#zelvali

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Zelda lowered her bow and massaged her shoulder. “You and Link always make this look so easy,” she said with an apologetic smile.

Revali clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I never said archery was easy. Did you expect it to be?”

“Would you think less of me if I answered honestly?”

“Try me.”

“I rather think I will.” Zelda transferred the bow to her dominant hand and stretched her wrist. “Did you know that I wasn’t allowed to visit the castle library when I was younger?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous but true. I snuck in anyway, of course. I wanted to know more about the legends of the Zeldas who came before me. And did you know? They were all phenomenal archers, supposedly.”

“So you thought you’d simply have an inborn talent to do something that other people spend decades attempting to master.”

“That’s what I wanted to think, yes. Wouldn’t it be lovely if that were the way life worked.” Zelda flexed her arms and rolled her shoulders. “I believe I’ve recovered my strength. Shall we continue?”

Revali didn’t see much of a point. If the woman had exhausted herself, it would do no good to exacerbate the strain on her muscles. Especially not in such miserable weather. Revali had chosen this particular hollow in the hills as the site of his archery range for its clear visibility, but that wouldn’t make much of a difference if it began snowing. Which it would, and soon.

As if reading his thoughts, Zelda glanced at the overcast sky. “Though if you’d prefer to head back now, I trust your judgment.”

Revali prickled at the suggestion that he of all people would be dissuaded by adverse conditions. “What’s a little snow to a Rito,” he scoffed. “We’ll address the matter of your dismal aim later. For the time being, you should work on your stamina. I’ll need you to shoot ten arrows in succession. I’ll be keeping time.”

“Ten arrows?”

“Clock’s ticking.”

Zelda nodded and set to the task. She made every beginner’s mistake except one – despite the pressure he’d put on her, she refused to rush. She kept her movements controlled and precise, or as precise as she could be with such horrendous form. The lack of archery proficiency in the Hylian ranks never ceased to amuse him; though, he supposed, they had little need for arrows when they could command their horrendous spindly-legged automatons to shoot for them.

At the sixth arrow, Revali raised a pinion to signal Zelda to stop. “That’s enough,” he said. “Your wrist is shaking.”

“I can finish this,” she insisted.

“I think not. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

“Then why assign an impossible task in the first place?”

“So you’ll have something to aim for,” Revali replied, “seeing how you’re not hitting the actual target.”

To his surprise, she laughed. “Everyone has to start somewhere. Present company excluded, of course.”

Revali waved his wing to the wind and allowed her wry comment to blow away. He conceded the point, but he had always been talented. What made him the Champion of the Rito – a fatuous title he needed no princess to confer – was that he also had the determination to hone the sharpened edge of his skill past a point that anyone else would consider good enough.

Unfortunately for Zelda, if Hyrule’s so-called Calamity were indeed real, “good enough” wasn’t going to cut it.

The snow began to fall in earnest as he flew back to the village above Zelda’s horse. By evening, it was coming down in thick white curtains that shimmered in the light of the lanterns hung along the wooden rafters. Revali took a late dinner in his roost after helping his neighbors secure their snow shutters for the night. He assumed that the comfort of the princess had been sufficiently attended to, but it wouldn’t hurt to provide her with an extra blanket. He chose one of his own, down-lined and patterned with sky knots.

Zelda was spending the night in the cabin built for visitors, one of the few structures in the village with closed windows. Snow hissed against the glass, blurring the world outside into a white hush. Zelda sat cross-legged next to a low table on a quill-woven rug, her boots set neatly aside. A notebook was braced beneath her hands. She watched as Revali entered and shook the snow from his feathers, her surprise softening into a tired smile.

“Miserable night, isn’t it?” he offered by way of greeting. “I thought you might need this.”

Revali laid the blanket around her shoulders. Zelda murmured her thanks, and he took an empty chair by the wall. He watched her reflection in the frosted window glass. Zelda wrote just as she wielded a bow: slowly, patiently, and unwilling to be rushed. Revali understood, with a flicker of reluctant respect, that the same resolve that allowed this woman to endure failure also drove her to keep records by lamplight while the world froze outside.

She seemed to be trying to draw something. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was his own Vah Medoh. His eyesight was impeccable, of course, but he was willing to admit that he was only hazarding a guess. Zelda’s drawing was, in a word, atrocious.

“Are those supposed to be wings?” he asked incredulously.

“What else would they be?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Flippers, perhaps. If they are wings, then the fore-pinions spread outward.” He demonstrated with his own wing. “Like this.”

“I see. Well, hold that pose then.”

Revali allowed her a few more scratches on the page. “Now you’re drawing the wing flipside-up,” he remarked.

“Oh, you’re right. I guess I am,” she agreed amiably. “Thanks for pointing that out. Still, I’ve got a good reference now. I’ll draw it over again later.”

“I don’t see the need to draw Medoh at all if you have so little artistic skill.”

“That’s where we disagree,” Zelda answered with a wry smile. “I happen to be of the opinion that there’s as much value in the attempt as there is in the execution. Even if someone else can’t tell what they’re looking at, the important thing is that I can. If I draw Vah Medoh, I’ll remember her better than if I only had a written description. And I’ll let you in on a secret: my handwriting isn’t that great either.”

“You’d think a princess would be trained in such things,” Revali remarked, but he wasn’t truly annoyed. He found he was enjoying this chat, and he was warming to Zelda’s smile.

“I was trained, believe me,” she answered. “I went through reams of practice paper when I was younger. They trained me in penmanship, and drafting, and other things besides. Sewing, for instance.” She set down her pen and ran her hand along the textured fabric of the Rito blanket. “I was forced to endure countless hours of weaving and embroidery, two more areas where I have very little talent. Yet I was forced to continue, all the while receiving praise. No one ever spoke an unkind word, but I can make a fair guess at what they said about me behind my back.”

“And now you’ve chosen archery to be bad at,” Revali said.

“On the contrary. I’d like to think I did myself a favor by choosing a teacher brave enough to tell me I’m bad to my face. That’s the only chance I have of getting better. Your honesty is important, Revali. Far more important than you being the finest archer in the kingdom.”

“Which I am, of course.”

“Of course. Besides, it’s fun, and it feels great to stretch my arms like that. I’m not sure if you’ll believe me, but even in this weather I wouldn’t mind picking up a bow again.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Revali replied. “I’m always up for another round.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Zelda rose to her feet with surprising alacrity. “I’m ready if you are.”

“If you’re set on freezing your fingers off, at least do it properly,” he said. He fetched her cloak and motioned for her to follow.

Outside, the village lay hushed beneath the fresh snow. They crossed the hanging bridges to one of the wooden landings that jutted out over the valley. Its rail was rimed with ice, and the drop beyond the edge of the boards fell away into a white shadow. The wind carried the faint crystalline sound of snow sliding far below.

Zelda set her feet as Revali directed. There were no targets here, only open air. Revali stepped close behind her and spread his wings, folding them around her shoulders and upper arms. He adjusted her stance with small but precise corrections: a tilt of her hips, a lift of her chest, a gentle pressure to ease the tension she carried like a bad habit.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “Let the bow rest. You don’t have to fight it.”

She drew and loosed. The arrow vanished into the snow without sound or consequence.

“Shall I shoot again?” she asked, glancing up at him through eyelashes powdered with silver.

He adjusted the angle of her elbow. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Another arrow flew, and then another, each swallowed by the night. Without a mark to hit, Zelda’s back straightened, and her breath grew even.

The trip was growing troublesome. Frankly, it was already becoming tiresome. 

The word asinine was on the tip of his tongue. 

However, he swallowed it quickly as he stole a glance at the princess. 

She was blocked from his vision, cowering behind Lady Urbosa. The Gerudo Chief commanded the presence of the other Champions. She spoke on behalf of the quiet princess. He didn’t bother to listen. No need when her words were already written on the princess’ face. 

Revali was never afraid to call it like it was: she failed. Again. 

He rolled his eyes at the others words of encouragement— their plaintive remorse— that would fall on deaf ears. 

He looked at her again. 

The princess’s white dress stuck to her like a second skin. The hem drifted in the wind like a ghost. Her blonde hair darkened, dripping water from the storms that flood Faron. Revali thought upon he and the other Champions’ time in the small coastal town: shield from the dark clouds. 

A brief, aghast cognizance flashed on his face, and he quickly covered it with a stoic expression before anyone could catch him. His irritability remained, for he was confident no one would realize the true reason behind his displeasure.