#completely wrong

People who said war and glory went hand in hand had clearly never been to war.

Yes, there had been a garish parade in his honor, and gifts of polished new armaments emblazoned with the royal crest and a beautiful charger from the castle stables, not to mention the rare and incomparable honor of being presented to the Hylian princess to vie for her hand. But that sort of pageantry was hardly the rule. He had been one of the lucky ones, and he would have gladly given up his prizes if it meant undoing the ills done to the good men who hadn’t come home.

This honor, he thought, especially. Love was the furthest thing from his mind.

The doors across the ballroom swung open and the princess glided through, a vision in blues and reds and golds that matched his uniform, spangled in jewels strung from her ears and filigree woven into her hair. The room rose to greet her, and he managed to rein himself enough that he didn’t jump to his feet. She crossed the floor, the embodiment of grace and confidence and good breeding, smiling graciously when she offered him her hand. He slipped gloved fingers beneath her own, bowing low to just brush his lips against the silk above her knuckles.

He said, quietly enough that it was just between them, gently enough that he hoped she might mistake his uncertainty for chivalry, “Your Highness.”

She said, loudly enough that everyone could hear in the pin-drop silence, “Welcome home, Captain.”

A murmur hummed around them as guests exchanged glances and remarks, as they took their seats again and feigned disinterest, as they returned to their food and wine, still watching from the corners of their eyes. She wasn’t the least bit disturbed, undoubtedly accustomed to the unwanted attention, and joined him at the far side of their table—their private table, deliberately situated on a podium at the back of the room where they would be a constant spectacle. He licked dry lips, wondering if he shouldn’t push her chair in for her, but a footman was there to attend that duty before he could embarrass himself trying. They sat down—she was elegant, he was stiff—and when the footmen retreated and the ballroom gave way to conversation again, he cleared his throat, daring to meet emerald eyes, and tried to be knightly.

“I realize this might be uncomfortable—”

“Not at all,” she said, her smile brilliant and genuine. It left him feeling distinctly outgunned. “We’re completely wrong for each other, so there’s no need to make things awkward by pretending there’s even the slightest chance something will come of this.”

He blinked, lips parting to form words that were not forthcoming. He managed in their absence, “Oh.”

Footmen filled their wineglasses and set out the first course, and the princess turned her attention easily to her bisque. He tried to follow, but hesitated at the silverware. He had never seen so many forks in his life.

“You start from the outside,” she said gently, kindly. “The soup spoon, and then the fish knife and fork, then the dinner set. They’ll bring new silverware with dessert. That’s your bread plate and butter knife.”

He loosed a breath, laughing at his own incompetence. On the battlefield, they said he was a force of nature. At the banquet table, he was a fish out of water. She was polite enough not to point out that there was only one spoon, and that he would be hard pressed to eat his soup with anything else.

“Thank you,” he said, and she smiled at him again. He didn’t care for how quickly he was getting used to that.

“Where are you from, Captain?”

He tasted the soup; it was rich, thick with cream amidst sage and pumpkins, and it made his mouth tug towards a frown. It tasted like home. “Call me Link.”

She pursed her lips around her mouthful, humming. “I’d prefer to call you captain.”

“And I’d prefer you called me Link.”

Their eyes locked softly. He doubted very much she was used to being challenged, though her expression read more intrigued than displeased. He brought more soup to his mouth without losing her eyes. If she had no qualms being honest with him about his prospects, he would have none about his newfound contempt for his rank.

“Hateno,” he told her, when neither of them seemed interested in backing down.

“I hear it’s lovely there this time of year.”

It was deep summer. Hateno was full of mosquitos and so humid it was impossible to fall asleep at night, and the pastures stank of manure ripening in the heat, and wooden handles and leather straps chafed unforgivingly against sweaty palms until they were full of blisters. It really came as no surprise that she had never been, and that, if indeed she had heard that, she’d heard it from an equally ignorant source. Gods, but he missed home.

“It is if you know the best swimming holes, and don’t mind the smell of cows.”

“Is it very much like the smell of horses?”

He restrained a laugh, grinning over his spoon. “No. Not at all.”

“That’s too bad,” she sighed. “I love the smell of horses.”

And yeah they’d bond over their distaste of this whole humiliating endeavor to put them together but the fact that she shut him down right away means that the pressure’s off, and, well. Despite leading totally different lives they have similar temperaments and are sort of perfect for each other actually. 🤷🏻‍♀️