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It began with a gray hair. Zelda, ever eagle-eyed, spotted it on Link’s head as they sat to watch the sunset together like they always did, watching the horizon like they could pretend, just one more time, they were back in the clouds again. It was just one gray hair. Nothing out of the ordinary; time still ticked by on the clocks, and birds still sang each morning.
But he had a gray hair.
And she did not.
He had changed over these short years together on the surface.
And she could not. Graced with the blood of a goddess, she was past, present, and future immortal. Just her will alone could move mountains; ensuring that Link would never sprout another gray hair again was hardly any effort at all. She told him she could see every version of him, from child to withered old man; she was simply picking her favorite to look at. And how could he object to that?
Their home together on the surface was simple and quaint by design, forgoing the extravagance of temples built for Hylia so she could simply be Zelda instead. With a creek to fish in, trees to relax in their shade, a thatched roof over their head, and a garden to tend to, there wasn’t anything in the world they needed–besides each other. Link would always be the love of Zelda’s life, and she in his in return.
Their modest home was on the very edge of town, bordering more open farmland than roads, shops, and neighbors. It was a trek, but the pair made the trip together from time to time. There was a fishing club Link enjoyed, where members would gather at the tavern to tell stories of their latest catches, or fry them up to share.
He’d befriended a woman there, Caroline, who’d throw back beers and laugh the most enthusiastically out of the group, so hard her braided pigtails would swing. She started attending after her husband passed, and she bonded quickly with Link by poking fun at his stories until he did the same in return. She always suggested to Link that he should take a fishing trip with her so she could see for herself how he managed to find mooranhas and hearty salmon in a town where everyone else caught embellished bass. She’d say they could take her boat out to reach the islands at the center of the lake, where they could stay out a whole day if they wanted. Each time she brought it up, it came with a different excuse they could slide through the cracks for their families. Just a day trip. Just wanting to get out of the house. Zelda wouldn't even have to know.
Link choked down a laugh at the last one; there was no way Caroline could’ve known Zelda and Hylia were one and the same. Divine wisdom knew all, whether he wanted it to or not. At least it kept him accountable–not that he’d wish to hurt her, but if he simply forgot to take out the trash, or procrastinate weeding the garden, he knew she’d know. She’d always know. She let him sleep in late some mornings, though, for old time’s sake.
Caroline had a different ask of him several meetings later. Keeping her voice low as she leaned in so no one else would overhear, “What’s your secret?” she asked as everyone else was preoccupied with food.
Link swallowed the room away, leaving his fork on the table as a pit of dread drowned his chance of another bite. There was a right answer. There was always a right answer, but Caroline’s ears weren’t the ones he was worried about. He didn’t even know what she meant either, what secret was she alluding to? It wasn’t like he could ask Zelda for clarification–Zelda would know this, as she did everything else–Zelda wasn’t here, but Hylia was everywhere.
“C’mon,” Caroline teased, elbowing him in the ribs. “I know you have one.”
Was that what she was asking about? Zelda? How Link was both the girl’s boyfriend and the husband of the goddess? Even Link knew if that was her question, that was the wrong answer. The doctrines of truth were for everyone else; even Hylia had exceptions. Link was never to tell people that Zelda and Hylia were one and the same, for if they knew, the weight of the goddess would crush the girl beneath.
But Caroline still wanted an answer. Link stared ahead, grabbing his napkin for something to crush as the seconds ticked by on the mantle.
“Great Fairy tonic?” Caroline joked, giggling at his defensiveness. “A concoction of Chu jelly? Faron’s sacred bathwater?” She hit his shoulder and nearly knocked him off his seat. “Whatever it is, let me know, okay? My toddler would have me a haggard old crone by next month if he could.”
Right.
A toddler.
She’d stopped coming to the meetings for a while when her daughter was born; was she already waddling around on her own stubby legs? But Caroline hadn’t mentioned a daughter. She’d mentioned a son.
How many years could it have been?
Not knowing how to ask or answer, Link stumbled out the door to head home, letting Caroline’s protests slip through his ears.
Link was Hylia’s chosen hero, her valiant knight, the one who’d travelled a thousand years and back to rescue her from her slumber. At least, he had been that hero once. Here, in this life, he was nothing more than a simple townsperson, someone everyone else waves to after seeing in the corners of their vision as they go on with their day, and he stays idly put. But when he gripped the bathroom vanity he’d built to look in the mirror, he still looked like he’d rolled right out of bed late at his academy dorm in Skyloft. His face went unmarred by the years he’d lost track of in the sun.
But Zelda snaked an arm around his waist, looking very much the same as the day she’d awoken from her thousand-year crystal slumber and saw him there for her. Seeing her smile, maybe this wasn’t so bad. Because of her, it couldn’t be too bad. She rested her head on his shoulder and smiled again, just like she did an indeterminate amount of time ago.
They had a picnic the next afternoon, lazily spreading the patch-riddled blanket under the shade of the trees. Sandwiches made with freshly baked bread with a side of roasted squash that tasted like they came straight from the oven at the Lumpy Pumpkin. The chef there had guarded that recipe like she was a boss monster at the heart of a dungeon, and yet Zelda knew the ratios and secret ingredients lost to everyone else’s time. But of course she knew. And she made them because she knew Link liked them. They tasted like they did years ago, but not chronological years. The soft char of the squash was the same as it was Link’s first year at the academy, when the two of them were both simply wanting to escape having their noses in books for a night when they could waste their allowances instead.
They’d been children once.
Together.
Both of them the same.
Both of them equals.
If Link were asked whether or not they were still those children, it wouldn’t matter if he said yes or no, as both held truth. Yes, just look in a mirror. No, of course they weren’t. That was lifetimes ago. Zelda wasn’t just a girl anymore; neither was he just a boy. They were the goddess and her loyal knight; at least he’d been that knight once, not that he wasn’t still loyal now, but their roles, past and present, stretched and tore over frames now too large. Yet, somehow, no one in town ever noticed the glimpses of the goddess and her chosen hero peeking through the gaps like morning sunlight through foggy trees.
For their next picnic, Zelda baked a pie that had cooled on their windowsill that morning. Everything she made tasted great; Link never had any complaints. Of course he didn’t have any, she could tailor her cooking to his whims.
Link remembered about the fishing club when he caught a rusty swordfish from where the creek was at its widest. Not that anyone would believe his stories, they never did, and Link wouldn’t have either had he not been the one to reel them in with his own hands. There were times he thought Zelda was bending the laws of nature just to mess with him, just to put a smile on his face, but it wasn’t like he could complain about that either. She’d watch in anticipation and giggle when he hauled in a fish the length of his armspan from where fish were almost his handspan on a good day.
He headed into town, ready for no one to believe the story he swore up and down was true, but when he arrived, none of the regulars were there. Only a few patrons huddled around steins atop stools at the bar, and the usual, welcoming fire was hardly a few smoldering embers.
“Oh,” said the bartender, absentmindedly wiping a stein as she stared at him. Through him. Like a ghost. “It’s you,” was all she said, quietly, like she didn’t expect him to actually hear. She wore glasses now.
A patron blatantly turned his way, coughing out, “And who’s he?” before drowning out a sputtering fit with beer.
The bartender’s tired eyes narrowed at Link as she looked him over from hat to boots. “I’m not so sure anymore,” she said.
That was Link’s cue to leave; Hylia was everywhere, and Zelda would not appreciate him feeding someone’s speculation into who they truly were. They were a boy and his girlfriend, and to everyone else, they were nothing more.
He and Zelda watched the sunset together again that evening, the colors the same pinks, oranges, and blues there always were. But they were still beautiful, and no matter how many times Zelda rested her head on his shoulder, he could never grow tired of it.
⋆ ˚ ₊ 𖤓 ☽ ˚ . ⋆
He awoke the next day more tired than usual; though Zelda was still nestled in his arms, her presence wasn’t the only reason he didn’t want to move. Sluggish when he stirred, he bit back the cough at the back of his throat, but it couldn’t stay put for long. The kiss Zelda planted on his forehead was relief before she left to retrieve a glass of water. She dragged a chair to the bedside when she came back.
“They’re calling it the red fever,” she said as she sank into the worn cushions, her voice the most melancholic he’d heard in what felt like eons. There was no question how she knew. She always knows.
The name brought dread–this couldn’t be just a simple cold if it had its own name–but Zelda held his hand, and he gave hers a weak squeeze for reassurance. This would pass before they knew it. Surely it would. Zelda gave him a smile, but she must not have wanted to hide her tears as he caught a quick glimpse of one on her cheek.
She only left his side to grab him water; as much as he didn’t want to drink, he could never tell her no. As the only thing he could keep down, it was the compromise. His throat dry and sheets soaked with sweat, all the water he could stomach still wasn’t enough. But Zelda always had another glass ready to insist on. There was always another glass. There was always Zelda.
But her smile no longer reached her eyes. She dropped her gaze when Link coughed, staring out the window at each fit that wracked him head to toe. Her cool fingers on his forehead, she sang an old melody as he shuddered to a restless sleep.
He awoke that night to sobs that weren’t his to hold, to a tearing grief that would’ve split the heavens had it not been cleaved to fit in Zelda’s slight frame. Link squeezed his eyes back shut, trying to force the sleep back upon him, but everything burned, from his throat, to his lungs, to his ears. Was he supposed to hear this? Those cries would’ve been frantic pleas to Hylia from a mere mortal, but from Zelda, they were raking claws over the laws of nature. Deep and guttural, he’d never before heard a more wounded animal.
Did she know he could hear how her rage grated the chords of her throat like rattling the bars of a cage?
Of course she did.
Did that matter enough to her now, with a glimpse of tears streaming down her cheeks, wringing her hands as she paced? She roared like she’d tear the heavens down, but was Link meant to see her like this? Was anyone? He stirred, and she whirled like she’d been cornered, wild-eyed and frantic at his bedside. Was he delirious, or was the light truly gold? Nevertheless, he reached for her like a bird does the gales.
Snapping out of her storm, Zelda leapt to his side, the words “It’s going to be okay,” spilling from her lips as she clasped his trembling hand in her own. “It’s going to be okay,” she repeated.
Link tried to repeat the mantra as well, but even he knew the words were unintelligible. All he knew was Zelda was over him, and with the golden light came relief before everything faded away once more.
The sheets were clean when he awoke again; Zelda tightly in his arms like nothing had happened at all. The festering stench of fever and rot was nowhere to be found; gauzy white curtains billowed fresh from open windows.
How odd to be relieved that one had a nightmare?
Link took a deep breath, savoring the ease with which his lungs stretched, and watched how his exhale rustled her hair.
Her expression was unreadable as she bit her lip, and he made a note to make time later to bite her lip too. Teasing her was easy when she always knew what he was thinking.
“I had a dream last night,” he murmured, clearing his throat of sleep. “Felt like I was dying,” he laughed, but she didn’t smile in return.
She simply clutched ahold of him like a liferaft afloat, burying her face in his chest to whisper, “You were.” At the picnic Zelda insisted on that afternoon, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would’ve been dead or not by then had Zelda not intervened.
Should’ve been dead. No trace of fever was left, but the cookies Zelda baked turned bitter in his mouth. And yet, here he was, enjoying the springtime air and flowers dotting the lawn. If he were anyone else, would he be in the ground by now?
But he wasn’t just anyone. Who he was, be it the hero, Hylia’s devoted knight, or a simple townsperson, would never matter more than being the one at Zelda’s side. So when she rested her head on his shoulder again like nothing was amiss, it couldn’t be. He choked down another bite, this one sweeter. He was alive, and he was with Zelda. What more could he ask for? What more could he ever need? He could joke and say he needed a kiss, but he didn’t think Zelda would ever object to that. Her baking tasted great, but she was always sweeter.
Link was pulling weeds in the garden when Zelda had something to tell him. Apprehensive in her approach, she caught his attention by kneeling beside him to join in the work, pulling a weed up to the root. “There’ll be a funeral at the temple tomorrow,” she said, rehearsed like a speech as she yanked another weed from the pumpkin patch. “Thought you’d want to know.”
And he did. How long had it been since he’d gone into town? Zelda didn’t go with him this trip. Gave no reason beyond a silent tear to tinge the smile she always had for him.
Link had never visited the temple often—he had a more direct connection to the divine. Why bother with rituals and sermons when he slept beside the goddess herself? The polish of the floor tiles was new, as was the goddess statue behind the pulpit, a direct replica of old Skyloft’s. It loomed over the wooden casket that looked like it needed another sanding or two before it was stained a deep walnut.
The face inside was no older than Link’s own. Frozen in pale youth, this boy could’ve been a year or two behind him at the academy, in another life and many lifetimes ago.
“Link?!” gasped a woman between the gaps in funerary well-wishers. Caroline. She scrunched her brow at him, making no effort to move his way, no effort to reconnect, no connection at all beyond a confused squint. But he heard, “Link, is that you?” and it didn’t come from her mouth at all.
Because, despite looking the same as he remembered, she wasn’t the Caroline he knew. He’d never known that woman at all. Instead, clad in a stark, black dress in a conservative style she’d never once worn to the tavern, the Caroline that chided him over presumably exaggerated fishing stories stood behind the woman he’d mistaken her for, now, recognizably, mother and daughter. Her long braid ran over her shoulder like a white sash, and her gaze was as piercing as a headmaster’s who’d found him outside after dark. She stared at him like he was the wrong ghost.
“Where have you been?” Caroline demanded of him as onlookers blatantly gawked his way.
I’ve been busy, he wanted to say, unsure of what words would’ve been more accurate when he didn’t even know how long it had been. Decades? I’m sorry, caught in his throat. I should’ve reached out sooner.
“How?” she whispered before contorting to spit. “How have you not changed?!”
And there was no acceptable answer he could give her, not when they stood only as mother and daughter while missing her son. With a hurried bow, “My deepest condolences,” Link rushed, knowing it would be the last time he’d see his friend alive. Staying around wouldn’t be fair, not when he knew he was the one who should’ve been in that casket instead.
But only he was on the receiving end of a miracle.
Link threw the door open when he arrived home. “How long has it been?!” he demanded, chest heaving from how he rushed the whole way back.
Unfazed, Zelda set her knitting needles down on an end table, a half-finished shawl in their wake. She rose to take his hands in hers, watching with delight how he flushed when she said, “With you, it’ll never be long enough.” And though it pained her to ask when Hylia already knew the answer, but Zelda still needed to hear it, “Am I enough for you?” she asked.
He could say yes, and she’d know he was telling the truth. He could say no, and she’d know he was still telling the truth just the same. Instead, knowing this, he stayed quiet, but she always knew what he was keeping to himself. The quiet “Why didn’t you let me die?” that never made it beyond the edge of his teeth but bored into her very being just the same. He’d never say it, but she knew what she’d say if he did. That she couldn’t live without him. But the moment those words would hit his ears would destroy him; would render the man who’d moved time itself for her mortal form into nothing more than an obedient husk.
And that would truly kill her.
So he’d never ask.
And she’d never answer.
So he’d smile and say she was enough.
And she was.
And she’d rest her head on his shoulder as they watched the sunset and pretended together again, just for another night, that they were back on Skyloft as two kids without a care in the world, again and again until the end of time.