Chapter Text
The sun barely peeks from behind the mountain ranges when Link awakes in the barracks of Hyrule Castle—strands of blonde hair plastered across his forehead from sweat. His muscles ache, somehow, despite the ample amount of rest he got, and he suspects that it has something to do with sleeping alone.
For two years, almost every night had been spent with limbs tangled, warmth pressed all over him, plush peach-hued lips ghosting across his lips, neck, and wherever else they may desire. In his narrow bed in Hateno, it had always been a constant in his mornings. Today, however, in the dawn of possibly one of the most important days in Hyrulean history, he wakes up by himself on an uncomfortable brand-new mattress.
Link’s room in the barracks is bare and minimalist: only furnished by a wooden desk and chair for a study, a small bookshelf with barely any books standing next to it, a metal railing screwed tight into the wall where his clothes hung. Much of his belongings still reside in his other (and much preferred) residences. He only brought a few tunics, pants, and underwear—enough garments to cycle through before his next planned journey back to Hateno. The only personal effect apparent in his room is a framed portrait of his queen hanging on the wall above his bed—a regal smile on her lips, golden hair adorned with a Gerudo-made tiara, royal green gown wrapped around her slender, delicate figure. The woman in the picture embodies the Goddess that she is—untouchable, otherworldly, transcendental. Though the framed portrait belongs to him, the picture itself is a formal photograph meant to be plastered on the walls of the castles; a far cry from the true nature of his relationship with the monarch.
His woman smiles with all teeth, snorts when she laughs, likes her hair short, hyperventilates when she finds intriguing ancient technology during their expeditions. She gets sunburnt easily. She sighs sweetly when he runs his fingers through her golden locks. She has a mole just under her left breast. She enjoys showering together with him, even though she knows it would take her longer to get ready. She loves fruitcake, and sometimes jokes that she loves it more than she loves him, especially when she’s hungry.
That woman currently sleeps on the other side of the castle, in her newly renovated chambers. He wishes he was lying in her bed, her body by his side.
After a slow stretch, he swings his leg to the side of the bed, and heads to the door leading to the washroom. Thankfully, since becoming a Commander of the Royal Guard (knightly vow renewal pending later today), the most private bedroom in the dormitory is his to use—complete with a bathroom only accessible to him. He could faintly remember passing by this very room when he was first accepted into the Royal Guard—sixteen, shorter, and juvenile—envying his Commander for residing in a much larger room than his soldiers. Yet, as a twenty-six-year-old, he can’t help but secretly enjoy the amenities and privileges granted to a high-level knight such as him.
As he strips off his sleeping shorts and steps into the shower, he silently re-thanks the countless men and women that had rebuilt and repaired the castle; a seemingly insurmountable task that surprisingly had only taken two years instead of… forever. Despite the fact that the castle grounds hovered above ground two years ago and lowered itself back down, destroying almost all of the foundations of the building, Hudson’s collaboration with both Link and Zelda became the catalyst for a smooth-sailing, efficient rebuilding process.
Yet, even with a brand new grand castle, a new shiny title, and a literal queen as his lover, a small part of him still longs for the simplicity they had become quite accustomed to. He misses the days spent doing nothing except lazing in each other’s company, where time seemed to not matter.
Most of all, he longs to love Zelda with no worry, no secrecy. To love her out in the open, to have her wholly, completely.
He quickly shakes his train of thoughts off before it derails him any further, and leaves the shower. There’s no use to lament for too long; he has to shave and put on his garb and tie his hair neatly and prepare his men and make sure that he appears as best as he can be. After all, it is coronation day.
It had been quite literally more than a century since he last donned his Royal Guard uniform, which is probably why he had forgotten just how stiff the outfit is. The design has not changed much; the red, blue, and black garb is still accompanied by matching ivory gloves and boots, complete with the beret. However, the burgundy cord (or aiguillette, Zelda had corrected him one time) that is slung across his chest is now complemented with a second, golden cord to distinguish his status as a Commander. A calf-length cape is also to be worn—made from a heavy, dark blue fabric complete with gold stitchings that certainly don’t give his whole attire a more dramatic flair. He wishes he had worn the costume during the final rehearsal run yesterday, maybe just to get a gauge of how ridiculous he looks before he wears it to the official ceremony.
Regardless, he could still appreciate the golden stitches adorning the edges of the cape; if one were to look closely, the stitches’ pattern depicts small silent princesses, neatly sewn, one after another. Though the cape itself had been cut and sewn together by a skilled seamstress, Zelda took it into her own hands to stitch the silent princess pattern onto the fabric. She told him that it was a secret code that she had painstakingly carved, each flower representing I love you, I love you, I love you—only to be deciphered by the intended wearer of the garment.
With his entire outfit tidily put and the Sword slung over his left shoulder with a leather strap, Link walks out of his room, and greets the rest of the Royal Guard unit, who amazingly had gotten dressed up and ready to go even earlier than he did. With two hours to spare before the event starts, he runs through the schedule with the knights once more, ensuring that every minute detail in the ceremony runs smoothly.
Afterwards, he dismisses them, encouraging them to have a hearty breakfast at the canteen to endure the busy day ahead. On his way to join his men, he hears someone call his name.
“Sir Link!” He turns around and finds one of Zelda’s handmaidens, running on the cobblestone to reach him.
“Malena. Is there a problem?”
She pants a little, exhausted from her little jog. “N-nothing is wrong, Sir. It’s just Her Majesty, she, ah— she wishes to see you in her chambers.”
Beneath the many layers of clothing, his stomach grumbles. But he’d sooner starve rather than skip an opportunity to see Zelda.
“Understood. Thank you for relaying her message.”
Malena smiles shyly before bidding him goodbye, jogging back into the castle.
On his walk to Zelda’s chambers, he passes by various staff who are currently putting on the finishing touches for the ceremony. A red carpet is already laid out, ready to lead the queen from the tower where she resides all the way through the vast gardens of the grounds, into the Sanctum where the High Priestess and the crown will await.
His body remembers the way to her room—the creeping feeling of I’ve been here before ever present in his brain as he ascends the spiral staircase leading to her quarters. Even though he hasn’t had the chance to visit her in her bedchamber since they moved here five weeks ago, when he raises his fist to knock on her door, there is a phantom magnet in his knuckles that pulls them to the smooth mahogany surface.
“Come in.”
He swings one of the double doors open to reveal Zelda sitting at her vanity table, her green eyes fixed on him. The view of her punches him breathless.
She looks so, so beautiful, and he cognizes that no photograph nor painting can truly capture the reality of her being. Her hair is longer now—the ends resting on her mid-bust, the middle part branching into braids that frame the outline of her forehead. A pearl necklace with a large sapphire stone hangs around her neck—her wrists adorned with golden cuffs with intricate designs. Her figure is wrapped in a white gown with gold accents, reminiscent of the prayer dress she used to don all those years ago. This one, however, is long-sleeved and floor-length, the train of the dress billowing behind her.
He shuts the door behind him and immediately bows his head. He could already feel her rolling her eyes at him.
“Your Majesty,” he says, despite her earlier protests of addressing her by her formal title. “You look beautiful.”
She laughs. “You flatter me, Commander.”
He steps forward to where she sits–his eyes darting around the room to make sure that there aren’t any lurking handmaidens to catch them. When he finds nothing, he bends down to kiss her forehead and both cheeks, before brushing his lips on hers–proper and sweet. It still feels a tinge scandalous, almost, to do such a thing to the lady that now sits in her coronation dress and is about to undergo the holiest ceremony known to man. But judging from her soft hum in reply and her content expression, he thinks that she doesn’t mind in the slightest.
Her bare hand reaches for his gloved one, feeling her warmth seeping through the fabric.
“Have you eaten breakfast?” She asks.
“No, ma’am.”
“Link! You must. We have a long day ahead of us,” she protests. “Grab some scones over there on the table. There’s coffee, too, but it’s already cold, I’m afraid.”
He smiles at her, heart buzzing from her concern over his hunger. He walks away from her to the far end of the room, where two armchairs and a table rest against a floor-to-ceiling window. Taking a scone in his hand and a knife in the other, he cuts the pastry in half before spreading what seems like wildberry jam onto it. As he takes a bite, he hears fabric shuffling behind him and turns around to find Zelda walking towards the foot of her bed to sit there. The sight could easily be mistaken for a bride—dressed all in white, waiting for her husband to join her in their wedding bed. It stings him a little, knowing that such a moment cannot happen, at least not soon.
When he quickly finishes three scones and takes a swig from Zelda’s leftover coffee, he takes the Sword from his shoulder and leans it against her bedframe. He approaches her and joins her on the bed’s edge, knees pressed together yet not quite–layers and layers of fabric separating his skin from hers. He aches to touch her, so he takes off the white glove covering his left arm to lace his fingers with hers, feeling the raw silk of her skin. His thumb rests on the pulse on her wrist, a little comforting totem of his ever since she came back home to him after defeating the Demon King. She’s real. She’s here with me.
“I’ve missed you, Zelda,” he says, melancholy laced in his voice. Maybe it sounds stupid to say that he misses her, knowing full well that they had spent every single day in each other’s presence, and yet, it wasn’t the same. They both have drowned themselves in their duties, in the coronation and the grand reopening of Hyrule Castle, that their personal lives have receded into the back of their minds.
It has been five weeks since they slept in the same bed. Five weeks since they last made love. Of course he misses her.
“I’ve missed you too, Link,” she replies, gaze trained on their intertwined fingers in her lap. “I’m sorry we haven’t been able to spend much time together like we used to.”
He turns to kiss her temple, softly, careful not to mess up the tight, neat braids. “It’s alright. We both know what we signed up for when you decided to become sovereign.”
With a sigh, she fully leans onto him, her head resting on his shoulder. “I know. Yet a part of me wants to run away today. We can just live out our days in the middle of nowhere, just the two of us,” the sharp angle of her nose digs into his shoulder, now—a welcome sensation. “We can just… make love all day. Bake fruitcakes every day. Do whatever we want, whenever.”
The idea sounds very appealing to Link. If there is a heaven, he thinks it sounds a lot like what she just said. But when all is said and done, he is a realist; and he knows that such a lifestyle will not suffice for either of them. She loves her kingdom and her people, and has been looking forward to truly rebuilding Hyrule for the past two years. And this time around, she will lead with hope and peace, with the right people by her side to help her.
As for Link, he is content wherever, really. All he wants to do is to spend the rest of his days—long or short it may be—remaining at her side and helping the people of their beloved land.
“Hey,” he shifts to fully face her. “You’ll be a great queen, I know that. All of us are here today because we believe in you, Zelda. The things that you did for your people—it's colossal. We went from a broken kingdom going through two world-ending wars to a fully functional country with laws and trade deals and an economy and everything in between… It’s all because of you.” He brings up a hand to caress her cheek. “Besides, we can always go to the middle of nowhere to bake fruitcakes and make love all day whenever we’re not busy.”
The nervous pensiveness that marred her face turns into a wide smile with teary eyes, and it takes the world for him to not kiss her and worship her right then and there, the way his body desires. When her smooth hands come up to cup his cheeks, thumbs idly brushing against his freshly-shaven face, something within him breaks a little.
“You talk as if you weren’t there by my side, every step of the way.” She reminds him. “I’m able to be where I am today because of you, because we fought for this place together.”
He catches her palms in his own, bringing them to his lips and kissing every knuckle, each graze an unspoken I love you, I love you, never leave me, marry me, marry me.
When his eyes flutter open to look into her forest greens, he sees the apology, the sorrow that rests behind those eyes. The ongoing war between their duties and desire hangs heavily in the air around them. The pang in his chest is ever present, longing to be relieved by being able to love her completely, to not have to sneak around just for a few minutes of hushed intimacy.
But Link is a patient man. His queen was once a dragon, traversing the skies quietly for thousands and thousands of years before he brought her home. To wait a few more years to marry her pales in comparison to what she had done. It should be all right, or at least that’s what he tells himself when he sleeps alone at night.
The pregnant silence is broken by the ringing of the bell tower. One hour left until the ceremony.
Before Link can get up, Zelda leans in and lands a kiss on his lips, slow and languid. Her delicate hands in his hold tremble. Teeth ever so slightly catch his bottom lip that he couldn’t help but lightly gasp—a river of yearning precariously dammed by a sense of duty.
She pulls away to rest her forehead on his. “I’ll see you at the Sanctum?”
A wistful smile graces his lips. “I’ll see you at the Sanctum.”
***
“All rise for Her Majesty, Queen Zelda.”
Every attendant, with the exception of the already-standing Royal Guards, heeds the command by the High Priestess—rising from their seats in anticipation of the Queen’s arrival. They fill in the rows and rows of benches, separated in the middle to make way for the aisle leading to the dais at the front centre of the hall. The first row is occupied by Zelda’s closest friends; Impa, Purah, Robbie, and Paya, followed by the Sages: Chief Riju, King Sidon (and his wife Queen Yona), Tulin, and Yunobo. The rows behind, meanwhile, are taken by various village chiefs, royal advisors, and other notable figures of Hyrule. While the rest of the nation can’t fit in the Sanctum, Zelda had requested the coronation committee to prepare the half-finished Castle Town to house as many spectators as possible for a meet-and-greet after the ceremony.
Link stands alone in front of his men—back straight, chin up, and fists still at his sides—to the left of the dais. Across from where he and the guards are stationed, the kids in the choir stand begin singing ancient hymns and songs, heavenly voices echoing and reverbing throughout the Sanctum.
All murmurs and whispers from the spectators immediately hush upon Zelda’s entry into the Sanctum, her steps slow and deliberate as she nears the dais—leaving only the divine melodies of the choir to fill up the room. Page boys of every race follow behind her, holding the long train of her coronation gown. Her eyes are firmly trained on the throne atop the raised platform. Not once does she turn her head or even avert her unflinching gaze to meet any pair of the hundreds of eyes that behold her. Yet, when she steps up onto the stage, her face turns just enough for her emeralds to meet his ocean blues—a fleeting second of acknowledgement, of encouragement:
You can do this. I’m here with you.
He could stay looking into her eyes forever, but then she turns to face the throne once again and the High Priestess standing beside it.
When her feet are still and firm on the dais, the page boys leave her to retreat to the back of the hall, the choir turns silent, and the High Priestess, at last, begins the ceremony.
“We are gathered here today, in the middle of this holy land, to welcome a new age; a new age that shall be filled with prosperity and peace. In this very Sanctum, we come to crown a queen who shall guide our kingdom toward a bright, bright future.
“Hyrule has seen many evils since its beginnings eons ago. Calamity once ravaged this land, and as a people, we were mired in despair. Yet through all those tragedies, we must remember: this land was first built from love, love from the Mother Goddess herself. And today, we stand as living testaments to the power of love, of strong faith, in the face of adversity. And so what an honor it is to oversee this momentous occasion in anointing our new sovereign.”
As her opening speech draws to a close, three other Priestesses approach her, each holding a red velvet pillow on which a sacred object rests. One of them possesses the Hyrulean Royal Diadem (which once belonged to the late Queen and had been salvaged from the castle a few years ago), the other a golden flask filled with what Link suspects to be the holy oil, and the last one a ceremonial scepter with the Triforce symbol on its head.
The High Priestess retrieves the golden flask and stands in front of Zelda. The countless rehearsals have so effectively drilled the ceremony’s procedures into Link’s mind that he knows that what will come next is arguably the most solemn, most sacred part of the ritual.
“Is Your Majesty willing to take the oath?” the High Priestess asks.
Zelda nods. “I do.”
“Very well, repeat after me,” the High Priestess says. “I, Zelda Celestina Bosphoramus Hyrule,”
His queen’s voice wavers at first. “…I, Zelda Celestina Bosphoramus Hyrule,”
“...Vow to protect this land and all the beings that dwell within,”
“Vow to protect this land and all the beings that dwell within…” the monarch repeats. She has done that many times over, Link thinks.
“Be guided by the Mother Goddess in my holy mission to lead this kingdom,”
Her green eyes are almost fiery, now—her voice determined. “Be guided by the Mother Goddess in my holy mission to lead this kingdom,”
“For as long as I shall live.”
A resolute smile graces her face. “For as long as I shall live.”
The High Priestess’ lips turned upwards, too—pride blossoming on her expression—before unscrewing the flask and wetting her thumb with the holy oil. She then raises the finger to hover in between Zelda’s brows.
“Your head, anointed by holy oil,” the thumb finally brushes against her skin, and roams down to her palms—another brush of the oil. “Your hands, anointed by holy oil,” then travels just above her bosom. Final brush. “Your heart, anointed by holy oil,” the High Priestess’ hand retracts back, marking an ending to the sacred ritual. “As the Queens that have come before you; anointed and sanctified to be sovereign of the Kingdom of Hyrule.”
The golden flask is screwed close, and laid back onto the red pillow held up by one of the Priestesses. The others carrying the crown and the scepter come to stand on either side of the throne, beckoning for the newly-anointed queen to sit on her birthright.
Once she is seated, the High Priestess lifts the crown and puts it snug on her head. Link wonders if the diadem sits heavily around her skull. If she could sense the magnitude of the symbol that now she possesses.
Next, the ceremonial scepter is given to Zelda, and she takes it in her right hand, her fingers wrapping tightly around the embellished gold metal, holding it in front of her torso.
There she is, in her divine splendor, with a crown on her heavenly head and a scepter in her celestial hand and holy oil slathered on her holy skin—a Goddess who has so gracefully descended upon this realm to bless mere mortals like him with her presence. Such godlike sight should be forbidden for ordinary men to behold, but by Hylia, he cannot bring himself to look away.
The High Priestess stands aside and turns to face the audience, baring the monarch for all to see.
“All hail sage lady, Hylia’s daughter, our glorious Zelda Celestina Bosphoramus Hyrule,” the High Priestess proclaims. “Long live the Queen!”
“Long live the Queen!” The crowd roars in unison, erupting in a chorus of applause and cheers, echoing all around them. It’s almost deafening, really—that Link thinks this might be the loudest the Sanctum has ever been. He could even hear the roars from outside; the spectators in Castle Town must have also joined the rallying cry to honor their new queen.
After what seems like a whole hour, the High Priestess raises her right hand up in the air, motioning for the crowd to quiet. The other Priestess retrieves the royal scepter from Zelda’s grip, replacing it with a navy blue box with the royal insignia impressed on the surface.
Here we go.
While Link is no stranger to knightly vows and uttering oaths in public, this one feels more monumental than the last one that he made a hundred odd years ago. Even after multiple rehearsals, he feels his heart rate rise from anticipation, from the imminence of his part of the procession.
“As with any newly-anointed monarch, a Head Knight is chosen to safeguard, shield, and defend the sovereign in upholding her holy mission. To protect the Queen is to protect the Crown, and to protect the Crown is to protect the land. Thus, it is the second most sacred duty in the kingdom, just below the monarch’s.” She turns to Zelda. “Will Her Majesty make known of her chosen Head Knight?”
His queen stands up. “As sovereign, I have chosen my protector, my swordsman, Commander of the Royal Guard, the Hero of Hyrule, Sir Link.”
All eyes dart to him as he leaves his station to make way to the dais, heart in his throat, palms perspiring. The significance of the moment that now unravels before him finally dawns upon him; his undying loyalty will be witnessed by the whole nation, his utmost wish to always be by her side will be consecrated until his soul leaves his body for good.
With resolve, he stands before the raised platform, gaze fixed on his Queen— his Zelda. Her expression is a tapestry of pride and adoration, and he wants nothing more than to kneel before her, to openly profess his love for her the only way that a knight to a queen could. So he does; his body lowers onto the floor, Sword unslung from the crook of his shoulder to lay flat in front of him, his knees digging into the slight softness of the carpet. His eyes are trained onto the ornate scabbard in front of him, afraid that he might implode if he looks at her for a second too long.
“Sir Link, are you willing to accept the sacred duty of protecting your Queen?” The High Priestess asks.
“I do,” he answers. It’s probably the easiest question he has ever had to answer.
“Very well, then. You may voice your oath.”
He clears his throat, inhales—then the practiced words pour from his lips.
“I vow to become your liege man of life and limb; truth and faith I will bear unto you. My soul and my sword are yours…” he pauses, finally tilting his head up to meet Zelda’s eyes, “in this life and the next, until the end of time.”
Her lips quiver but her voice is steady when she replies: “Thank you, Sir Link. Please rise.”
His gaze doesn’t leave hers as he rises, the hilt of the Sword in his hand. Her feet step forward to the edge of the dais where he awaits. When she is finally within arm’s reach, she opens the blue box, revealing a golden medallion with the Triforce embossed on its surface. He has seen it before, on the lapel of his former Commander before the Calamity—one of its kind and only awarded to the Head Knight of the monarch. She takes the medallion out and passes on the box to one of the Priestesses before facing him once more.
“I hereby bestow the Royal Hyrulean Order of Sacred Gallantry upon you, my Head Knight, as a recognition for your outstanding service to your kingdom, and your oath to your monarch.”
Her hands rise to his chest, the red ribbon of the medallion trapped between her thumbs and forefingers, and finally, finally he could feel her digits pressed just below his collarbone—his skin sizzling even through his coat. Her eyes dart down to work on pinning the needle against the thick fabric, teeth biting her lower lip in concentration, fingers barely trembling as the medallion is secured onto him. Her eyes flit back up, meeting his, and for a moment he can’t sense the audience in the room, nor their attention on him—it is just the two of them in the heart of the Sanctum: knight and princess, hero and goddess, boy and girl, Link and Zelda.
She leans down, then, before he even realizes it, and lands a chaste kiss on the cheek. His eyes flutter shut for a second, the embossed surface of the Sword’s scabbard imprinting onto his palm as he holds on tight to it, willing every fiber of his being to not give in and pull her into his arms. When she withdraws, a soft, tender smile unfurls across her lips.
“May the Goddesses shine upon you forevermore, Sir Link.”
For him, it’s not difficult to think that they may have already blessed him for life.
***
The ballroom is as packed as it can be after the ceremony came to its conclusion. All that’s left to do is to celebrate, to dance, and to feast. Zelda had specifically designed the celebration part of the day to not be too formal, unlike her predecessors. The throne is not present in the room; instead, she has opted to put multiple round dining tables where her guests could sit wherever they please, and strike up a conversation with her whenever they wish. After all, she has spent the years after the Calamity just being a scholar and a teacher above all else, refusing to let her princesshood keep her away from being directly involved in various Hyrulean communities.
Link has seen it firsthand; how she taught the children at the school in Hateno and insisted that they call her Miss Zelda instead of Princess Zelda. How she mingled with cooks all over the country and shared with them her favorite recipes that he’d taught her. How she helped any random passerby that might be in need, no matter how big or small the problem.
Slowly but surely the kingdom rises from its ashes, naturally rebuilt after their queen’s very own image—kind, compassionate, and loving.
Link spies her from across the room; she no longer wears her coronation dress; instead, she is wrapped in a corseted royal gown, dark blue with a neckline that shows off the taut skin of her collarbone. The circlet still rests around her head, golden and glimmering under the fluorescent lighting of the ballroom. Her elbows rest on the clothed roundtable, listening intently to a woman (a royal advisor, he notes,) while sandwiched between Riju and Impa. He wonders what they might be talking about. While he is almost always involved in these so-called 'royal huddles' (he is the commander of the military, after all,) he notices that there are still topics to which he is not privy.
He shifts his attention to the middle of the ballroom instead, watching the guests dance and mingle. His friend Sidon (King Sidon, sometimes he has to remind himself,) is swaying gently to the band’s music, with his beloved Yona in his arms. They seem to pay no mind to the people around them—existing only in each other’s presence. Yet everyone could see them for what they are anyway: two simple beings in love. Link’s grip on his glass of mead tightens a little.
When the clock strikes ten, many begin to filter out of the room, bidding everyone else goodbye and going to Zelda to congratulate her once again and thank her for the invitation. She’s all smiles and waves, but from the faint shadows underneath her eyes, he knows that she is feigning tirelessness.
Some guests stay behind, enjoying one more round (or two) of free wine and beer before finally leaving. In the end, perhaps after another hour, the only ones left in the ballroom are him and Zelda, and the castle staff that begin to clean up after the party. He makes his way to her table from the bar, and she watches him, eyes tired but smiling nonetheless.
He sets the now empty glass on the table and offers his hand to her.
“Perhaps it is time to rest, Your Majesty.”
She takes his hand; her gloved fingers lying gently on his as she rises from her seat. “Perhaps it is. Would you mind escorting me to my chambers?”
“Not at all.”
She lets go of his hand, then, and his clothed palm almost aches from it. They exit the ballroom and walk through the numerous hallways that eventually lead to her tower.
“What a day,” she muses as they ascend the final spiral staircase to her chambers. “We spent so much time preparing for this. It feels so strange that it’s finally over.”
“Are you glad?” he asks.
“I am,” she replies. “I can’t wait to begin the real work, now. The pageantry and grandeur will always stay, I’m afraid. They come with the package when you’re the head of the state. But next week, we will have our first council meeting regarding establishing the first university in Hyrule. That is what I really look forward to, more than my coronation or what have you.”
Always the scholar, his girl. His chest aches a little from pride.
They finally meet the doors to her bedroom, and their feet pause in their tracks.
“Well, this is me,” she says.
He knows what that means; he plants a kiss on her cheek, bidding her goodnight. But when he turns around, her hand catches his wrist, stopping him.
“Link, I’m not telling you to leave.”
He meets her eyes. What?
“I want you to…” she gulps. “I want you to stay.”
His fingers tremble in her near-deathly grip. “Are you sure?”
Her reply is a nod; her back leans onto the door and it swings open with her weight. She stares at him the entire time, fingers still wrapped around his hand as she leads them both inside. He follows her (he would follow her no matter what anyway, anywhere she wants him to,) and without a word, his free hand grabs the door handle, closing it behind him. A few inches to the left and he finds the lock, sliding it into place, shielding them from the cruel world outside. That free hand frees the Sword from his side to lean it carefully on the wall next to the door.
She leads him to the middle of the room, slowly, until they stand in front of the already-stoked fireplace, their skin warm from her fireside and something else entirely.
Her grip finally loosens on his wrist, and her hand wanders upwards until they reach his beret, taking it off his head, then throwing it onto the chaise next to the fireplace. Her fingers are buried in his hair before they find the well-worn hair tie, pulling it out and letting his blonde strands fall around him. Her eyes are indecipherable, at first, but then she opens her mouth and holds the teal-blue band between her teeth as she frees her arms from her gloves, tossing them to the floor. His jaw clenches, his arms heavily limp at his sides, simply clueless about what to do with this divine woman that holds such a spell on him.
With her arms bare, she takes his tie from her mouth to slide it onto her left forearm, and something about the simple sight of his hair tie on the pale of her wrist sends a thousand electric keese low in his stomach.
She presses her palms flat on his chest, smoothing out the fabric there until they drift to his collarbone, undoing the tie that holds his cape together. It slides off his shoulder with ease, his body already feeling lighter from the lack of it. If she strips more of his clothes, he’ll feel so weightless he’s certain he could fly.
Her fingers rest on the crook of his shoulders, thumbs drawing nonsense patterns on the delicate skin of his neck. The feeling of her digits on his bare throat jolts him enough out of his trance, and he finally indulges in his body’s wishes, his arms slithering around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
“Link,” she breathes out. “I’ve missed you. I have missed you so much.” Her right hand travels north to his jawline, caressing him there so softly. A tongue wets her lower lip, and something untamed within him threatens to break free. “Every cell in my body misses you. I can’t bear another night without you.” Her bosoms swell and fall in the confines of her corseted gown, and he prays to the Three to grant him the strength to not immediately tear the dress off of her. “I can’t bear another night without you,” she repeats, her utterance a whisper.
Behind her back, he makes quick work to take off his gloves—skin itching from its basic need to touch her, feel her. All the layers suddenly become too thick and too constricting and he has to get out of them or else he might combust. At last with naked hands he cups her face, thumbs ghosting over the red of her cheeks, the bow of her bottom lip. When her breath hitches upon his digit resting on the corner of her mouth, he fears that they may have ventured onto the precipice of something dangerous.
Yes, Link is a patient man, but at times, he can be quite selfish. And right now, what with her explicit admission of needing him close, her inability to sleep another night without him—he wants nothing more than to have her completely. Right now, he is no hero. Just a man starved, dying of thirst.
“Zelda,” his voice is a low and rough thing. “I feel the same way.” Somehow, logic dawns on his brain. Bad timing, he knows. “But we agreed two years ago to keep this private until you’re settled enough as queen.”
“I asked my advisors today,” she replies. “One subject led to another until we discussed the matter of suitors. I asked them, what if the queen already has the perfect candidate for such a position? And they said…” she clears her throat. “…Perhaps it is the natural next step to finally make the hero a prince.”
His stomach flips, chasing hope. “They know?”
“I think they do,” she smiles. “Maybe not to the full extent, but how could they not? There’s no one else in this realm for me but you.” His heart is doing somersaults now, battering against his ribcage, wanting to escape to be with its other half. “I’ve been a fool, really. All this time I thought the people would talk, would find something wrong with it. But it is the most sensible thing.”
He exhales. “Does this mean we—“
“Yes.” She whispers.
That dam he built a month ago finally fractures—a violent torrent that flows out of his mouth as his lips crash on hers, like waves on a shore under a full moon. A small moan reverberates from her throat and it sends him reeling, reeling for more. He claws at the velvet fabric on her back, and feels the tugging of her deft fingers as she works to detach the aiguillettes and undo his belt—all the while her lips start to slightly part, welcoming his tongue and hot breath.
With more and more of his garments stripped, an avalanche of clothing onto the floor, all that’s left is his tunic, pants, and boots. To take them off is the greatest challenge, because it requires him to pull away from her, breaking their kiss, breaking the tending of the embers in their mouths. But if he made that small sacrifice, he’d finally be able to feel her, skin to skin, fire to fire, truly and completely. His brain likes that reasoning, so he withdraws.
“We have to…” he starts, willing his mouth to speak instead of zeroing in on hers again. “We have to take it all off.”
She pulls away from him. Smiles at him. “Good thinking.”
His brain short-circuits a little, but musters up a nod. He plops down on the chaise to unlace his boots as she steps out of her shoes, pulling off her circlet and settling it on her vanity desk. It’s really, really difficult to focus on his task when she’s peeling off her earrings, her eyes fixed in the mirror—on her fingers’ work in loosening the metal pin. He wonders if she knows how devastatingly beautiful she is. If she knows what she does to him.
With the right boot off he shifts to the left one, come on, do it quick—but whatever morsels of sanity left in him perish when she appears in his periphery, kneels before him and begins helping him unlace his left boot.
It’s not right; it’s downright blasphemous. There is a goddess in this room and she is on her knees, her hands on his boot that has been dirtied by the ground, when it should have been him kneeling before her, taking off her shoes, kissing her holy feet.
“Zelda, you don’t have to do that,” he breathes.
“I just want you out of your clothes quickly, Link,” she grabs his calf with firm hands, and tugs it off of him. “Forgive a woman for taking initiative, will you?”
She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what she does to him.
He takes her face in his palms, leans down and kisses her, desperate. She sighs against him and melts and melts, protests—“Link, come on, I want to get in bed with you,” she laughs, but his throat is dry and she is water and he needs her. He doesn’t know what to do with himself.
She retreats, taking his hands in hers and kissing them, before letting them go. With one swift move he takes his tunic off, tossing it aside, and finds Zelda staring at his bare torso, her gaze sharp behind those long eyelashes. She rises to her feet, then, and before he realizes what she was about to do she hikes up the hem of her gown, revealing her sheer white stockings, and his fingers immediately fly to the garters, loosening them and shimmying them down her legs.
Miles and miles of skin in front of him, and it truly takes the world for him to not consume her right there, but he can’t deny his queen further. She was kind enough to take the boots off her knight, and so he has to return the favor, make quick work of undressing her.
He stands and maneuvers her around until her back faces him, and finally his fingers find the knot that cages her body from him, and tug it loose. With one trembling hand he brushes her golden locks aside to bare the crook of her neck, and brushes his lips there, feeling her tense and hearing her gasp. All that’s left to undo is the gown itself, and even though the urgency rattles inside his chest, he takes his time to slowly push the fabric off her shoulders, her waist, her hips. He may be a starving man but that is no excuse to treat the godly being between his mortal hands hastily.
When he realizes that she has no bodice on inside her dress, his mind keels over. When she steps away from him to step out of the bundle of fabric piled on the floor, his heart shatters. There is a goddess in this room and she has nothing on except her cotton briefs, and he wonders if he deserves this, deserves her—but he has fought and lost and won, bore the scars to prove his devotion, and he allows himself to think that maybe, this is his reward.
Zelda spins in his arms, gracing her gaze on him once more. Her breasts are pressed onto his chest, and he pulls her closer, leaving no room between them.
He kisses her hot on her neck, her fingers weaved in his hair—whispers, “I’m the luckiest bastard alive,” he lands another one below her left ear, feeling her shudder against him and fingers tighten in his hair, “I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you.”
“Link, please,” she breathes, her lips chasing his. “I need you. I need you—”
That’s it, he thinks. He grabs her hands and slings them around his neck, telling her “hold on tight,” as he leans down, grips firm her backside, and hauls her upwards. She gasps but hangs on, tight as he told her to, and kisses him rough and true. A few steps forward and his knees finally meet the foot of her bed, cradling her in his arms and laying her onto the mattress. It’s only when she is fully settled that he lets her go, covering her body with his—their mouths still partaking in a passionate war.
His lips descend to her jawline, to her neck and clavicle, nipping and grazing lightly with teeth each time, and finally his mouth closes around a pert nipple and his tongue does the rest. She mewls, her hand leading his face to her other breast and of course he indulges her—giving it equal treatment.
Link journeys lower and lower until his lips meet the waistband of her underwear, and in anticipation, Zelda lifts her hips to aid him in pulling the wretched fabric off.
All the blood in his body rushes south. Her legs are parted open, beckoning him to devour her. With one last look into her eyes—her pupils blown and emeralds almost gone—he sinks his face into her soft, wet folds. It feels like coming home.
The sound that she lets out is loud and obscene and reminiscent of his name, and he presses his tongue flat onto her center, licking a wet stripe up before stopping, his lips still touching her.
“The court may find me a fitting suitor, but I think they’d still talk if they heard us,” he says breathlessly, her hips wriggling under his grip.
“Oh, Gods, Link—” she arches underneath him, and he knows he shouldn’t tease her too much (five weeks, five weeks they’ve waited for this,) but he couldn’t help himself, not when her pleas are so sweet-sounding. “Please.”
“Just keep it quiet, alright? I don’t want anyone questioning you,” he reminds her, and when she nods, he descends and continues his oral ministrations. To his surprise, Zelda does quiet; her noises have reduced to sighs and breathless moans—much to his chagrin, really. He loves her loud and vocal, but the castle has thin walls and a hundred other people reside within it, and his duty to uphold her honor prevails.
He slips a finger in, curling it upwards, the way he knows would take her to the edge of the cliff. She whimpers quietly, and when he looks up to watch her he can’t help but to let out a whimper against her, too—a sight so catastrophically beautiful it makes him hurt all over. Her hand is on her mouth, barring the noise from coming out of her, the braids on her glistening forehead a little loose and undone. Her eyes meet his, half-opened and dazed, and he thinks yes, this is his reward.
Her free hand rakes through his hair, pulling him away.
“Stop,” she half-sobs. “I want— I want you.”
While Link can happily feast on her all night, who is he to deny his queen of her wishes?
He brushes his lips against her swollen pearl one more time for good measure, earning him a loud gasp from her, and stands on his feet to unbutton his trousers. Zelda shoots up from where she lied, scooting forward to help him pull down the pants. Her fingers hook around the waistband and tugs downwards, springing him free, aching and hard.
The fabric falls with a soft thud on the floor, and as he steps out her soft hands wrap around him. He growls, knees threatening to buckle underneath him from the shockwave that emits from her fingers. Her lips find a gnarled, raised scar on his sternum, ghosting all over. It’s the scar that felled him a century or so ago—the scar that made her cradle his body into her arms, raindrops and tears rolling down her face, her head resting on his weak, dying heart.
“What have I done to deserve you?” She asks quietly, and he wants to laugh. Because surely, surely she must know the answer to that. But then she looks up, her eyes shining, and suddenly Link wants to cry.
He grabs her hands, leading them away from him to the mattress as he moves to cover her body with his own. He attempts to hold his weight with his arms to not crush her, but her fingers dig into his back, stingingly sweet, pulling him down, chest to chest, body to body, leaving no space in between.
They kiss and kiss and kiss and moan into each other’s open mouths when his length presses just right against her center. Their cheeks are damp with tears.
He pulls away, resting his forehead against hers. “You… You’re Zelda. The moment you were born, you have already deserved me.”
Her features wilt with something akin to love and adoration and sadness all combined. He aches, wants to smooth the furrow between her brows, the crinkle of her eyes. He plants a kiss on the corner of her mouth, whispers her name again and again like it’s the first word he’d learned as an infant (it probably was.)
Her nails imprint more crescent moons onto his shoulder blades as he aligns himself against her, and finally, finally he eases his way in, slowly claiming every millimeter of her. She is warm and wet around him, soft and unyielding, perfect in every way. They cry quietly.
They stay unmoving for a moment, save for the rise and fall of their lungs, the exhales that gust over their faces. Zelda’s hand reaches up to brush his blonde wisps away from his forehead and he almost chokes—all that love and devotion he’s harbored for her rising in his throat.
“I don’t think I’m going to last very long,” he murmurs, half-laughing. Five weeks. Five weeks since they last made love, since his hunger took hold of him.
Her smile is tearful and wide. “You won’t be the only one.”
She begins shifting and pushing against him, and he knows what that means. He eases out just enough before pushing into her again, finding the rhythm that makes her desperately hold back a loud moan by kissing him instead. With each push and pull he feels her spine arch, muscles pulled taut like a bowstring, and his body does the thing it knows very well—follow her. The tension continues to coil tighter within him and he chases it, again and again, sinking into her, feeling her hips cant up each time to meet him halfway. His fingers travel down once more, caressing the swollen bud above where they’re joined, coaxing more quiet whimpers and loud exhales out of her. He inhales and inhales and inhales.
They’ve stopped kissing, but their mouths are open and on each other, merely breathing in each other, quieting each other. He knows they’re not far, now—each movement is more frantic and messy than the last, and Gods, he longs to take her with him, fall through that white-hot chasm together.
“Zelda,” he breathes, retreating just enough so he can commit her to memory, no matter how many times they have done this before—imprinting each freckle, each lash, each wrinkle onto the planes of his mind. He wants to say I love you you’re so beautiful my life is yours my life is yours but his tongue fails him. He hopes that her name on his lips is enough for her to understand.
“Link,” she pants against him, warm and hot, whispers “Don’t go,” and he knows what she means.
Her knees draw higher and her ankles lock tighter behind him, and with a silenced cry she comes apart underneath him, her insides convulsing around the length of him, and he follows suit in the next second—spilling into her and feeling the rage of his heartbeat where he’s still sheathed in her, breaths slowing.
Link goes pliant atop her, and Zelda welcomes the weight in her arms—his head nuzzled in the sweaty crook of her neck, moving his lips ever so slightly to kiss her skin. Her hand rests on his nape, fingers twining with the frizzy blonde locks.
This is where he belongs, where he wants to live out his days. Her body is the law of gravity embedded deep within him. He’ll gladly follow and fall to her each time.
A kiss to her forehead, and he finally withdraws, earning him a slight whine from his queen. He rolls over and swings his legs to the edge of the bed, standing up and offering a hand to her. She smiles, taking it, joining him to clean up in her washroom.
When they return to lie in bed, their bodies are quick to assume the position that they often find themselves in at their little house in Hateno—his ear above her ribcage that curves around her beating heart, her arms cradling his head, tucking him under her chin. They converse about nothing and everything, perhaps just for the sake of talking, of listening to each other’s voices, lulling themselves to sleep. He wonders how he has survived the past weeks, drifting off in the barracks without her. He wonders how once upon a time he lived without her at all.
A whole nation awaits him, now—that, he knows. Though that heavy weight that once sat on his chest is mostly gone, much work is to be done. His queen has to raise the subject of her suitor officially in court, setting forth the beginning of their courtship (well, in public.) And, of course, the most exciting part of it all—to drop down on one knee and ask her to marry him, to finally be bound together in every imaginable way possible. They must think about a wedding celebration, too—one that would be celebrated across all corners and valleys and mountaintops of Hyrule.
For now, he wills his breath to slow and listens to the soft crackling of her fireplace. He will have to wake up early—earlier than he usually does—to evade the maids’ morning errands, but he does not mind that at all.
Right before he slips into slumber, his mind conjures up a plan to travel to Gerudo Town, to that jewelry store that he had eyed six years ago, before his courage was sufficient enough to unearth the true nature of his feelings towards her.
He dreams of sapphires and emeralds encrusting a gold band.