her face in the mirror of her vanity as her maids bustle around her.

She blinks.

“Must you go?”  She pouts, tracing lazy circles across the smooth metal of his badges. She always liked the way he looked in his uniform, but today it’s image stings bitter.

He chuckles, stilling her fingers and placing a kiss along her knuckles.

“I must. I may be King now but I’m also still your top General.” He winks at her, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Yes, but can’t you send someone else in your stead? No King of Hyrule has ever laid foot on the battlefield.”

“Then I will be the first.” He grins, although a bit sadly, and rubs his hands across her arms. “They are my soldiers, Zelda. I can’t let them march into battle alone, not when I was once the same as them.”

She nods, because she knows he is right of course. Her heart thumps painfully regardless. She kisses him hard, teeth clacking together at the force.

He is breathless when she releases him, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Promise you will come back to me.”

“I promise.”

There is suddenly not enough air in the room, and she coughs and splutters against the memory beating through her skull. He had promised. He had promised and still- .

She is shepherded out of her room and down the long corridor that leads to the throne room, maids trailing behind her as they lift the long skirt of her pitch black dress. Someone lends her their hand as she walks up the few steps up to her chair, bracing her forearms against the cool metal. She spends the next hour and a half receiving gifts and listening to the woes of mourning from her subjects. Each one turns her stomach more and more. By noon the doors have been locked, and she is once again lead to her next engagement. And the next, and the next, until the day is almost over - and she must do what she has loathed most.

When her maids help her to the front foyer, Impa is there waiting for her.

“Majesty.” She murmurs, head tilted in a bow.

“Thank you for coming, Impa.”

“Of course. How are you faring, if I may ask?”

She hesitates to answer, and Impa clucks her tongue. She places a warm hand on her back, leading her forward.

“We will just try to get through this day, ma’am. And if you need me, I will be here.”

The carriage ride to the temple is short, too short. Her pulse races and she grips tightly at Impa’s wrist with gloved hands as the driver dismounts from his seat and opens the door to escort them inside. She freezes, her limbs unable to unlock, and squeezes Impa’s arm so hard she flinches.

With soothing words and guiding hands Impa is able to coax her from the carriage, up the steps of the temple and onto the alter. Flowers litter every square inch of her vision, vibrant colors of every kind, and the smell almost overwhelms her.

“One last thing your Majesty...” Impa coos, her voice hushed. She holds a bundle of black mesh in her hands, gently lifting it up and over Zelda’s head when she bends forward. She drapes it evenly over her hair and face, tucking it snugly underneath her thin crown. There are tears in her advisors eyes when she stands up straight.

“He loved you dearly, Zelda. And he will live on...”

Zelda smiles against the bile rising in her throat, tears stinging at the corners of her vision. She mustn’t cry here, amongst her colleagues and council members. She must stand tall, remain the pillar of hope she has always been, and swallow her despair in silence. She smoothes her features, nodding to Impa to lead the way.

They open the doors to the temple, her royal advisors and the monarchs of other races trickling in little by little as they take their places around the altar. Time passes in a blur as each one bows in respect to her, kisses a hand, and takes a seat. Before she knows it, the high priestess is lifting her arms in direction, and the choir behind her begins to sing as the doors open once again and everyone gets to their feet.

His body is brought in like a warrior, rather than a King. Zelda thought he would have preferred it that way - but now she is selfishly regretting the decision. He is laid not in a coffin, but on an ornate slab encrusted with jewels of every shape and size. He is carried to the pedestal in front of her, his fellow soldiers treating him with gentle care and reverence. Jarrin, the Captain of the Royal Guard and Link’s friend since childhood, is among them. He bends at the knee, and offers her his condolences. He does not stand until she touches a hand to his shoulder, and he moves to take his place behind her right side.

Her eyes have not left Link’s face since he was brought before her. And if there is thanks to give for anything, it is for the dark veil hanging over her eyes.

He sleeps eternally in his Royal uniform, stark white gloves and boots contrasting against the deep blue and burgundy of his tunic. Gold weaves in and out of the stitching, and her eyes follow it to the matching hue of his hair and the glittering crown around his head.

His hands, folded towards his chest, rest lightly across the pommel of the Master Sword. She had protested at first, surely she should be allowed to keep something from his life - but Jarrin had talked her out of her mania.

“We shall replace it before his burial.” He had promised. “It’s purely ceremonial.”

He is pale, paler than he should ever be, in death. But his face is passive, smoothed of any worry. Her eyes commit every feature to memory, tracing over every inch. He has been cleaned up well, his largest wounds covered by bandages and hidden by clothes - but his face they could not hide.

All that is left is a minuscule scratch at the base of his chin and the edge of his brow.

She half expects him to blink.

He does not.

The choir continues as more rights are completed, but Zelda pays not a single attention to them - that is until Jarrin slips the Master Sword from his friends limp hands, folding his cold fingers around a broadsword instead, and presents her the holy weapon wrapped in cloth.

Numbly, she takes it. It’s weight heavier than she remembers. She holds it tightly across her chest as she watches the high priestess read her final blessing, and Impa steps up to the pedestal to mark his forehead with the symbol of the Sheikah.

“In honor.” Zelda hears her whisper.

“For your country...” a line.

“For your Queen...” a rounded edge.

“For your heir...” a dot.