#elective mutism

“I still don’t know what to call you,” she mused, a small smile turning her lips as he imitated her, eyes widening as he brought a corner of bacon to his mouth and then closing with unfiltered ecstasy as he devoured it. “Careful. That’s rich.”

He wasn’t listening. But there were only two strips on his plate, and when they were gone she didn’t have the heart to keep from offering him another piece from her own.

She murmured, handing him a roll to counteract the grease, “Do you have a name?”

He plucked the roll with his right hand and then pressed his fingertips to hers with his left, watching the light percolate out of the lines etched over his wrist; he took a thoughtful bite of bread and nodded.

“Won’t you tell me what it is?”

But she had lost him, fixated on the light pulsing between them and the soft, warm bread in his spare hand, and she sighed, gently brushing his bangs out of his face.

“You must have questions,” she whispered. “I wish you would ask me.”

After the bacon and the roll had gone he abandoned the idea of eating, leaving fruits and eggs and all sorts of things she had to remind herself he would have opportunity to try again another time, and linking his fingers in hers he tugged her towards the bay window.

“That’s Castle Town,” she told him, sitting on the bench cushion. “It’s mostly homes and little shops, but there’s also tactile industry here and plenty of ironworking, and there’s the cathedral…”

A curious glance from him told her he had no idea what she was talking about, and she gave him an apologetic smile.

“I can take you. But there are a lot of people in town. You don’t seem to care for strangers.” He pressed fingers to the glass, eyes scanning the rooftops, and she sighed. “How can I convince you you’re safe here?”

They spent the morning at that window, and the afternoon venturing down castle corridors and exploring libraries and parlors and the notion of knocking before entering. They attempted a small, private dinner with her father and Impa, but he fisted his hands in his lap and wouldn’t touch his food, and after two courses Zelda decided to put him out of his misery and take him back to his room.

The next day was a little better. She got to sleep in her own bed—there were some things she insisted they do separately, communicated through a lot of awkward gestures, and once he understood that they would reunite soon afterwards his separation anxiety eased somewhat—and when the staff came to bring their breakfast and stir the fire the next morning he didn’t jump out of his skin. Impa tagged along while they explored the courtyards later, which he didn’t seem to mind, and when she asked him again if he would tell her his name, there was a glimmer in his eye when he shook his head.

The morning after that she had the brilliant idea to introduce him to the best thing in the world.

“Are you going to tell me your name today?” she greeted him as she snapped the door shut behind her with her heel, her hands full with two plates. He gave her a look she could only describe as wry as he moved from the window to meet her at the mattress, and she slid one of the plates across the comforter. “This is fruitcake.”

He studied it dubiously, his nose scrunching when he decided it definitely wasn’t bacon.

“Don’t make a face until you’ve tried it,” she scolded him, reaching for her slice. It was sticky on her fingers; she regretted not choosing this morning to reintroduce forks.

She took a bite and let herself indulge in the heavenliness of it, and he quickly followed, encouraged by her reaction. She smiled when he took a more enthusiastic second taste, smearing cream and fruit everywhere.

“You have frosting,” she laughed between bites, gesturing at the corner of her mouth and demonstrating, “just there. Lick it off.”

He tried it, eyes dancing a bit when he discovered the lingering sweetness, and she shook her head at him and turned her attention back to her food.

And then he leaned forward without warning and gently cleaned cream and sugar from the corner of her lips with the warm tip of his tongue, and then he went back to his cake, oblivious to her shock.

“You,” she finally breathed, her slice hovering awkwardly in the air as she dithered, “need to work on your manners before we go into town.”

She stuffed the rest of her cake in her mouth, trying to disguise the flush in her cheeks, while he tasted the remnants of his devoured dessert on his fingertips.

Then his face turned reticent, eyes flickering uncertainly towards the door, and he pressed his nose right up against her ear and whispered, “Link.”

That night they gave him another much less eventful bath, and a fresh change of clothes, and the next day, despite her earlier threats about his lack of etiquette, she asked if he wanted to go in to town. There were some rules he wasn’t very happy about—it wasn’t appropriate for the princess to be seen waltzing about town holding a young man’s hand, especially if those hands were prone to glowing when joined, and they would be escorted by a few guards—but after considering the terms he nodded.

Town through his eyes was a wonder. Every flower shop, every belled goat and bakery and feathered millinery, were new and strange and worth stopping to examine in exhaustive detail. He turned a few heads himself; he was a scrawny thing, still quite malnourished, and despite his fine clothes it must have seemed odd that he was keeping company with the princess—nevermind that he was much too fascinated with the simplest things. Still, the guards were enough of a deterrent that the crowds kept a respectful distance, and Link was thoroughly distracted with everything to mind the attention much.

Then he stopped at a boutique, his expression falling, and Zelda followed his line of sight to a rainbow sparrow in a wooden birdcage.

She touched his shoulder gently when she sensed him fixating, and he shuddered and whispered, “Why?”

Her attempts to explain that their beautiful song and plumage lent them value did nothing to allay his displeasure, and in the end, when she couldn’t get him to leave the stall, she bought it for him. He opened the door and watched the sparrow fly out of sight, and then left the cage on the roadside and wandered back towards the castle gate.

His brow was furrowed in thought as he walked, and she drifted closer, anticipating, hoping, that he might try to put those thoughts into words.

Finally, he curled his fingers into his chest, pointing there a few times, before he asked again, “Why?”

She sighed. This wasn’t exactly the place she wanted to have this conversation. But he was initiating, and she could hardly turn him down.

“You have a destiny,” she answered quietly. “You’re meant to overthrow them and their Master. They feared what you would become, and so…”

She met his eyes, wondering if anything she was saying could possibly mean something to him, but they were rapt.

“The mark on your hand means you’re chosen by the gods. We still don’t know how they found you so young, but…” She held her arms, suddenly cold. “I’m so sorry. We should have protected you.”

He went silent again, thinking for a long time, and she wondered if that was the end of it. Then he said, “You have a destiny, too.”

She smiled at him sadly. “Yes. I’ve been searching for you for as long as I can remember. We’re meant to do this together.”

He didn’t return her smile, his lips tugging down and his eyes wandering the cobblestones as he digested that revelation.

Then he spotted a young man surprising his sweetheart with a modest bouquet, and his face morphed curious again, tilting his head as he watched him indulge in his lady’s kisses.

He decided in her ear, baffled, “There’s no frosting on her mouth.”

Zelda stifled a laugh.

Overall, she counted the experience as two steps forward, one step back.

---