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After the Rain
The first bump in the night is slight and unobtrusive. So subtle that, for a moment, Paya assumes that her mind has simply conjured it; a figment of an enervated subconscious finally quieting after a long evening of prayer and meditation. But when the noise sounds again– has it grown louder this time?-the Sheikah girl finds herself rousted into wakefulness, supine and uneasy.
A smattering of rain tumbles against the roof of her grandmother's stalwart house. Ghosts of the girl's adolescence must haunt the West Necludan hearthstone, because as soon she finds her gaze boring into the blackness of the looming ceiling overhead, she swears that some small voice, familiar and confidential, is urging her up.
Paya shivers beneath a blanket of wool and canvas, hesitating in the dark with a newly tense jaw. Beyond the rain, the dampened sound echoes twice more:
Thump. Thump.
A tightening sensation claws its way to life in her chest.
Just a loose board on the roof, she reasons. And she can only pray that's the case; anything further implies something far more sinister. Her stomach catapults as she considers the girl slumbering just down the hall. She imagines the recently returned Princess, golden hair splashed across a cream colored pillow, delicate hands tucked beneath a cheek while soft inhalations brush across fabric. Unsuspecting and vulnerable.
In spite of the trepidation that grips at her, Paya swallows hard as an uncharacteristic strength suddenly begins to rouse within. Cool fingers tremble while they tentatively push linens off of a wearied frame. Through the lone triangular window of the room, she glimpses moonlight slipping through thin rain clouds, illuminating the furthest corners of Kakariko Village in the night; the faint glow of the village's perpetually lit lanterns glimmer warmly, draping the village in a haunting luminescence.
Have courage, Paya, she instructs herself. What would Master Link do?
Her strength buckles as she ascertains that Master Link would respond to danger quite differently than she, all courage and talent and heart swathed in one being. But apprehension begins to quiet as the Hero's image, handsome and resilient, springs to mind; he, too, is elsewhere in the house, and Paya knows that one quick cry of his name will thrust him into action.
And yet…Paya considers the magnitude of Master Link's most recent undertaking, recalls the vicissitudes of the last century that have plagued both him and the legendary Princess. The pair have only recently returned from Central Hyrule, first reappearing in desperate need of recuperation after such an ordeal. Paya has yet to hear all of the details of the confrontation, but even so–it exhausts her to merely think about how much the Hero has accomplished since the day he wandered into Kakariko, hardly even knowing his own name.
No, Paya decides firmly. Link will be summoned as a last resort. He needs his rest, if it can be helped. The local voices that carry the village gossip often find their way through open windows while Paya prays in the courtyard, and the hushed tones have led her to believe that the sacred pair will be setting off for Zora's Domain together soon.
He needs his rest, she reasons with herself.
Clinging to the small flicker of strength that she has managed to preserve, Paya rises from her bed and begins to tiptoe towards the door. The air nips at her bare arms, and she shivers as the soles of her feet press onto cool wooden planks beneath her; it seems the room is growing colder with each passing second, and the few short steps to the door pass laggardly.
Out in the darkened hallway of the second floor, the only bits of provided light emanate from a few softly flickering candles that hold vigil in their stations along the walls. She's growing warmer now, kissed by the asthenic glows that she will be the one to douse with the dawn. Among the candles, there are two other rooms on the floor, typically unoccupied, though Zelda has currently claimed the larger of the two while Link is stationed closer to the top of the staircase.
In the hallway, something catches Paya's attention. Her eyes, crinkled with lingering sleep and strain, notice one other source of light that she has not anticipated to find beaming at her–a small, thin line of luminosity spilling from the base of Zelda's door. Paya has not known the Princess for very long, but she has learned in the last few days that the girl is studious. It is no surprise that she might be up at this hour with her head buried in a book.
Paya creeps a step further down the hallway, ears ringing while her eyes adjust to the caliginous space.
Thump.
It resonates louder the second time.
Thump.
And it is most certainly coming from the Princess's room.
Paya lets her mind wander momentarily. She considers the possibility that Princess Zelda is tossing books around her quarters; she has apparently mentioned something about investigating the Divine Beast that looms above the Lanayru Great Spring on their imminent excursion. Perhaps the Princess intends to study the machine further before departure. Paya imagines the girl furiously glancing through textbooks and hastily tossing them aside upon discovering they do not possess the information she desires; after all, many important manuals have been lost to the Calamity, though some may live on at the remaining tech labs.
Thump.
Yes, surely that must be it.
Thump.
Paya's lips thin and press their way into a small grimace. There is no harm in checking, she reasons with herself. She inches closer to the door, ears straining attentively, and she's promptly greeted by a low rumble from beyond. The girl remembers that she's managed to develop some of the stealthy Sheikah attributes that her clan is so often associated with-don't fail me now! There is the sound of a small thump again, and then...a small gasp? The hushed tones of a voice.
The ground suddenly feels as though it is caving in beneath her. She considers a gentle knock upon the door, then skittishly realizes that she might be welcoming danger by doing so–Gods willing, there isn't an unconscious Zelda draped across the arms of a Yiga assassin just out of sight. Paya moves with haste and reaches for the door, slipping it open as furtively as possible, just wide enough so that her eye can survey what lies behind. She prepares herself for the worst.
Paya has witnessed her fair share of disorienting images in her own time–the violent miracle of birth, the yellows of festering wounds carved into limbs, the anguish of grief inscribed onto faces of those she holds dearly. She knows how breath evades her, how her legs are rendered immobile while she hides behind trembling fingers. She can identify the precise manner in which shock seeps its way into her body, how it causes her muscles to twinge with discomfort and ties her tongue. And though she should know how to brace for impact, the wind still catches in her throat and her legs still deaden when her mind finally registers what she's stumbled upon.
There in the room, only a few feet away, are the Hero and the Princess.
Wrapped up in one another in the amorous throes of lovemaking.
And it certainly doesn't seem that either is in need of rest.
Paya finds that no matter how much she curses herself, her body refuses to turn away. And, curiously, she never raises a hand to shield her face.
Link is above Zelda, his body undulating in such a way that it causes something low within the silver-haired girl to bloom. She can make out the curve of his bare rear, and the way the shadows lick at his curves and muscles makes her swoon so heavily she thinks she might be sick. Her eyes drag across Zelda's form to find one of her elegant legs lifted so that it drapes around his lower back. A thin nightgown, one provided from Paya's own closet, sits slackened just off of the princess' shoulders, unbuttoned down the front so that her nude form is completely exposed before him. And although Paya knows she needs to look away immediately, that she is intruding on something sacred, the poor girl can still not bring herself to do so. Nothing has ever enchanted her quite like this.
A foreign heat begins to pool between her legs, spreading throughout her limbs and extending as far north as her cheeks. Paya tries her hardest to ignore it.
The lovers' faces are drawn close together, their expressions flushed with smoldering desire. Each thrust causes Zelda's prim body to contort further beneath him, her back arching enticingly. Thin, frail sounds escape her, dulled occasionally by the familiar thumping sound that has scored the evening. Zelda whispers something to Link again, and although Paya cannot discern the words, she notices that his movement soon quickens. Zelda lifts a hand to his cheek, gracing his face as he continues to drive deeper between her legs. The way the knight gazes down to watch his princess's face as he pleasures her is nothing short of intoxicating.
A strange swirl of emotions brews within Paya; on one hand, she has long accepted that she, too, has fallen in love with Link-but the sting of jealousy is minimal. She has never truly considered herself a contender for his affections, but seeing him now, entwined with the Princess and watching her so...surely they must have always been fated for one another. Perhaps Link is not meant for Paya, but the evidence for it is so inebriating to witness that the girl does not mind. Even through the dim light, Paya can see a century's worth of longing etched across the princess' face; the thought of Zelda's plight ails her for a moment, dampening the warmth that has risen within her.
But only slightly.
Paya watches as Link takes a moment to set his hands upon Zelda's head, letting his thumbs gently brush against her hairline, studying her as though committing her to memory. One hand trails down, running along the hollow of her neck to eventually seek refuge upon one of her breasts. Paya's face suddenly stings as though someone has struck her with an open palm, and she instantly averts her eyes, returning her focus to the small gap between their faces. She stifles a labored sigh against the door as Link delicately leans down to capture Zelda's lips in a kiss.
A whisper of his name floats across the room in a strangled whisper.
Paya swoons once more at the sound of the Princess' pleading voice, biting her lower lip to keep herself from audibly gasping. The rumble in her belly roars again, as though she is suddenly ravenously famished.
Seemingly powered by Zelda's approval, Link tears his hand from her breast to grip at her thigh, raising it higher so that her knee is drawn closer to her face; with this development, Paya is now granted a clear view of their merging, though she forces herself to look elsewhere with agitated aggression. With a face on fire, she focuses her attention entirely on Link's fingers pressing into Zelda's thigh, noticing how the skin dimples beneath his firm touch. He is soon rising backwards, pulling the princess up as he does so and removing the fine fabric off of her arms completely. With a muted squeal, Zelda is suddenly straddling him, reuniting their lips with a kiss that she whimpers into. She breaks away only to share whispers in his ear that Paya can not hear before meeting his lips once more.
Paya watches how Link dwells in the shade of his lover's hair, how rivulets of gold spread across his own limbs like watercolors divaricating across cotton. Zelda's fingers disappear into Link's hair, grasping at him, holding him close with a trembling lip. With an attractive splash of pink dressed across the bridge of her nose, she drags an open, gasping mouth against his cheek, and he assails her neck with kisses in a way that is far more sensitive than Paya has ever expected from him. Link has refashioned his hands, weaponry in their own right, into something far more nurturing. He's become a gardener, allowing the seeds of affection and tenderness to take root. As far as Paya can tell, they've sprouted.
Oh, how guilty she feels, spying on them so!
'Spying' is not such a wonderful word, she thinks. 'Observing' is far more preferable. And there is nothing malicious about her observation, nothing malicious at all. In fact, the whole situation is terribly enlightening; Paya has never known her body to be capable of feeling such sparkling sensations. And, of course, no other soul shall ever hear of the events transpiring in her grandmother's house. She will take these images, these glorious, wonderful images, to the grave. She swears it.
Zelda whispers Link's name once more, and once more again, interspersed between what sound like pleas and begging for more of him, and Paya feels her heat beginning to heighten, the warmth allowing for a tender ache to pulse into existence. She is overcome with the sudden urge to reach between her own legs to see if she has merely imagined the sensation, and, when she does, she finds that the slight pressure of fingers coming into contact with her clothed groin is enough to send a delicious shiver through her.
That is new.
And suddenly, the novelty of the situation begins to pierce through the fog of astonishment as Paya begins to consider that maybe, just maybe, her observation is not as innocent as she has declared it to be. She presses her legs together in a futile attempt to abate the rising heat between them. With exorbitant effort, she riles herself from her daze, and as Paya finds herself slipping back into the cold grip of reality, she soberly realizes that the sounds of their lovemaking are growing louder. Her stomach gives an anxious lurch; at this rate, they're sure to wake others in the household soon.
There is no reason that Grandmother ought to intrude on such a beautiful evening.
Paya slides the door shut as discreetly as she has opened it, teeth sinking into her top lip. The sounds of Zelda's battered whimpers have grown louder, now intertwined with the lower, swelling sounds from her knight; Paya's stomach seems to invert. Even through the closed door, through the privileged walls that have been granted the honor of monitoring such a coalescence, their tones still wash over her, assailing her ears with the sweetest contentment.
Paya thinks she's broken the skin of her lip.
How has the hour grown so late?
The last whispers of the day have yet to fade when Link first arrives at her accommodations with the compendium in hand. Zelda anticipates a long evening of recalling faces and locations that she has not seen in over a century, but she certainly does not expect him to still be seated beside her well past midnight.
She has no complaints.
Zelda likes to think that Link's hand brushing against hers as he scans through the slate is intentional, and something inside of her sparks with each touch; not in the way that it once did before the disaster, when her throat would constrict with her heart wound up in it whenever she'd find herself in the aurora of his smile, but in a manner that's much more desperate and aching–a way that frightens her, that leaves her feeling as though the very essence of her soul is being tugged out of her.
Link is still threading together memories of days past. His timelines are incomplete, and Zelda has taken it upon herself to teach him about the faces and locations that she, too, is revisiting. He's relearning much of his country's history, committing its flora and wildlife to memory, and in turn sharing with Zelda how much has changed since she last walked the paths of Hyrule. They've agreed, prior to their first session, that certain memories–those pertaining to the most personal elements of his existence–shall come last. She's hypothesized that core memories may restore themselves while others are excavated. It's a feeble thought, but it provides a much needed glimmer of optimism.
He remembers her, though. He remembers her quite well.
Zelda finds herself watching his gloved hands, the same hands that she examines while traversing the stretch of land from Central Hyrule to Kakariko Village upon Calamity Ganon's defeat. In the wake of victory, she droops beneath a veil of exhaust, perched between Link's tired thighs as they travel atop a shared mare. She spends the long moments studying the cuts and bruises that splinter out from beneath leather gloves as his hands grip the reins. She tries to remind herself that he's flesh and blood, that the warmth his body graces her with is not merely illusory. She runs the words over in her head, again and again–it's him. It's him. It's him. Her voice, mangled with disuse after so many years, often trails off as she fully takes in the ravished land for the first time. She spends her first night back in her corporeal form in a field of wildflowers, curled up into the crook of Link's arm while silent tears stain his tunic. He doesn't mind.
Now, a few short days later, she sits side by side in the space that Impa has provided, her core churning as they flip back and forth between textbooks and photos. Link hasn't completed the gallery fully, and many of the photos he has managed to take are of landscapes and various peoples and creatures. With the ghost of her former self looming just below her skin, ready to reclaim its rightful place, Zelda finds that she is particularly horrified by an image that Link had managed to capture of the Lynel atop Ploymus Mountain; a self-portrait taken as the beast gallops towards him in the background , a sparkling arrow in hand.
"Honestly, Link, you are by far the most reckless person I have ever known!" an exasperated Zelda hands the slate back over to him.
He smirks playfully at her bewildered expression, and Zelda finds herself sailing through his atmosphere to settle neatly in his orbit.
"Do you find me reckless for storming Hyrule Castle to aid you?" he jests good-naturedly.
Zelda practically snorts, and for the briefest of moments she swears that they're loitering south of Irch Plain, west of the castle, sharing stories and jokes that she has grown to crave so deeply. So long ago, before life shattered around them. "That was for the greater good. A self-portrait with a beast of that nature is quite another matter."
Link offers nothing more than a short laugh in response, and Zelda wilts as she suspects that the fatigue is finally winding him.
"Would you like to look at one more item?" she inquires softly, positive that she already knows the answer.
He adopts his silent mask for a moment, blinking repeatedly. She's come to recognize that it's an expression of contemplation. He finally inhales before forging ahead with a question of his own. "Can you tell me more about my family?"
Zelda's brows knit together. "I thought we agreed that we'd wait a bit longer for that topic."
He gives a curious sound that is accompanied with a slight shrug. "Give me a little teaser, then."
She exhales through her nose bracingly. "You had a father and a sister," she states. She pauses for a moment to let him adjust, eyeing him as though waiting to see if he has managed to extract anything from seven words. He's silent for a bit longer, his expression unchanging until a small, sad smile decides to dress itself upon his lips.
"Maybe I knew that." Wheat colored hair jostles slightly around his ears as he shakes his head. "I can't make out any faces, though."
A crack of frigidity strikes her, and she wonders if his heart is breaking as hers does. Zelda places a hand to rest upon the crook of his elbow.
"Were they proud of me?" he presses on with a scrunched brow.
"Oh, very much so." Her voice has grown meek, and mournful on his behalf. Though memories of her father ail her from time to time, she is fortunate to keep his spirit alive through them. It is a small luxury that Link hasn't been afforded.
Link's eyes are absentmindedly fixed upon the Sheikah Slate. He chews at his lip and gives a slight nod. He presses no further.
"Shall I tell you more about them tomorrow?" Zelda whispers, her fingers tightening their grip against his sleeve. Link's sharp blue gaze suddenly regains focus as it rivets on the point where she's touching him.
"I'd like that very much." He murmurs.
Warmth percolates into Zelda's heart.
"One more question…" he says.
Oh, Hylia.
"Did I have many friends? Besides the Champions?"
Masking discomfort, Zelda begins to sort through names and faces that have long faded from the world.
"I suppose you did..." she starts slowly, sifting through memories to collect as much information that she can manage. "You had a fair number of admirers in the castle."
"Not all of them were admirers, if I recall correctly," he responds dryly.
Zelda pulls her hand away to poke at his side in mock outrage. "So you can only remember the negative things, then?"
The smile that edges its way onto Link's face is fraternal, coltish and so unlike any look he's ever given her. Each moment she spends in his glance causes her to fall further from herself.
"I've heard a thing or two since I've been awake," he notes coolly.
Zelda nods in understanding. "Yes...well, not everyone was thrilled with your appointment. Divine or otherwise." Addressing the matter at such a late hour grieves her, but she refuses to lie to him. "But," she presses on in an effort to remit any hard feelings she's potentially rooted in him, "there were many that just simply adored you."
His brows lift in surprise. "Is that so?"
"Indeed."
I still do.
"...will you tell me a little more? Before I leave you for tonight?" he asks, his tone supplicatory and soft.
Zelda wonders how far she can elongate each word in order to keep him there until morning.
"Well, the people were quite taken with you. A dutiful knight, helpful to anyone in need. A knight of humble origin. They saw so much of themselves in you. And in the castle...you were polite. Respectful. Capable." She flashes him a mischievous look. "But you could also be quite cheeky, you know."
She rejoices triumphantly as a grin, wide and toothy, explodes onto his face.
"But I digress…" She clears her throat. "There were many people who greatly enjoyed your presence. As I recall…"
And then, as if rehearsed, Zelda begins to list names of all of the soldiers and servants and council members who have ever complimented him, sometimes to her past self's dismay. They spill from her, unprecedented. She notices the boy's eyes brighten with vague recognition at a few of them, and she grows cautiously optimistic that she's perhaps managed to dislodge something in his memory. She finds herself quelling the hint of an insurgence of her own mournfulness as names of those lost to time spill from her lips.
"And the handmaidens..." she manages a giggle, desperately needing one. "Oh, the handmaidens..."
This catches Link's attention. He leans his elbow onto the tabletop and places his chin in the palm of his hand. "And what about them?" He asks with a raised brow and a miniscule smirk.
"Oh, they simply adored you. They thought you were the most wonderful thing to ever walk the land." Zelda is angling her head elsewhere to shield a flourishing blush. She waves a hand in the air before drawing it towards her temple. "They used to chatter incessantly about you each morning. If you ever graced them with a smile," she drawled with mock regality, "they were insufferable. As if they'd never seen a handsome man before." She's laughing now, recalling their shining eyes and their hands clasped across their mouths in excitement.
Link withdraws his lips inward, looking particularly elvish, and there is a playfully smug flavor peppered into his tone. "I'm to assume that the Princess of Hyrule thought I was handsome, then?"
Her next few anticipated words catch in her throat, and they've soon thinned entirely as she scrambles to find a response under his curious gaze.
"Well, she did not think you were a particularly unattractive man," she fumbles, tucking golden locks behind the arrowed point of her ear.
Link seems entirely convinced by this response. "I see."
Zelda nods, only slightly disappointed that he doesn't press forward, and though she is loath to admit it, she knows the fault lies entirely with her; he has presented her a prime opportunity to uncloak long held feelings, and she has squandered it. The girl with the blood of the goddess, who has spent the last century holding an apocalyptic entity at bay, reduced to a mere adolescent in his shade.
"I hope it all comes back. I'd really like to see it all for myself," He says, tapping at the side of his head.
"Oh, I truly hope it does." she blurts. "I have confidence. Things were hard, yes…but there were many beautiful things. Things you deserve to remember. Despite it all...there was life everywhere. Friends, and family…and we had...we had each other…" She hears a slight crack fracture her tone before her throat can register it. She chooses to look directly at him. "And.. you were loved. Truly, you were. And you can't even..."
Zelda observes Link's expression cracking into something that mirrors hers, plaintive and wounded, as he straightens up.
"I'm sorry, Link," she whispers, placing a hand upon his arm once more. "If I had only been quicker...we wouldn't be here. Hyrule as we knew it would still be standing. You wouldn't be here, like this." Zelda's tone, stronger and more assured, surprises her. She has expected to crumble in the weeds of this conversation, but she has realized that she cannot allow herself to do so-not while she tethers Link's memories to him.
The silence that follows is unbearable, punishing and bitter. Or so her tuckered mind has led her to believe.
"Things could be far, far worse." Link offers quietly, and Zelda soon finds herself drowning in the way his half-lidded azure gaze washes over her. "What's done is done. We'll keep moving forward."
The corners of his mouth lift slightly to smile at her. She can only reciprocate.
"So I was loved, huh?"
Zelda nods in response but finds that looking at him only agonizes her. "Of course you were. I hope you are able to find comfort in that for now."
"It helps," he admits.
"We have a bit of work cut out for us," she sighs. "But I think... we can afford a moment of rest."
Link gives a low exhalation. "That sounds nice." He pauses. "I am fortunate to have you by my side."
It's perhaps the most intimate phrase he's ever directed at her, and it smites her with such crushing weight that she forgets how to properly inhale.
I shall never leave it, she silently pledges as color explodes its way onto her cheeks.
"And I am fortunate for you."
The silence that follows presses down upon them, heavy and begging for relief. They're watching one another as though both have something further to say, as though each is withholding a secret from the other. Zelda knows she should dismiss him, to grant him some rest, though she questions how she can even consider turning him away after a century without him.
There is a new sound that catches in her ear; the nearly forgotten sound of rain commencing overhead. Zelda closes her eyes and listens: it's her first rainfall in one hundred years.
"What is it that you want, Link? Truly? Now that all is said and done?" The question escapes her softly, nearing a whisper.
She opens her eyes to find that he is studying her, though his eyes quickly dart away.
"A lot of sleep, I suppose. And good food…and…" he drifts off. He looks at her briefly before turning aside. Zelda holds a breath in anticipation.
Link gives a tiny laugh in defeat. "I don't know. I'm a simple man."
He requests the bare minimum required for survival. He asks for simplicity, the unsophisticated attainments of the human experience. He does not crave novels and sonnets and music written with him in mind. And it causes something to flurry within Zelda as she processes his request because she knows that he deserves more than any man can possibly attain; he deserves the sun and the moon and the worlds beyond their own, the seas and the peaks and the love and adoration of those who live scattered amongst them. He deserves stars plucked by her hand from the night sky, for no other reason than to be bottled and placed on his bedside table.
"I think you might be afforded a bit more than that," Zelda states, expertly navigating around a nervous stutter that threatens to creep into her voice.
She knows what she wants him to ask for.
Her body is already weighed down with tremendous fatigue, but Link gives her a soft look that etiolates her even further.
"Thank you," he says softly, eyes brimming with new emotion. And then, very quickly, as though apologizing: "Princess."
"Please, don't…" the whisper pithily bursts from her lips, and she raises a hand to cup his cheek. Her index finger curves and twitches slightly against his skin. "No 'Princess'. No titles. Just…Zelda. Please."
Link catches her by surprise when he leans into her touch to settle more comfortably in her palm. He watches her carefully, as though expecting more from her.
"And you?"
"What of me?" she asks softly.
"What is it that you want?"
His voice has lowered to match hers, and Zelda does her best to smother the flutter that ricochets within her. She imagines it's the voice he might use as he whispers a lover's name across his pillow. She worries that he might detect the beat of her racing pulse in the wrist that nestles against his jawline. She wets her lips apprehensively.
Zelda gives an unsteady laugh that nearly betrays her, but it vanishes entirely when she notices Link's glance lower. She swears he's fixing it upon her lips, and she's suddenly transported back to a moment, many years ago, spent dancing in the castle's ballroom. It's preciously the same glance, the deciduous look that he breaks when he remembers where he is and who is watching. But the thought only makes Zelda bristle; who can he be hiding from now?
"I don't know." she says. The fallacious assertion escapes her far more brusquely than she desires.
The weight of Link's gaze upon her grows heavy. She wonders if he has detected the falsity, if he can feel her desire radiating off of her. Perhaps he sits beside her, imagining what it might be like to place his lips on hers, to wonder if they would be as soft as they are pink. Maybe he will take her round face in his hands and guide her towards him.
And yet, in spite of all wishful thinking, he does nothing of the sort.
"It's late. I should let you get some rest." He delivers the customary phrase dully, though his eyes never leave her face. Link raises a hand to remove her own from his face, placing it gently on her lap. She notices, with crippling awareness, that a few of his fingers lace through hers before he's pulled away completely.
A wounded Zelda nods plaintively. "I suppose it is." She hopes that he cannot hear the melancholy that's wreathed itself into her voice.
Slowly, Link pushes his chair out from the desk and rises, placing the Sheikah Slate on the tabletop. "Thank you for your time."
She rises in accordance, folding her arms instinctively. "You're very welcome…good night, then," she reluctantly whispers.
He continues to study her, as though there is something else he might be inspired to press on about. His eye shimmers with an emotion that Zelda can not detect, and although she can accept retiring without the closure she desires, her heart swells to know that he does not look upon her as though she is a stranger. He remembers her. He does.
Link is still lingering, and Zelda wonders if it is possible that he is expecting something from her. She considers that he's toying with her, all pent up emotion and jaded amusement. Wondering, perhaps, if eyeing her in just the right away, with a cerulean stare of such magnitude, might undo her entirely.
She remains taciturn, taut with longing.
"...Good night." He finally responds, with a slight bow of his head.
As the door slides shut behind him, Zelda feels the stinging loneliness that has etched its way into her bones begin to claw its way to the surface. She collapses a long held breath and her hands, one of which still tingles with the tantalizing memory of his skin beneath it, fly to her face as her heart pounds roaringly against her chest.
Oh Hylia, she loves him.
Zelda inhales deeply in an attempt to douse the warmth surging through her, to no avail. Her desire for human contact is insatiable, especially after a century without any-but this is different. This is a rejuvenated desire, born from the flickering hints of an affection that grew, quietly and unexpectedly, over one hundred years ago. There is no recovery from this.
As her mind continues to race, Zelda barely notices when she extracts herself from her traveling garments to slip into a simple white nightgown. Impa's granddaughter Paya, the spitting image of Impa as Zelda remembers her, has provided clothing from her own closet. Delicate sleeves flare out at the wrists, and she fastens the few buttons that hold the front flaps of the garment intact. The night is growing colder, though the searing heat that runs through Zelda's veins sustains her like a furnace in a snowstorm.
Zelda vaults herself onto the bed, burying her face into the pillow as she squeezes her eyes tightly in an attempt to suppress him from her mind. It's a futile effort, she realizes, as images of him continue to slip through. Memories pile upon each other; Link in blinding blizzards and scorching deserts, in the thicket of jungle or along stone slickened with rainfall. Those moments are true, she knows–but it's when images of them together atop an altar of stone and flora, with a veil atop her head and a scintillating ring around her finger, start to materialize that she realizes the strength of her imagination; she emits a sound of frustration as memory and fantasy–the fantasies that carried her across such an agonizing imprisonment–blend together, creating various alloys where the only constant across them is the young man that carries her heart.
Tell him.
She can suddenly feel the words rising through her trachea, settling towards the front of her mouth and pressing against the back of closed lips. They're growing impatient, demanding liberation in a way they've never done before.
He may rebuke her.
He may insist she is overtired or feverish or misled by trauma–he's quite noble that way.
But she must honor her feelings all the same.
With the blood of the Goddess pounding in her ears, Zelda springs to her feet. Tightening the nightgown around her, she scurries to the door and slides it open. But her heart catches in her throat as she nearly collides with a figure just lingering beyond the doorway.
Zelda falters.
Link's fist is set in midair, anticipating a knock. His eyes are uncharacteristically wide, searching hers, and that same intense glint that his glance has carried all night is still there, smoldering in the dark.
In the morning, neither will be able to discern who rushes towards the other first. They embed themselves into each other's arms, and lips find one another's in desperation. Messy and fumbling, soothing and invigorating all at once. His hands, shed of the gloves they're usually wrapped up in, cup her cheeks, thumbs running along her cheekbones. Zelda presses palms up to his bare chest before sliding them up so that her arms snake around his neck. Link hastily pushes forward, regaining his balance and guiding her further into the room. He blindly slides the door behind him, and his hands are soon running down the length of her body to settle on the curve of her waist. She won't realize that he's kissing relieved tears off of her face until much later.
And now, hours after their initial embrace, she finds herself exploding around him, with coiled tension straining against her belly and a shallow breath locked captive within her chest. Ebbing and flowing alongside of him in ways she had never fathomed she once might. If Zelda has retained any semblance of lingering regality from a century ago, she has surely broken free of its shackles now.
To hell with regality.
Link never pushes, but she finds him taking the lead more often than not. It's wholly reminiscent of their shared waltzes among the aristocracy in days long gone. Fortunately, there are no radical eyes watching for missteps here.
He is masterful in his craft, in the ways that his fingers dangle around her entrances, and in the way his lips graze across the area where her thighs extend out from her body. The way he presses his open mouth against her, igniting her skin with quick releases of hot air. In the way he utilizes the instrument between his legs that she has grown so enamored with. She grips at him with delicate, trembling fingers, careful to preserve what must surely be a dream.
Zelda has never inquired as to Link's history with women, though she has long been aware of the affections he's earned in the time she's known him. She assumes he must have experience; he is far too adroit to be improvising. A primitive wave rushes over her as she grasps at the tapestry of scars across his back; it doesn't matter who has come before and who might come after, though the same thought will wound her in the morning when she reconsiders it. For now, he is hers.
If only for tonight, after one hundred years, he is finally hers.
"Zelda…" he murmurs into her ear as he pulls her into a straddle, his brow uncharacteristically taut with longing. "My beautiful Zelda…"
She's no longer postulating. The chosen hero chooses her in return.
It's unlike anything she's ever come to expect from him. The sensation of her name in such a pleading tone enters her fully, opening her up further to him. The use of the possessive, pinging back and forth in her mind, causes shivers to skyrocket through her body, tingling in the rosy tips of her breasts and extending all the way through her toes and practically erupting at her eyes as tears of both pleasure and relief. Not even the divine power surging through her feels as heavenly as this.
One hundred years worth of yearning has sprung to life in his arms. And Zelda knows, in the way his fingers stretch across the back of her head, the way he breathes her name into her skin, the way his sighs sometimes escape like relieved sobs, that the feeling is mutual.
So I was loved, huh?
She smiles skywards, rhapsodic as the heat in her begins its ascent. The stars are growing brighter now.
And then-
Three short, timid knocks sound at the door.
The heat vanishes, and the world suddenly seems to careen around her. Zelda haphazardly frees herself from Link's arms to seek cover beneath a blanket. She curls up at one edge of the bed with him still fully exposed at the other, both of them sharing a panicked, blanche gaze.
"P-princess Zelda…" Paya's small voice calls out from beyond the door.
It's not fair. It's simply not fair.
Neither dares to make a sound.
Paya presses on faintly with an innocuous tone: "Please be careful…Grandmother's hearing is still quite decent for her age. And I…I would hate for her to wake."
Zelda ducks her head and musters a croak of a whisper in response: "...thank you, dear Paya."
"I-I sincerely apologize..I don't mean to disrupt you. Please, enjoy your evening. G-good night." Paya responds in a voice that sounds like a sleepy sigh. If she has departed, her receding footsteps go undetected.
Neither knows if they've ever experienced a silence as heavy as the one Paya has left them with. Link is the one to eventually break the quietude.
"She's very kind," he reasons.
"Yes, she is."
And she is, truly. She has provided a thoughtful service. But Zelda can't help the disappointment that plagues her, can't help wondering if the spark has been snuffed out entirely.
"Would you like me to leave?" Link finally asks, quietly.
She braves a glimpse at him.
And suddenly, as if no interruption has taken place at all, everything narrows into focus; she finds his face glowing in the candlelight, hair tousled by her own hands, eyes hungrily watching her. Every inhibition that has claimed her is soon swallowed up by renewed appetency at the mere sight of him. In just a moment, she's come completely undone once more.
Never.
Wordlessly, she tosses the blanket aside and moves into him once more to curl her fingers against the back of his head. He smiles into her kiss, pulling her down once more, and the dance resumes precisely where they've left off. The shades of the world melt away, everything beyond them stilling just as the rain has done.
They'll figure out how to face Paya in the morning.
Paya is positively giddy as she slides her bedroom door shut. Unveiled moonlight slants over her as she slips back beneath her covers, giggling audibly to herself as she does so and praying that she hasn't frightened the lovers too much.
What an evening.
Though her face still burns at the thought, she hopes–she prays–that Link and Zelda have continued with their nighttime activity. She can't shake the arresting images of their nude forms, entangled and trembling. Her mind wanders, wondering what it must feel like to be the Princess, to know how Link's body would feel flush against hers. And, even more peculiar, wondering what the Princess' skin might feel like beneath her beloved's hands.
How can she attempt to sleep now?
Paya finds herself haunted by the memory of her hand pressed against the fabric that protects her lower region; it's enticing, to say the least. She chooses to let the same hand rest against the place where her thighs meet, slowly inching towards squarely above her center, and it wrestles a dreamy sigh from her. Her unfocused gaze slides across the ceiling, the window, the receding rainclouds outside, and when sleep eventually does conquer her, she yields peacefully. Comforted by the images of Link's arms and with the echoes of Zelda's whimpers reverberating in her ears.
It's the most wonderful sleep.