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It took a few weeks, but Link has started to open up to her again. Cooking definitely helped— Link has become an excellent cook, she’s discovered, and Zelda simply had to list some basic recipes off of the top of her head for him to use his skill to its full potential. They’ve set up camp beneath a large oak atop a grassy hill on their trek to Hateno Village for supplies, waiting the night out, and Link is talking about an encounter with the Yiga Clan he’d had long ago as he finishes up on the dish, a spiced chicken stew with pumpkin and goat milk. The smell wafts through the warm breeze, mixing with the scent of burning wood and grass and ozone. Zelda feels more calm than she has in ages, could practically doze off right where she sits, leaning back against the sturdy trunk of the tree.
“And they love bananas. It’s crazy. They just really love bananas,” he says, laughs a bit as he stirs the mixture with a wooden ladle, and Zelda smiles. He tries it, then reaches into his rucksack and pulls out two worn wooden dishes, whittled deep enough in the middle to be used as bowls. “All I had to do was drop a bunch of ‘em right in front, and then they’d get all excited and leave their post to tiptoe over to ‘em. It was hilarious.”
“It sounds hilarious,” she says, takes the dish when he hands it to her. He pours a ladle-full into it, and she carefully pulls it back towards her. She knows better than to try to drink it now, but it’s quite tempting; it’s steaming hot and golden-brown and smells savory and delicious, and she hasn’t eaten since lunch. “You did wonderfully on the soup, Link. Thank you.”
“‘Course,” he says, scooping straight out of the pot with his dish and taking a seat next to her against the tree.
There’s a quiet moment there while they wait for their meals to cool, nothing but the oak catching the wind, the cicadas buzzing, the incessant calling of the whip-poor-wills. The fire pops every now and then, and she sees Link flinch and quickly scan the area every time, nearly spilling his soup. He’s gotten so used to being hunted down that he can hardly sit still.
When the stew is finally cooled down, Zelda practically downs the thing in two sips. The chicken is moist and tender and still cooked all the way through, and the broth is creamy and sweet from the pumpkins— the Hyrule herb truly brings the dish together, and it makes her nostalgic for her childhood, for those special celebratory dinners at the long table in the dining hall where they’d have prime meat dressed in fragrant herbs on those noisy pewter plates, and they’d all speak and toast to whichever guard had risked his life that day, and the men would sing rousing songs of Hyrule’s glory after dessert, the queen’s harmony striking high and clear over the boisterous crowd.
She picks out the leftover bits of meat and vegetables with her fingers when the broth is gone, sets the bowl down by her feet and wipes her hands on her pants. It was incredibly satisfying, but the taste of the seasoning lingers on her tongue, and the prospect of another helping gains interest in her mind by the second. She gives in, looks to Link to ask if there's enough left for seconds, but she cuts herself off— Link is staring at her with wide eyes, holding his still-full dish up to his face.
“And you call me a glutton,” he says.
Zelda busts out laughing, a bit embarrassed with herself. “When have I ever called you a glutton?”
He starts to speak, then his lips purse, and he looks back down to his dish. “N-nowhere. No, you never called me that. I didn't r— sorry.”
“Alright,” she chuckles, a little confused. “It just reminded me of something I used to eat when I was little. My mother’s favorite.”
Link takes a sip of his stew, looks ahead. They’ve got a lovely view of the Lanayru mountain range to their right, and the sky is clear and dotted with stars. “Zelda?”
“Yes?”
“What was your mother like?”
Her heart sinks a bit. Zelda doesn't like to think about her for too long, too afraid of letting her emotions get the best of her. It’s a new time, though, and Link needs to hear all he can about the past if he’s ever going to adjust to the present.
“Well,” she swallows, “She was the queen of Hyrule, of course. She was… She was taller than my father, and she was regal, and powerful. There was a certain kind of grace when she walked. Like she was just gliding on air instead of walking. She always spoke loudly, even in private, and she used the royal ‘we’. It threw people off sometimes. She did a lot of good things for our country."
“What about as a person? As a mother?”
She feels tears well up just from conjuring up her appearance, so she might as well just go all out. She doesn't need to be strong, now, there’s no eyes on her and there’s no reason to hold back. “She was often too busy to take care of me, and I was mostly raised by my nannies, but… But she was lovely. And scholarly. She would always encourage me in studying the world, always telling me I was capable of anything. When she had time, she’d read me stories of the heroes and princesses of the past. I’d—” she snickers, rubs her bleary eyes— “When I was really young, those stories would make my imagination run wild. I’d fantasize about riding on the back of a bird through the skies with a handsome knight.”
Link looks intrigued. “A bird? Like a Rito?”
“No, a Loftwing.” She looks down at her hands, twiddles her thumbs. “In my favorite story, the hero and princess were friends since childhood. They lived in a city in the sky, high above the clouds, and they flew through the skies on these massive birds called Loftwings. The two fell in love at the end, and they began civilization on the ground.”
He smiles. “That sounds nice.”
“It’s silly,” she shakes her head, feels her cheeks flush. “I was a child. She died when I was six.”
“Oh. I’m… sorry,” Link’s smile slips away, and his hand raises and fidgets for a moment before he lays it on her shoulder, putting his dish on the grass by his hip. “I’m really sorry.”
“Thank you, but there's no need to be sorry. That was years ago, wasn't it? That was eleven years ag—” She freezes. “That was a hundred and eleven years ago,” she amends.
“Right. Weird.”
“Yes, I… I forget sometimes. How long it’s been.”
There’s another pause, there. Link keeps glancing over to her as if he wants to speak, but he never does. And his hand never leaves her shoulder.
“Hey, Zelda?” he finally says.
“Yes, Link?”
He inhales shakily, breathes out and doesn't meet her eye. “What was my mother like?”
And the question makes her lungs deflate, makes her feel like her chest’s been crushed. “Oh,” she whispers, “Oh, Link.” She’d forgotten that he hadn’t just lost his memories of her and the champions, no— Link had lost his memories of everything.
“I’m sorry for asking,” he says sincerely, and he only glances at her for a second and it hurts even more, “I, it was a stupid question. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, I’ll tell you,” she assures him, puts a hand on his knee. “Her name was Fira. She was, Link, look at me, she was wonderful,” he looks up and there are lights in his eyes, “She was sweet and loving and caring and warm, she was everything a mother should be,” she tries quickly to recall everything she knows about Link’s mother, about every time she’d visited him. “She was short and she had a kind round face with eyes like yours, and her hair was just like yours.”
“It was like mine?” Link asks it as if it’s the most incredible thing he’s ever heard.
“It was just like yours, the same color and everything, a bit longer and tied in the back just like yours.” Link leans and nods eagerly, slowly draws a hand up and runs it through his ponytail as he stares at her for more, and Zelda almost wants to cry. “Sh-she used to do it for you, you know? She’d brush it and tie it up for you when you were little and you didn't know how.”
“Really?” He smiles big, and she sees his eyes glisten. “Really? She’d do it? How do you— how do you know?”
“She told me.”
“She was there? Was she there my whole life?”
“Your whole life. She was always there. Right up until the day where…” And she can't go any further. “The day when Ganon…”
Link desperately changes the subject, and his voice is weak. “Tell me more about— wh— how’d you know her?”
“We’d— the two of us would go over to your house when you forgot something, a shield or a piece of armor or something—”
“My house, where was my house?” His hand squeezes her shoulder, “What was my house like? Zelda? Where did I live?”
“This lovely little cottage in Castle Town,” she says, and his whole face lights up in wonder, “It was made of brick and it was two stories, and your mother was always there when we’d stop by.” Zelda smiles when she remembers— “Your mom would always love embarrassing you in front of me. She’d ruffle your hair and kiss your cheeks and call your her ‘little hero’, and you’d get all red and tell her to cut it out—”
“I remember,” Link suddenly wheezes, clenches his eyes shut for a moment, then stares past her into space, “The big stove and the… The bearskin rug, and I’d lay down on it ‘cause it was so soft and my mom would— my mom would—”
Then he pulls her into a crushing embrace, buries his face into the junction of her neck and shoulder. “I remember,” he sighs, hiccuping and laughing, and she hugs him back just as hard when she feels his tears drip warm through the sleeve of her shirt. “I remember, oh, Zelda, thank you, thank you so much, I love her so much. I miss her so much.”
And that’s when the laughter turns to crying, and crying to sobbing. “I miss her. I miss her so much. I want my house. I want my mom. Oh, goddess, I miss my mom.” She simply strokes the back of his tunic, presses her cheek into his hair. Kisses the top of his head. “I miss her,” his whole body contracts with each sob, crumpling and folding into her like paper until he's close as can be, until his voice is hoarse as he repeats, “I’m sorry for crying, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I'm so sorry.”
“Don't be sorry,” she says, holds him tighter. She sniffs. His hair smells like Hyrule herb. “... I miss her, too.”
They hold each other through the night, leaning on each other and on the oak. Zelda lets herself cry over her mother for the first time in a hundred and eleven years.