Chapter Text
Rumi hates standing guard instead of patrolling.
She isn't quite brave enough to mention it— not when she can already imagine the unimpressed raise of an eyebrow Celine will offer if she tries— but the stillness, the lack inherent in the duty is enough to set her teeth on edge.
And Jinu never stops talking.
She's never gone so far as to ask Celine to assign her anyone else from the unit to be her partner but she silently entertains the idea as she watches Jinu where he's leaning against the wall and gesturing emphatically from the corner of her eye and has to resist the urge to snap at him for his poor posture at least seventeen times.
"— I'm just saying!" Jinu says, his voice almost echoing in the otherwise silent hallway. "You could stand to get out a bit more, you know? We're not always on duty and you just— what do you even do on our days off?" His voice is high and incredulous and Rumi bites the inside of her cheek to keep from rolling her eyes.
"Train, mostly," she says absently. Her posture is stiff and her expression is flat but her eyes are shifting steadily every few moments, muscles tense in anticipation of a threat she's beginning to believe she will never see. "You should try it some time… I'm starting to think you like it when I knock you flat." Her tone is outright smug and when she glances at Jinu she takes genuine delight in the flabbergasted expression on his face.
"You just get lucky," he grouses, scowling.
"What's the score as of yesterday? Fourteen wins for me this week? That's not luck— that's a pattern," Rumi quips in turn, laughter in her voice as her shoulders lose some of their tension.
Whatever retort her best friend is primed to make is silenced utterly by the sound of numerous pairs of boots against the stone and the flat, stiff expression settles back over her like she's pulling on a mask.
("She looks so… unhappy," Rumi murmurs to Jinu after Princess Zoey is led out of the castle with a retinue of guards.
She knows they're journeying to the Temple of Time, had heard Celine and Hana discussing it quietly some days earlier— knows too that she should not have that information at all and thus keeps it firmly to herself. She thinks Zoey looks more like she's leading a funeral procession than a pilgrimage and chides herself for the thought.
She remembers the princess offering her warm, dimpled smiles when Rumi passes her in the halls— remembers every swoop of her stomach and the way she can almost count the freckles splashed across Zoey's cheeks like stars against the evening sky.
Rumi thinks smiling suits the princess best and wonders how she missed the light in the castle dimming just a bit more with each passing day.)
The procession is much smaller now— guards having split off for other posts with reports to give and armor to shed, until there are only three or four of the senior knights, the princess, and an advisor. Rumi is relieved to see her adoptive mother home safely and knows her eomeoni will feel much the same way— dinner will be a cheerful affair tonight.
Hana's gaze shifts to look at the pair of them and when she mouths a silent: 'Hi, Plum.' with a smile, it's enough to make Rumi's expression soften with genuine joy and the smile that finds its way to her face is relaxed and warm. Stoicism is much more easily achieved in isolation, Rumi thinks distractedly.
Zoey glances directly at her as she passes and Rumi notices her swollen eyes and chapped lips about three seconds before she notices the shy smile being flashed in her direction. Her own smile pulls upwards into the awkward, dorky grin she can never seem to help— like she's forgotten all at once how the muscles in her face are meant to work and is simply trying her best.
"You look like you're in pain," Jinu mutters.
Rumi's face flushes immediately, the tips of her ears going hot as she waits for the princess to stroll nearly out of earshot before she stomps on Jinu's foot and glares at him. "Shut up!" She hisses.
She pretends she can't hear her Mama's laughter down the hall and tries not to imagine melting into the floor.
"You're an asshole," Rumi grumbles when relative silence returns to the hall. Jinu looks far too smug for how hard she'd stomped on his foot and she is almost tempted to do it again — especially when he opens his mouth and rolls his eyes simultaneously.
"Really?" He drawls, unbothered. "I'm sorry - I must have missed something. Were you not just smiling at the princess like someone electrocuted you ten seconds beforehand? Did I make that up?" His eyes are wide and there's feigned surprise plastered all over his face. Her sword rattles in its scabbard as she lunges for him—
"You're such a fuc—"
"Ryu!"
The sound of their unit commander's voice startles her from her course and Rumi collides with the wall sharply enough to make her shoulder twinge in protest, straightening up and saluting just as he rounds the corner. He raises an eyebrow at the pair of them and she can feel Jinu's shoulder pressed against hers stiffly; it's the most composed he's been their entire shift.
"Yes, sir?" She asks softly.
"The Captain wants a word."
Rumi's stomach drops but she nods sharply. "Of course. I'll head there straight away."
Jinu looks at her with naked surprise when their commander leaves them behind. Rumi almost imagines she can read his mind and wonders if he's mulling over the image of her that everyone else sees: the perfect, proper knight — youngest in the Imperial guard— someone to be admired. Untarnished. Certainly not someone who is being called to the Captain's office for an infraction at the drop of a hat. "What did you do now?" He asks.
"Now?" Rumi exclaims, eyes wide and heart beginning to pound. "What do you mean 'now'? I didn't do anything!" She insists.
"So she's calling you in for fun?" He replies, confusion threading itself through every syllable that tumbles from his lips.
"I don't know!"
Her hand smacks against the guard of her sword when she throws it up and Rumi winces, tries to take in a proper breath and feels the world tilt unsteadily to one side as she does so. Jinu reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder and the pressure is grounding — a better distraction than pricking herself with her dagger or biting her lips until she bleeds. Her next breath comes more easily and she shakes her head sharply, fringe falling into her eyes as some of her hair escapes the loose tie she'd dragged it into that morning; she still isn't used to the length of it now that she's cut it short.
"Sorry," she mumbles.
"It's fine," Jinu assures her. His voice is uncharacteristically gentle. No, that isn't right. They annoy each other more than any two people Rumi has ever met but Jinu may as well be her brother— when things in her life tilt irreparably sideways, he's always there. She wishes she could tell him without feeling like she's going to throw up; wishes that vulnerability was included on the long list of things she excels at.
"Go," he urges her with a push. "You know she hates it when we keep her waiting."
Rumi bolts to life like she's been struck by lightning, ducking her head and hurrying towards Celine's office at something only slightly slower than a jog— if she's disheveled by the time she reaches it, she knows Celine will say something and that's almost worse than the panic. She loves the other woman as much as she remembers loving her mother but that has never made it easier to be around Celine when she's working. Intense, Rumi thinks, is really too light a word for her eomeoni when she's fulfilling her role as Captain of the Imperial Guard — when she's Captain Kim and not Celine— not the woman who still kisses her forehead when she says goodnight and calls her 'Plum' with so much fondness in her voice Rumi feels the warmth of it creep through her like honey.
She forces herself to take a moment to breathe when she finally reaches Celine's office, spends several more moments fussing with her hair and hopes it isn't an unruly mess when she finally knocks.
"Enter."
Rumi presses her palm to the heavy oak door and pushes it open, peeking her head inside like she isn't wholly aware Celine is expecting her. Did something happen to Mama? No, Celine wouldn't call her into the office alone to tell her something like that— she'd have fetched Rumi herself. She fights the spiral off before it can overtake her completely and salutes sharply the moment the door is closed behind her. Something in Celine's expression softens openly when she looks at Rumi and the younger woman feels her shoulders relax the slightest bit at the sight of it.
Maybe it isn't quite as dire as she was imagining? She's always had an overactive imagination after all and it isn't one that's ever been cowed by the prospect of being overactive in a purely negative way.
"You wanted to see me?" She asks, relieved when her voice is steady.
Celine leans back in her chair and watches Rumi silently for such a long moment that Rumi begins to feel her breathing go unsteady again; she wishes she wasn't wearing her gloves, that she could dig her nails into her palms and provide herself with clarity; she wishes just as desperately that she wasn't having the urge at all.
"You've been promoted," Celine informs her. There's only brusque practicality in her tone but Rumi can hear the pride beneath it if she lets herself focus on it, knows it will be easier to hear when they're home later— when Celine can breathe without the weight of her position hanging over her shoulders. Rumi blinks, her head tilting to one side with a level of confusion that could only be described as puppy-like.
"I'm sorry?"
"You've been promoted," Celine repeats patiently. "To captain of the princess's personal guard."
Rumi blinks again.
And again.
And again.
Her heart thumps brutally in her chest with several uneven, off-kilter beats and when she opens her mouth the only sound that comes out is closer to a squeak than speech.
"What?" Rumi has never heard her own voice pitch so high.
There's a brief flicker of amusement in Celine's expression that she smothers as quickly as Rumi notices it, her eyes drifting briefly to a framed photo on her desk before they return to Rumi. She knows exactly what the photo is— has seen it so many times now it's practically engraved on a slate in her mind.
The five of them: her mother front and center with a sleeping Rumi bundled in her arms, her father with his chin resting on her mother's head and sporting the same crooked, silly grin she inherited from him. One of Kiheon's arms is wrapped around Hana's shoulders to pull her closer— Hana rests a hand on Mi-yeong's hip and laughs at something behind the camera while Kiheon's other arm is slung around Celine's waist as she rests her chin on Mi-yeong's shoulder and watches the entire scene with such undisguised fondness in her expression it always makes Rumi smile just to see it.
There's a flicker of pain in Celine's expression whenever she looks at the photo and it seems much closer to the surface now when Rumi meets her gaze; she wonders if that's her fault… she looks more like her father than she ever has with her hair cut to her shoulders and the smile she knows she inherited from him; looks more like her mother than she's ever thought possible with her eyes the same shade and smile lines in all the same places.
Rumi wonders if it's painful to look at her without her parents there.
Rumi wonders if Celine has ever held that against her.
Her thoughts are knocked loose by the sound of Celine's voice and Rumi forces herself to focus on the matter at hand— her apparent promotion and everything that means for her future, for her life, for every doubt she has pinging along the inside of her skull.
"The King selected you himself," Celine continues. "There were other candidates but we both know none of them would have been half so qualified." It certainly isn't something she should be saying but Rumi knows it's the fact that it's just the two of them that emboldens the older woman, that the wry dismissal of her other subordinates is simply an unassailable fact in her mind— that Rumi, to her, is likely the only choice; though it would have warred against every bit of propriety Celine has to admit to such a thing around anyone but her daughter or her wife.
"There must be some mistake—" Rumi can barely manage the words and her voice is still so high it's beginning to go shrill.
Celine sighs and the soft exhalation is enough to make Rumi's spine straighten even if she's aware that likely isn't the other woman's intention. When Celine stands, Rumi forces herself to remain as still and composed as she can manage— it isn't much, but clinging to her control of her own emotions is better than showing such blatant anxiety in a professional situation— her stomach churns and she worries, briefly, that she's going to need to use the plant in the corner as a waste bin.
"Do you think there is anyone else among our ranks who would be more qualified?"
Rumi stares at Celine blankly.
"N-no," Rumi stammers. "But surely if they were given time—"
"Time to…?" There's no judgment in Celine's voice, no harshness or ferocity; there is only the gentle steadiness that has always pulled Rumi through the worst of her anxiety, the guiding hand her mother has always offered being held out again if only Rumi will allow herself to take it.
"I don't—" Rumi struggles for words, takes in a sharp, shuddering breath and feels ready to vibrate into scattered particles when Celine finally steps into her space and rests both of her hands on Rumi's shoulders. Rumi melts. Her eyes burn as she exhales shakily and she feels her fingers shaking as she swallows back her frustration at her own reaction— fights for composure and finds it again after another handful of deep breaths. "What if I'm not ready?" Her voice is so small she feels like a little girl all over again.
"You are," Celine murmurs. There's so much confidence in her voice, so much surety that Rumi wants to protest again, wants to ask her how she can hold such a bone deep faith but knows the answer before the question has even finished forming itself in her mind. "You've been ready for a long while, Rumi. This is a great honor."
Rumi sort of wants to throw up.
Instead, she squares her shoulders and takes another steadying breath. Instead, she runs through a list of all of the reasons she knows she deserves this assignment. Instead, she wills herself to believe in her skills even a fraction as much as her family does.
She feels level when she finally exhales.
Celine nods, a pleased smile quirking at the corners of her mouth for a fraction of a second before she retreats to a trunk in the back of her office. Rumi knows it's for storage and wonders what could possibly be there right up until the moment Celine turns around and the sword cradled in her hands is so familiar that Rumi feels like someone has struck her across the back of the head.
"Is that Appa's—" She can't even get the question out without sounding breathless and she's almost afraid to run her fingers along the scabbard's detailing when Celine steps closer to her. It's her father's— something that had been passed down to him when he was only a few years younger than Rumi is now.
(She remembers the feeling of the smooth wood beneath her small hands as she pulls at the scabbard, succeeding only in throwing herself off balance with enough force to send her flat on her backside in front of her father's weapon. Kiheon looks mildly horrified for a split second before he crouches beside her and pulls Rumi into his lap with an easy laugh.
"And what are you getting into, aegiya?" He asks, leaning in to press kisses to her chubby cheeks until Rumi begins to giggle wildly.
She can't talk quite yet— has only recently managed to say 'Appa' without tripping over the word but Kiheon listens to her babbled, nonsense phrases with a look of intense concentration on his face— nodding deeply every few words like he's taking each one to heart.
"I see, I see," he muses. Mi-yeong stifles a laugh somewhere in the other room and he sees Hana peering around the corner with a mixing bowl in her hands and a look on her face that can really only be described as unbearably amused. "You make a fair point, Plum, but why don't we save the swordplay for later, hm? Perhaps in a few years? You'll be as fierce as any tiger you've ever seen by then, I'm sure!")
"It's yours now," Celine says quietly. She holds the sword towards Rumi and the look on her face is so openly proud that Rumi feels almost lightheaded— she isn't unaware that her mother is proud of her as Celine makes it clear as often as she can manage but the reminders are so rare when the trappings of their stations are draped over them and Rumi wants to cherish the moment for what it is. Wants to cherish the look on Celine's face and the offering being made and remember that if she is nothing else in the world she is someone who is deeply, deeply loved.
She's certain she'll need to give herself the reminder in the coming days more often than she doesn't; her low self-esteem has always fought a fierce battle against her ego— though attrition seems to be their favored state and she's never certain which will shatter first.
Her hands shake so badly when she wraps them around the scabbard she can hear blade clinking where it has the space to do so and she grips it so tightly her knuckles turn white when it's finally settled in her palms. The urge to unsheathe it is strong but she tamps it down— settles instead for a deep bow. "Thank you."
When she straightens again she's startled to see Celine's eyes are the slightest bit glassy and startled further still when she brushes her knuckles against Rumi's cheek affectionately. "Your parents would be so proud of you," Celine murmurs. "We are so proud of you." The amendment isn't necessary— Rumi has always considered all four of them her parents and Celine knows that as well as she does but it doesn't stop the lump that forms in her throat or the urge she has to throw her arms around the other woman and hug her tightly. She simply smiles a wobbly, overcome smile and tries to collect herself when Celine turns away.
"Your shift is almost finished for the day, yes?"
A rhetorical question. Rumi is at least ninety-five percent sure that Celine can recite the shift change schedules in her sleep but she keeps that comment to herself. She offers a low hum in answer and when Celine turns again she is smiling— one of those genuinely fond looks Rumi is certain she's never seen Celine give anyone other than her and her parents. It doesn't feel quite so overwhelming this time.
"I think we could make a compelling argument that leaving five minutes early will not bring disaster to the kingdom at large, don't you?" Celine asks, her expression shifting with the mischievous quirk of her smile. It happens so rarely but Rumi can't help but smile in return— it's the same look Celine used to have when they'd play tag in the woods around the town and Celine would choose not to tell Mi-yeong when Rumi hid in the trees just a bit too high for her own good; Rumi's failure to hide her own giggles during those afternoons took care of that silence for her.
"I think we could probably get away with it," Rumi says, trying for casual and ruining it when her voice cracks on a laugh.
Celine huffs out a low laugh of her own and straightens her office quickly as Rumi fusses with the buckles on the harness for her new sword— it feels slightly less alien in her hands the longer she holds it and when she finally slings it across her back the weight feels like it has always been there. She can't wait to get a proper feel for it but that will have to come another day— or perhaps after dinner when Celine tends to be more willing to spar in a way that won't find them both covered in bruises while Hana fusses over them.
Rumi hopes she never forgets those moments.
Zoey hates the quiet.
It's usually more difficult to find her silent than it is to find her rambling about something she finds interesting on any given day— the inert relics she's been collecting, a new species of frog she notices in the moat around the castle, a new dish she thinks she might want to eat for the rest of her life. Silence has never suited her very well and as she's gotten older it seems heavier in every way, like the silence is only creating space for her inadequacy to fill any given room.
Zoey hates the quiet because she hates being left with her own thoughts even more when they're like this— heavy, dark, crushing.
But everyone else is silent too and the only sounds around them are the steady clomp of hooves and her hands won't stop shaking where her fingers are clenching around the reins and her jaw aches because she's grinding her teeth again and—
"You're forgetting to breathe again, Princess."
Zoey startles so hard she knees Storm in the ribs and the stallion's complaint is loud and immediate even as Zoey leans down and runs a hand along his neck with murmured apologies. Her ears feel hot and she suddenly feels like she isn't quite sure how to fit into her own body. At least she's breathing without it feeling like she's sucking air through a straw— she'd passed out the last time that happened and the only thing more humiliating than the pall of failure now draped over the entire trip like a shroud would certainly be that.
Hana is smiling gently when Zoey looks at her and she manages a smile of her own when she makes eye contact with the older woman. Hana has been one of her father's advisors for nearly a decade— a skirmish with the Yiga left her bedridden for weeks and unable to continue in her role as a knight, at least, that's what Hana has always been willing to share. Zoey's favorite stories the other woman shares have always been of the time during her knighthood— stories of far off places Zoey will likely never see outside of ceremonies and exciting things she'll likely never do if her father has his way. There is more awe than jealousy in the feeling and Zoey prefers that— she prefers being happy even when the world seems keen to give her every reason not to be.
At least people pay less attention to her when she smiles.
"Sorry," Zoey mumbles, slouching in her saddle. She can practically hear her father scolding her for it and that makes her mouth twist with a frown before she slouches harder.
Hana waves a hand in a gesture that's somehow dismissive without being unkind and the easy smile on her face is almost enough to make Zoey feel better; the advisor never seems to lose her patience with anything— Zoey thinks it might be a blessing from Hylia but Hana always insists it's simply a product of raising a child.
"My daughter does the same thing," Hana explains cheerfully. "You'd think she's never panicked about anything in her life when you see the way she fights but she got overwhelmed trying to cook us dinner last week and cried for twenty minutes before she could figure it out." The older woman pauses for a moment and wrinkles her nose, "Don't tell her I told you that."
Zoey, who has only ever seen Rumi in the halls and only knows her name because of Hana and a reputation that seems much larger than the woman herself, is positive she'll never have any reason to talk to Rumi at all.
(Even if Zoey notices that Rumi always smiles so sweetly when she sees her that it makes something in Zoey's stomach twist or that Zoey had nearly walked into a wall three weeks ago when Rumi had been assigned a post in the wing of the castle her chambers were in and Zoey realized that Rumi's previously long, meticulously braided hair had been cut to her shoulders and tied back neatly enough— though the new style left fringe Zoey found endearingly messy and tried not to imagine running her fingers through.
That certainly wasn't appropriate.)
"Your secret's safe with me," Zoey says.
Her words are accompanied by a sage nod, as if she's imparting some divine wisdom she certainly doesn't have rather than agreeing to something that's really about as easy to do as tripping over her own feet— in her defense, her new boots are proving terribly difficult to get used to.
"You honor me, Your Highness," Hana replies playfully.
It's enough to earn a genuine laugh from Zoey and the knot in her chest loosens the slightest bit— like thread being tugged just right to untangle a horrid mess. She isn't sure whether the horrid mess is her life or her as a person but maybe it doesn't matter either way; she is failing at every turn and it makes her life more difficult by definition and it's all so, so exhausting. She wishes, in a distracted, wistful sort of way, that she could travel through time — perhaps to keep her mother from getting sick and leaving her to navigate the gifts she's no closer to understanding than she was as a child; or perhaps to a handful of years ago when she wasn't being scolded for being interested in anything other than the feeling of temple walls closing in on her more and more by the day and the tightening noose of her father's expectations.
Maybe she has always been destined to be chained this way.
Maybe she isn't supposed to be happy.
It's a distressing thought and Zoey feels the tears sting the back of her eyes before she can stop them; she's cried so much on their return journey thus far she's surprised she can make eye contact with the guards without feeling mortified and she presses the heel of her hand into one eye under the pretense of having gotten dust in it but her chest feels three seconds from caving in on itself and the taste of bitter disappointment is so sharp she can almost choke on it.
Why does anyone think she can do this? Why can't she just be free?
Destiny, her father would argue. Duty, he'd remind her sternly. She's meant to be fulfilling the divine purpose the women in her family have borne since antiquity and Zoey has to pretend she hasn't spent time daydreaming about burning the castle to the ground and being done with it. It isn't exactly a comforting thought for the future Queen of Hyrule to be having.
"You're doing the best you can," Hana says softly.
Zoey startles again but manages not to disrupt the soft rocking gait Storm has settled into, staring at Hana with blatant confusion written all over her face for a split second before she shakes her head. She stares hard at the detailing on the pommel of her saddle and tries to ignore the way her stomach rolls unpleasantly at the thought of disappointing her father again. It's all she seems to do these days. Sometimes she can convince herself it's all she's ever done.
"It's not enough," she says tersely.
Hana hums softly at her side and guides her own horse just a bit closer— privacy is difficult when they're riding in a column but Zoey feels somehow comforted by the lack of distance, can't help but wonder if this is what still having her own mother in her life would feel like.
"I think," the advisor begins thoughtfully, seeming to ignore the way Zoey is staring at her curiously. "You would get along with my daughter."
Zoey blinks.
Hana chuckles at the dumbfounded look Zoey imagines is on her face and pulls away the slightest bit to leave her to her thoughts. When Zoey pulls her lip between her teeth and chews at it nervously she can't help but replay the comment again and again, turning it over in her mind like one of the ancient writings tacked to her bedroom wall that she's been trying to decipher for the better part of three months.
Maybe a new friend wouldn't be so bad.
Maybe this small choice can be one her father doesn't protest.
Even if it's only a few minutes out of a few days— maybe, around Rumi, she can just be Zoey. Maybe she can breathe again.
By the time they reach the ascending path to the castle proper, Zoey is exhausted.
They've been riding for the better of the day but she's always been comfortable stopping to speak with the townspeople when she has the opportunity. It seems like such a small gift— her attention— but their warm smiles and the sound of children laughing while she listens patiently to their stories, to their claims that they want to be just like her when they grow up or the way their faces light up when she tells them all about a new animal they've never even heard of, well, all of that feels so much more manageable than the prospect of a conversation with her father.
She loves her father— really, she does!— he's always been the most constant figure in her life and he's a good man, a good king. It's just— especially lately— every conversation with him feels like pulling teeth; she opens her mouth and it feels like he's already decided how their conversation is going to go, like he already knows his arguments before she's even made her point and so all they do is argue. She feels like he looks at her and sees only a little girl; not the grown woman who has been told by others that she is brilliant and capable and strong. In whose eyes? Zoey wants to ask.
Certainly not in her own.
And certainly not in her father's. Not as far as she can tell, anyway. She wants to ask him, knows it will help her nerves, knows that he will probably remind her that he's proud of her and always has been.
But even the inkling of the idea that he won't say anything of the sort is enough to make her shy away from it. Zoey wishes things weren't so difficult between them but she can't admit it, settles for simply arguing until her lungs burn and agreeing to what her father wants anyway.
Zoey wishes she weren't such a coward.
She already knows there's no way she can avoid an immediate conversation with her father. The last time she'd tried to sneak away without doing her due diligence her father had laid into her so furiously that the guards posted in front of the audience chamber hadn't been able to make eye contact with her for a week. It isn't an experience she wants to repeat; if the disappointment is a noose then it's likely better to allow it to tighten— she can't get away from it, after all, and it's either that or hang herself.
She knows which she'd prefer.
When her thoughts unceremoniously rocket her back to the present moment she glances up to see Rumi— smiling easily in Hana's direction as the other woman gives her daughter as much attention she can while they are both working; when the knight's eyes shift back to hers, Zoey feels warmth in her cheeks almost immediately. Her heart gives an unsteady, tripping throb in her chest and she smiles shyly in Rumi's direction before she can help it— something just a bit too careful in the gesture, more fragile than she wants it to be.
Rumi's smile widens— crooked, eager and just a little awkward— Zoey imagines kissing her to feel the smile against her mouth and forces herself to look away as her flush deepens. They've never even had a conversation! They've never had a conversation and she's being inappropriate but it's hardly her fault Rumi looks dashing in her uniform and it isn't like Zoey has never noticed— she's just… well, she can't even really argue that she's shy. Sad, maybe— just a little too sad lately to chase after a good feeling until she can follow it to its source. She resolves to speak with Rumi properly tomorrow— to have their first real conversation and hopefully not embarrass herself so deeply she'll have to go into hiding.
She can do that! Rumi seems sweet— if those awkward smiles and Hana's stories are anything to go by, and Zoey can almost picture them laughing over tea if she gives herself just enough wiggle room amidst the clutter of anxiety her mind is most days.
Hana's voice derails her thoughts for the second time that day and Zoey wonders if that's another skill or if the older woman just has a particularly commanding presence; probably a combination of the two. She takes a slow, steadying breath as a herald pushes the door open and announces their presence and the guards remain at the door as they've been trained to do. Zoey wishes they'd come inside if only to provide a buffer but that will only add to the number of people who will have to watch her face flush with embarrassment and fury in equal measure and that feels like a loss no matter how many times she turns the thought over in her mind.
"Daughter," Yong-sun's voice is low and clipped. The bass of his voice used to feel comforting but now all Zoey feels is an ache in her teeth— another urge to grind them until the pain in her skull is more prevalent than the nerves. "How was your trip?"
His expression softens the slightest bit around his eyes and Zoey feels a trickle of relief float through her like salve on a burn before she processes everything he isn't saying and has to fight not to fidget. She's practiced the conversation at least twelve times on the return journey from the Temple and her words still fail her utterly— another slap in the face. Another disappointment to collect like a rupee jammed in her pocket.
"It was— I mean— do you mean the trip itself? Or the Temple?" She stammers, feigning an ignorance she doesn't have if only to give herself a few more moments of peace.
The king's expression hardens and Zoey watches his jaw work from side to side with a knot in her chest that creeps down into her belly like she's swallowed a slow moving boulder. She feels foolish now in addition to small and she imagines turning on her heel and leaving or maybe sinking into the floor or maybe telling her father that he can find someone else to—
"— we did not meet with success, Your Majesty."
Hana's voice is firm but quiet, like she doesn't have to raise her voice to draw all of the attention in a room to her — like she deserves to take up space wherever she happens to be standing. A sharp, hot pang of something awful catches in the back of Zoey's throat like bile and she feels the familiar warmth in her face as shame paints itself across her features with all the care of an artist's brush.
Her father's low sigh is an arrow and Zoey flinches without intending to even as she raises her eyes to meet his. Her hands are shaking again and the frown on his face is enough to make her lightheaded— he isn't even doing anything, really— he isn't a threatening man in her presence but he fills the room like someone larger than life would and she can hardly stomach the pressure of yet another tug on the noose. Her body itches to move and Zoey ignores it as best she can even as her father stands and approaches her in silence. He rests a large hand on her shoulder in what she assumes is meant to be a placating gesture but is one that nearly makes her knees buckle instead. She locks them and takes a deep breath— the sooner he expresses his displeasure, the sooner their conversation can be finished. The sooner she can return to her room and her cat and the space to breathe without feeling like something is being taken from her.
"That's a shame," Yong-sun says quietly. "We will have to do something about your training, then. Perhaps more study with the priestesses here in the castle before your next pilgrimage."
Zoey opens her mouth to remind him that she can recite scripture from memory better than most people can read— she tastes blood on her tongue when she bites her lip in response to the urge. She exhales shakily.
"Father, please— I've told you already that I don't think more prayer is the answer," she protests weakly. "I could be of more use studying with the Sheikah! If you'd just agree to let me stay in the village for a few months, I know I could—"
His expression becomes so thunderous that Zoey trips over her words mid-sentence and the silence that falls between them is so thick she feels like she can't breathe. "This is the way things have always been done, Ye-jin—" Zoey startles openly at the sound of her name, the name her father gave her himself, before she'd chosen the one her mother gave her in the end. "Your mother would have told you the same."
Frustration tears through her so abruptly that Zoey only feels the tears when they threaten to choke her and not when they begin to burn at the back of her eyes, "That isn't fair!" She cries. "Why aren't you listening to me? We've been going at it this way for months and it isn't getting any better! If you would just let me do this the way I want to then I really think—"
"My word is final." There is no sympathy in his voice, no kindness— only brutal practicality and steadfast belief. The dismissal is enough to make Zoey want to scream but she chokes the sound down alongside the blood in her mouth; when did she bite her cheek?
She opens her mouth to speak and her father continues, barreling through her protests with all the force of a bull ramming through a fence — Zoey isn't convinced he solves problems any other way but she worries she's being uncharitable for thinking so. She can't seem to help giving him the benefit of the doubt even when she's furious, even when her vitriol is so close to the surface she thinks it might spew from her the next time she opened her mouth.
"You are released from your duties tomorrow to recover from the journey and meet your new guard," he explains, not noticing or perhaps ignoring the furious gleam in her eyes when she stares at him. "Unlike the rest of the Imperial contingent— she will be your personal guard and she will accompany you in all things. You will comport yourself as expected of your station, am I understood?"
Zoey wants to agree— wants to assure him that she understands, that she can be good, that she can be anything other than a disappointment. When she opens her mouth all that comes out is: "That's bullshit!"
Her father's expression only darkens and Zoey has the briefest moment to feel regret and satisfaction in equal measure before he shakes his head slowly. The shame curdles her fury into something impotent and she shies away from the frustration in his face.
"This is not a discussion, Ye-jin. I am telling you because it is important that you are aware but it will not change simply because you think it's unfair." He's already turning towards Hana as he finishes speaking and Zoey feels the dismissal in the gesture as keenly as if he'd struck her across the face— that might have been less painful. Her throat feels tight and her eyes are still burning and Zoey says nothing at all as she turns and storms out of the room— dashing at the tears now flowing down her cheeks in earnest as she retreats to the one place people tend not to find her. She hears someone calling after her and wonders if it's her father, wonders if he has something else to ruin her day with or if he's going to apologize for being so harsh with her.
She wonders if an apology would fix anything and doubts the thought just as quickly as it comes. The wedge time is driving between them is immense and she doesn't have the slightest clue how to mend their unraveling relationship. Some part of her doesn't want to try and the rest of her feels so guilty at the thought she only cries harder.
She's still crying by the time she reaches her room and takes a moment to wipe the tears away before she squeezes through one of the windows with all the grace practice has given her and scrambles to climb the tower until she can sit atop it. The guards never seem to think to look for her there when she doesn't want to be found and she's small enough that she can obscure herself to some extent as she sits there. She fishes around in the small bag of supplies she'd stashed there on the same afternoon she'd seen Rumi with short hair— stop thinking about it, Zoey, for the love of the goddess— and hunches over her diary with a slow breath. Her hands are still shaking when she finds a pencil in the bag and begins to write— she doesn't have a plan as she jots things down and details everything from her current frustrations to ideas for new inventions she might suggest to Purah when next the other woman visits her and it isn't until she hears low grunts of effort as someone else scales the tower that she freezes.
Her shoulders relax instantly as the sight of messy gray hair begins to creep over the edge of the battlement and Myst, red faced and breathing hard, pulls himself onto the platform with a low grunt. Zoey smiles— it's been a while since they've had time to sit together without having to be the princess and her attendant; a while since they could just be friends who know each other better than almost anyone in the world.
"You look thirsty," Zoey drawls in greeting. She nudges the toe of her boot against his thigh where he's sprawled on his back in her vicinity and she watches him roll his eyes before his head lolls to face her and the frown on his face is enough to make her giggle in earnest. "Here," she mutters, passing him her canteen and grinning crookedly when he gives her one of his small, fond smiles.
He's never talked all that much— even when they were children Zoey had felt lucky to get a few sentences from him even if she'd been rambling about something for hours but she'd learned over the years that he's simply more comfortable listening. That he takes in the information thoughtfully and manages to assuage any worries she's having about any situation she's ever even thought to be concerned about; she knows she wants him to be her personal advisor when she is Queen— she's told him at least twelve times in the last few months and he always smiles that small, fond smile and agrees.
"What's going on?" Myst asks quietly.
Zoey scoffs— not at Myst, not really— maybe at the question or maybe at the idea that the servants who undoubtedly saw her making the trek back to her rooms in tears haven't already told half the staff what happened. "You haven't heard already?" She asks, petulant.
Myst raises an eyebrow and shrugs— it looks funnier than it should since he's practically lounging beside her, "I want to hear it from you, Zo."
The nickname makes her throat tighten for a brief moment but if she starts crying again Zoey knows she's going to lose her mind so she ignores the feeling and plows through it. "It didn't work. We went to the Temple again and did the stupid ceremony again and it didn't work, you guessed it, again! It just feels like I'm wasting my time and Father keeps talking about the 'looming Calamity'," she says this with such a dramatic note of mockery that Myst has to smother a laugh. "And I'm pretty much positive he doesn't even listen to me when I talk anymore, you know? I keep trying to just— to be calm and eloquent and explain myself which is seriously the worst as it is but honestly I think I should light a tapestry on fire next time and see if he notices! It'd get way more of his attention than I can!"
She huffs sharply and draws her knees up towards her chest before she rests her forehead against them, closing her eyes as she tries to gather her thoughts and calm herself down. She was shouting, she realizes belatedly, and now another chunk of the staff is going to know something's wrong with her. As if it isn't obvious by now.
"I just—" Her voice cracks and she presses her face into her knees even harder. "I hate disappointing him and it feels like I can't stop. It feels like I'm never going to figure this out and then when— if the Calamity does happen— we're going to be screwed and it's going to be all my fault." She feels so exhausted as the words leave her mouth that she imagines falling asleep exactly where she is— hollow and worn down and ready for everything be over.
It feels like they sit there for hours in silence— Zoey's positive it's only a few minutes, long enough for Myst to gather his thoughts and long enough for the tension in her body to uncoil— she always listens better once she's relaxed. "I'm sorry," Myst finally says. "It's a lot of pressure… I probably wouldn't be able to do it."
Zoey snorts. "You'd be fine."
He shrugs noncommittally, "No, Zo, I don't think I would. You're a lot stronger than you ever give yourself credit for." He sits up just enough to pull her into a hug— another rarity— and the surprise makes her lean into it hard; or maybe she's just desperate to be reminded that someone believes in her. "I know patience isn't always your thing but you can do this. I know you can."
She sniffles and buries her face into his shoulder and when she starts crying again he doesn't say anything.
"Thanks," she mumbles.
For a moment— with the afternoon sun washing over them and the faint scent of something citrus-y drifting from the fabric of Myst's tunic rolling over her more and more with each slow inhale— Zoey finally, finally feels like she can breathe.
Mira hates the dark.
It's laughable, really. She's an assassin, for one, and spends more of her time lurking in shadows than she does in the light— it's comical, an error of truly hysterical proportions that the darkness unsettles her so deeply. Perhaps it's a sign, she thinks some days, a feeling that's crept over her day by day with no real weight until suddenly she can't breathe quite right whenever she considers her life. It's lonely in the dark. It's lonely in the dark and she's been raised a predator— who in their right mind bows their head for a lion? Who in their right mind offers a hand to the beast that might end their life?
No one she knows. No one she's ever known.
Her family — folded into the Yiga generations ago — have always lived in the darkness; the shadows are comfortable, the shadows provide, the shadows make a mark on them the same way they are used in turn. Mira knows she's good at what she does but she knows equally that her heart isn't in it. She's tried, in the past, to tell someone— she can remember telling her brother once when she was much younger, after her first mission, when she'd thrown up after seeing the sick, satisfied smile on her father's face when she'd given her report.
Min-jun had told her she was weak and promptly informed her parents of their conversation.
Mira's training the following week was so brutal she couldn't move for three days when her father finally deemed her punishment sufficient.
She's never spoken to her brother in anything other than disinterested insults since.
It's so much easier to coexist with her family if she ignores them— it works less than she wants it to but it keeps her sane even if it has the added effect of making her desperately lonely. Theirs is not a life that encourages love or softness and Mira fears she has too much of both things to ever survive there but she is a talented liar and that alone carries her through most days. Her insistence upon gruff words and an ability to end a fight before someone has even truly managed to start it— well, those are bonuses. They keep her safe.
She's tired of safe.
It's a blessing in and of itself that no one can read her mind as she wanders the labyrinth they call home— her thoughts have drifted invariably to her escape plan or lack thereof. She's been considering it for nearly a year and all she needs is the courage to go through with it but the fear is there— sharp and sickening— and it's kept her from following through on the thought. It's infuriating. She's never shied away from a fight in her life but the thought of chasing the one thing she's ever wanted and finding nothing there in the end is… it shoves a knot beneath her ribs she has no way of dealing with and Mira hates herself a little more each day for choosing safety over happiness.
Maybe it isn't really a surprise, though— maybe she's never known happiness a day in her life and the lack means so little when she frames it that way.
She takes a slow breath as she approaches her home; training had been interrupted by a messenger informing her that her father wished to speak with her. Mira, sweating and annoyed, had brushed them off with a short comment about how she'd be there later. That had been three hours ago. Her father will be furious and Mira's already imagining the look on his face with equal parts trepidation and joy; if she's especially lucky, she'll have ruined her brother's day too. She'll take what small victories she can either way.
"What did you want?" She asks as she enters their home.
Her father looks annoyed the moment she opens her mouth and Mira has to fight not to allow the twitch at the edge of her lips she knows is the beginnings of a smirk. Her brother's already glaring at her like she's committed a grievous error and she returns his look with one of casual indifference; she knows he'll recognize the way she looks at opponents after she's wiped the floor with them and she hopes that burns going down. She hopes worse things, really, but one thing at a time.
"Your next target has been chosen," her father informs her. He sounds somewhere between bored and disinterested, like he can't be bothered to pay her more mind than he absolutely has to. She tries not to let it bother her but her hackles rise all the same and she tilts her head to one side, raising an eyebrow and waiting for him to continue. When he remains silent, she scoffs and rolls her eyes.
"Is that it? Do I have to guess who it is? Is this a new test you're giving me?" She asks, annoyance leaking into her voice.
"Watch your—" Her brother starts.
"No one asked you," Mira interrupts flatly.
Their father makes a noise that might be a sigh if he could bother with the effort and when Mira looks at him again she can feel his disgust like a blade against her throat. She's the nuisance, after all— far too good at the work she does to be disposable but a waste in every other area of their lives. At least, that's what she assumes goes through his head as he watches her. She doesn't want to know and she's never asked. It used to hurt so deeply she'd cry for hours alone in her room; it still hurts but in the way scar tissue is sometimes irritated and itchy— in the way of old, forgotten things. Forgetting is surely the most terrible curse of all— when the remembrance comes it hurts that much more.
"Our spies have informed us that the Princess of Hyrule continues her preparations to move against Ganon. This cannot be borne. Your task is two fold," Seungtae pauses and Mira keeps her expression flat. "You will assassinate the princess and her champion. In doing so you will ensure the superiority of our clan for years to come…" He trails off and his expression hardens. "You will bring honor to this family or you will be eliminated."
The finality in his words send a chill creeping along Mira's spine but she refuses to protest other than shaking her head with a snort of derision. "You can't be fucking serious," she mutters— more than loud enough for her father and brother to hear.
"Too weak to do it, aren't you? I knew it. I told Father you wouldn't—" Min-jun's voice is almost whiny and Mira briefly entertains the thought of punching him in the throat.
"You'd piss yourself the second you got near the castle town," she hisses, glaring.
Min-jun's face turns a particularly ugly shade of purple and Mira rolls her shoulders with a smirk; he's so easy to rile up it's hardly even a challenge but the storm under her skin is only getting worse and if she stays in the room with either of them she knows she'll explode. "Fine," she grits out. "It will be done."
She doesn't wait for an answer— she doesn't care to hear anything either of them have to say. When her feet hit the ground outside their home she simply continues walking, her half formed escape plan finally drawing itself to a fine point as she mulls her task over in her mind. If she refuses or tries to run she knows she'll be killed. It isn't in their way for the Yiga to leave traitors unattended and Mira's killed enough of them to know it isn't an idle threat. But if she succeeds and never returns, well, surely that would not be so terrible? As much as it pains her to consider, the princess is only another target and she's toppled targets who should have been able to kill her with their eyes closed. The champion would fall to her blade as well.
Mira breathes in shakily and tries to roll the knot out of her shoulder.
Two more. She'll add two more lives to the list of those taken and then she'll be free. A bit more blood and the rest of her life will flower for her like she's always dreamed it could.
She's ready to be done with the dark.
Rumi's first morning as captain of the princess's personal guard is quiet.
She's hopeful that that means it won't be an ultimately difficult assignment and the thought of being able to get to know Zoey just a bit more is one that makes her stomach flutter in a way she can only describe as pleasant. It's still early— the castle is waking up in bits and pieces, fog spilling into the moat and low areas as she treks down the path to the towers that encompass the princess's whole world if she chooses to remain in her quarters. She greets the guards quietly as she ascends the tower — thankfully, she's known all of them for months and their congratulations are genuine and warm even as she smiles back at them awkwardly and ducks her head sheepishly in response to their praise.
At least no one is telling her she doesn't deserve it. She thinks that would sting more than anything.
She shakes the thought away and reaches for her sword belt to run her fingers along the hilt of the blade, it feels grounding in some way and Rumi wishes for just a moment that she could remember her father's voice well enough to imagine him telling her all about her inheritance. Celine and Hana have only been able to give her so much information and she's grateful to them but she feels her parents' absences particularly keenly by the time she stops herself in front of Zoey's door.
"You can do this," Rumi says under her breath.
She squares her shoulders and hopes the expression on her face is the appropriate amount of confident and warm and knocks on the door. The faint sound of rustling is so low she doubts most people would be able to hear it but she waits patiently— silently— stepping back the slightest bit to give Zoey space if she wants to talk for a moment once the door is open. Rumi can't help but stare when the door swings open— Zoey's clearly just woken up if her mussed hair and slightly fuzzy gaze is anything to go by— but Rumi thinks she might be one of the most beautiful people she's ever seen. Her neck feels much too warm under the collar of her new uniform and she hurries to bow to the princess as Zoey steps back in what Rumi can only assume is surprise.
"Good—" Sweet Hylia, why is her voice so high? Rumi clears her throat. "Good morning, Your Highness. I wanted to introduce myself properly— my name is Rumi. I'm going to be your personal guard moving forward."
Zoey's expression goes from half-asleep to furious so quickly Rumi spares a moment to wonder at the speed of it but before she can open her mouth to smooth anything over— Zoey slams the door right in her face.
Rumi blinks slowly and lowers her head with a bitten off groan.
"Great."