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The queen had certainly spared no expense for this occasion. Link’s armor was polished to a mirror shine, his scarf and tunic freshly washed and ironed, his sword sharpened enough to cut through skin like it was butter. It wasn’t his sword though, he thought bitterly somewhere in the back of his mind as he was led through the winding hallways towards the courtyard.
Fi had rejected him years ago, and his left hand still bore the burns to prove it; Zelda had insisted he keep his gauntlets on at all times after that. He kept his eyes on the ground as he walked, making no attempt to meet his guards’ eyes; he imagined he could see their disgust for him in the pattern of their footsteps, their boot heels snapping angrily against the stone floor.
Before long, the tense murmuring of the crowd could be heard, growing and growing until the walls around him fell away, leaving him exposed to the eyes of every citizen of Castle Town. He forced himself to lift his head, though his eyes remained unfocused as he started going through the motions his queen demanded of him time and time again. He walked slowly and purposefully towards the center of the courtyard, where the well-used wooden stage waited.
It had been built at the end of the war, and everyone, himself included, thought- hoped- that it would be torn down soon enough; surely, there weren’t many traitors that survived the war, surely this grisly monument would become obsolete soon, surely their queen would be rid of it and let them finally begin to heal from the horrors of the war. But here it was, three years later, with a new line of accused traitors to make the wood run with scarlet once again. The prisoners were all forced to their knees by the chains fixed to the stage, so thoroughly bound that they couldn’t even flinch away when Link mounted the stairs, stopping placidly a few feet away from the first in line.
He turned his head to the raised box where Zelda stood, resplendent in her golden armor, looking every inch the warrior queen she’d been on the battlefield. Zelda fixed him in a cold stare before stepping up to the railing of the box, casting her gaze across the crowd.
“Citizens of Hyrule-” she began, the same start to the same speech she’d given at every one of these executions.
Link allowed his mind to fall away, the speech and the crowd all fading into a single incomprehensible hum. It was almost peaceful, floating in the numbness; the sun was warm on his skin, a faint breeze ruffling his hair, bringing with it the scent of distant spring flowers.
The pretty illusion was shattered when the crowd erupted in cheers, as they always did at the end of Zelda’s speech. She was turning back to look at him- his cue- and he forced himself to stand even straighter. At her small nod, he drew his sword, saluting her before turning sharply on his heel to face the nearest prisoner. They were crying, he noticed distantly, as his body surrendered to the familiar choreography.
Raise your sword, let it fall, step forward, raise your sword, let it fall.