Chapter Text
“My God, my God, whose performance am I watching? How many people am I? Who am I? What is this space between myself and myself?”
- Fernando Pessoa
What most people don’t think about when considering forest fires is the sound.
The roar of the flames, the crackling of wood, the crying of animals. The way night is indistinguishable from day.
The smoke hangs thick in the air as a boar thunders through the bushes, tusks glinting in the blazing light. There’s a malevolence towards that beast, in the flames, a twist of malice to what could be natural. Doves screech, a wolf yells in pain—and ever on does that boar run. There is barely enough air to breathe, barely enough time to think, and the forest fire is no natural thing, a creature of death and hatred.
And Zelda Corisande Hyrule sits bolt upright in her bed, a yell half finished on her lips. Her window hangs open, and the moonlight filters inside, washing the masonry in white-blue waves. The breeze is not filled with smog and heat. The cool air flutters the drapes of Zelda’s bed, and the candle left on her bedside from her earlier reading is burned down to a stump, the flame guttering and small.
Her breath comes in fast and ragged, clouding in the air. Pushing the tome on her lap onto her mattress, Zelda swings her feet onto the floor, gasping at the cold of the stone on her bare skin. Tentatively, she pads to the window. Down in the courtyards, lanterns burn merrily, and soldiers walk at sedate paces. There are no raging fires, no screaming beasts. The princess lets out a shaky breath, hands clenching the windowsill.
“Your Highness,” cuts a voice from the shadows. “You seem troubled.”
“When you look out this window, what do you see?” questions Zelda, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“I see your birthright, My Princess. The lands of Hyrule, the people you were born to protect and guide.”
“Really? I wish I could see that too. All I see are tiny figures. Wandering. Faceless. Unknowable.”
“Your Highness—“
“How many times must I ask you to call me Zelda, Impa?”
“At least once more, Princess.”
Zelda shakes her head in defeat, turning from the window. The argument is often played, the steps like those of a well-known dance. It’s not what she wishes to speak about. As she pads to her bed, perching on the side, so too does her companion melt out of the shadows, steps silent.
“I’ve been dreaming again, Impa.”
“One does tend to do that when one falls asleep, Your Highness.”
“Of a forest in flames,” Zelda presses. “Of ruin, and hatred hunting divine beasts. The wind changes on Hyrule, and the rivers dry up. Of the cries of birds and boars and wolves.”
“Princess, this does not mean that—”
“Of a man with hair like flames, Impa.”
The room is quiet. Impa seems out of place bathed in moonlight, out of her camouflage of shadows. There is no calming phrase for her to say, no reassurance to offer.
“You believe they are visions, My Princess?”
“I may be a mediocre sorceress, Impa, but I can recognise the difference between the mundane and the divine. I know that they are,” she insists with a voice of cracked porcelain. Silence hangs in the air, and is only pierced by the sound of the breeze rustling sheets and quiet breathing. Impa meets Zelda’s eyes.
“Impa,” the girl begs. “What do I do?”
Impa moves like water, like the creep of shadows under the rising noonday sun.
She hugs like her touch can cure all that ails.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “But we’ll figure it out. There’s nothing we can’t do. Nothing I wouldn't do for you.”
Zelda clings to her tunics, cloth bunching in clenched hands as she sobs quietly into Impa’s shoulder. Her arms shake as she cries. Impa sits with her, and holds on. Zelda gasps and hiccups, trying to subdue her tears.
“There is no shame in crying,” Impa soothes. “Perhaps now, there is no smoke blocking out the sky, but what does it matter? The task ahead is terrifying. Cry. It is unfair that you must face these trials, My Princess. But—” She leans back, and raises Zelda’s head with two fingers under her chin. The princess’s face is blotchy and red, her eyes swollen.
“You must grieve now, and then not again until your task is done. I will carry your burdens as you follow your path. For now you must rage, you must weep, you must protest. But come morning, you must simply begin your journey.” Impa sweeps a strawberry blonde lock of hair behind Zelda’s pointed ear.
Zelda breaks her gaze from Impa’s, face contorting in some unnameable, guttural emotion.
“I wish—”
She falters.
“I know, My Princess.” Impa reassures. “But now it is time for you to rest.”
“Thank you, for everything, My Knight,” Zelda whispers. With a yawn, she rubs at her eyes, the salt of her tears feeling tight on her cheeks. It takes long, languid seconds for her to lay back down under the covers of her bed. Impa affords her an indulgent smile, before standing and closing the window. The princess drifts back to sleep, her tears having exhausted her.
“In the morning,” the Sheikah whispers. “We can figure this out. Sleep well, dearest Zelda.”
“Up! Your Highness, it is time to rise. The day is short, and the work is long!”
Zelda groans and rolls over, pulling her pillow over her head.
“Lenore,” she grumbles, “Five more minutes.”
“Not a chance, Your Highness! There’s lots to prepare for the trip to the summit, and your father has requested your presence for the briefing later today. Five minutes will turn to five hours, knowing you, and I’ll not have it. Up, now, child!”
Zelda groans, removing the pillow from her head. Her room, cast in the bright light of early morning, is bereft of the shifting shadows of the evening before. For what it lacks in mysterious ambiance, it makes up for with a one hundred percent increase in insistent maids. Lenore stands with her hands on her hips, hair tucked into a wimple.
“Lenore, you look stunning,” she tries. “Have you done something new with your hair?”
The woman snorts. “The only thing that I look today, girl, is old. No flattery is going to save you from this fate. Let’s get you dressed. I’ve put your clothes over behind the partition.”
Zelda drags herself upright, stumbling across the stone floor of her room. Her hair hangs wild around her face.
“The epitome of grace, Your Highness,” quips Lenore, steering Zelda behind the partition. The fabrics of her dress hang draped across a chair, and on the floor a pair of intricate sandals sit innocuously. Zelda pauses, and glances over her shoulder at her maid.
“Could you fetch my riding boots, Lenore? And a pair of socks.”
The maid purses her lips, but curtseys, briskly walking away to fetch the shoes. A few moments of solitude bought, Zelda takes the dress in hand. Long white sleeves, a high collar, skirts to her midcalf, the hem embroidered with delicate silent princesses. Looking below it, over the back of the chair also hangs a layered baby blue capelet, the bottom layer a rich purple-pink. Zelda reaches for the fabric, thumb ghosting over the golden triforce pin at the throat, across the yet more floral designs along the edges.
The last pieces, Zelda spots hanging from the partition, a short stays, a simple blue sash in the same shade of the capelet, and a three pieced tabard, the two sides in that same blue, and the middle in the fuchsia of the under-cape. She takes a moment to admire the intricate stitching, the golden trim, and the symbols woven into the piece. The crest of Nayru sits high, just under her waist, followed by the triforce, the Sheikah eye, and finally, the crest of Hylian royalty.
Religion, balance, duty, family. Zelda repeats the words to herself. No avoiding this. Time to face the day.
It takes a bare few minutes to dress, the cuts of the fabric familiar and the action habit. It’s quick enough that Zelda is fully dressed by the time Lenore returns, evidenced by the sound of the door creaking open and closed.
“Your Highness,” she calls. “I’ve taken the liberty of finding you a pair of riding pants as well. Just don’t tell your father that I’m indulging you!”
Zelda laughs and peers around the partition at Lenore, spotting her favourite boots held in one of the maid’s hands and pairs of socks and gloves in the other. Over her left arm is draped the coveted pants.
“You are a gem, Lenore. Your secret is safe with me. I am kept strictly in line.”
Lenore’s laugh is deep in her throat, low and soft, as she hands over the last few items. Zelda bites back a curse as she pulls the pants up under her skirt, almost losing balance. After that come the socks, and then the boots, finally followed by the fingerless gloves.
“Right then! All set.” Zelda nods, giving a small spin, watching the skirt of her dress spin around her.
“Your Highness.” Interrupts Lenore. “Your hair is a mess, and you are missing both your pauldron and your tiara. Blessed by the goddesses you may be, but clearly the blessing was not of patience!”
Zelda sighs in false disgruntlement, and takes a seat on the chair, letting Lenore bustle around her, armed with a brush and gleaming hair ornamentation. She wields them with as much grace and skill as any guard and their sword. Zelda’s circlet is placed onto her head, simple and unadorned, and the front half of her hair is pulled through golden cylinders. She is handed a pair of earrings, simple metal triforce pieces, and Lenore sweeps her now neat hair aside as she attaches a single pauldron to Zelda’s shoulder. Appreciating the fact that Zelda is now adorned with jewellery, Lenore steps back, allowing the princess to her feet.
“Now, you are done, Your Highness,” she ascertains. “Oh, and aren’t you a sight to behold! I swear it wasn’t too long ago that you were a mere babe, wailing at all hours of night, why—“
“Thank you, Lenore,” Zelda hastily cuts her off. “I should get going to breakfast, yes? I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
Lenore shakes her head fondly and curtseys, opening the door for Zelda to leave through.
“Let an old woman reminisce, girl. Soon you’ll be a woman grown, and a queen besides!” she calls, as Zelda walks away, the sound of her riding boots muffled against the red carpeting.
“Why Lenore,” the princess responds as she walks, “I was unfortunately not blessed with patience for reminiscing either!”
The maid’s laugh echoes through the hallway long after Zelda disappears from her sight.
The path Zelda takes is not particularly long, but it is circuitous, through hallway after hallway, up and down stairs, and through doors seemingly no different than any other nearby. It’s halfway through climbing back up her third flight of stairs that Zelda thinks of cursing the name of the architect who decided on such a layout. Of course, the maze-like layout made the castle more easily defensible, but this much cardio before breakfast was not Zelda’s idea of fun.
Still, she finishes the stairs, and takes a sharp left, pushing open a small door tucked into an alcove. The kitchens are loud and bustling, and servants speed back and forth through the open rooms. It takes barely any effort to slip through unnoticed, coming to a stop behind the head cook.
“You know, Terry, despite my suggestions, the kitchens still have terrible security,” she pipes up.
Terry jolts, banging his leg against the handle of a cabinet. He spins around one hand clutching his chest, as if trying to prevent his heart from failing on him.
“Hylia preserve me, Princess! Every time, you do this, and yet every time I fall for your quiet steps. What has that knight of yours been teaching you!”
“Oh, this and that,” dismisses Zelda, smile wide. “Do you have my breakfast?”
“It’s on the counter, Your Highness.” Terry gestures vaguely. “I’d eat fast if I were you, your father wanted you for the meeting about the upcoming summit, right? You’ve about 45 minutes until it starts.”
“I’m to speak with Impa after, on a religious matter.” Zelda frowns. “If you see her, could you..?”
“Direct her to your study, Your Highness? Of course.”
“I appreciate it. Much like I am sure I will appreciate your delicious—”
“Oh just go and eat, Your Highness. Have a good day. Don’t get up to too much trouble.”
“Trouble? Me?” Zelda dramatically raises an affronted hand to her chest. “Never.”
“Go on, get.” Terry shoos Zelda off to her plate of food.
Zelda scurries away, slipping through the bustle of servants again. It’s not until she reaches the counter with her food on top that a servant takes a proper look at her and immediately trips. He’s caught mid-air by another servant, and promptly whisked away. Zelda catches snippets of their conversation as she looks over her food.
“That was-”
“The princess, yes. She takes her breakfast here.”
“But—”
“Just leave her be, Will. If she wants to be acknowledged, she’ll let us know. Now come on, Matron is still watching you like a hawk after last week.”
The conversation is quickly swallowed by the noise of the kitchen, and Zelda digs into her food. Hearty bread, sliced meat, fresh berries, a goblet of cold pressed apple juice. It’s nice, she thinks, to just watch the bustle of the castle in what is arguably the true heart of the place. Conversations layer over each other, and servants dip in and out of the kitchens, jugs of water and platters of food precariously balanced on their arms.
“The master of coin is asking for—” “And she said that she’d not speak a word to him unless—” “A monster attack, I know!” “What do you think—” “The baby is ugly as sin, but aren't they all?” “He’s head over heels for that guard, I swear.” “No, it’s the third left for her room, kid.”
Zelda tilts back her head as she tips the last drops of juice into her mouth. Picking up the empty plate, she pushes her way through the bustle once more, placing the dishes in a pile next to a sink and a dishwasher labouring away.
Slipping out another door behind a servant is simple, and Zelda continues towards the council room, nodding to guards and servants as she passes.
Oh, Nayru preserve her. More stairs to climb.
She sighs, and clutches at the skirt of her dress, lifting it out of the way of her steps as she begins to climb. At least these stairs have a bannister, cut out of great sheets of wood. The intricate carvings slowly losing detail after being worn down by hands running over them, day after day since the castle was built.
Zelda watches the walls as she hikes, tapestry after tapestry lining the sides. Most are simple things, emblazoned in a manner similar to her half tabard. Some, however, are spun tales of great battles and ancient tales. Stories of a world in the sky, of a goddess made flesh. The tapestries speak of things Zelda can only dream of. Things of which she often does. Each string is laid with such precision that she can’t help but pause and marvel for a brief moment.
But time waits for no one, and Zelda cannot coax more minutes from a day, nor more leniency from her father. So she continues up the stairs, and continues down the hallway, the designs and decorations progressively growing more ornate.
Eventually the hallway ends, a huge door sitting like a hinox upon a hill, blocking Zelda’s path.
Come morning, rings Impa’s voice in her mind. You must simply begin your journey.
Zelda opens the door to the council room.
No matter the era, or the setting, meetings filled with old men who believe that they could never be wrong are never interesting. This one is no different. Delegated to a seat barely at the table, Zelda watches silently. The council roars, as topics with no consequence are argued about as if they are life or death. Minutiae of traditional rites, done for time immemorial are picked over. It’s not like they’ll actually change them.
Zelda suppresses a yawn as the master of agriculture makes a backhanded comment about the Hylian ambassador to the Zora’s wife. The details of the trip to the Spring of Courage have been set in stone for months. The rituals, the treaties to be updated, the cultural exchanges, have all been decided upon, and will not be altered. The meeting is an excuse to argue—and an excuse to make everyone else look bad.
Above it all, at the end of the table, sits her father. King Leonidas Kokkinos Hyrule has a face as still as rock, and an expression as sheer as a cliffside.
He’s sitting in her spot. No king should be sitting in that chair, not while the blood of the goddess runs through the female line of the royal family.
But there are enough arguments that happen at this table, in this room. Zelda can be patient, be glacier slow. The seat will be hers one day, one way or the other. There’s a time and place for taking it.
She can afford for the time to be later.
“Zelda, my daughter,” comes her father’s voice. Unceremoniously yanked from her reverie, Zelda bows her head demurely and smiles.
“Father. How may I be of assistance?”
“You are prepared for the Centennial Summit’s rituals, yes? As princess of Hyrule, it is your duty to ensure the…” He waves a hand dismissively. “Ceremonial side of things runs smoothly.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You’re certain? You’ve been spending more time in that study of yours than in the temple of Hylia.”
“I’m certain of it, Father.” Zelda forces down the sour look on her face. As if her father has ever stepped into a temple on a day not requiring it.
Leonidas looks unconvinced, but lets it slide. He holds a hand up, and immediately the table falls quiet. The king may not be an imposing figure, Zelda supposes, but he is an effective one.
“My council,” he begins. “I understand your concerns coming into this momentous occasion. I too, have my own concerns. But our worries must not prevent us from presenting a united front during the summit. The importance of the renewal of our treaties is of utmost importance.”
The council is completely silent for the first time in the meeting. King Leonidas stands, the ornately carved chair, the subject of Zelda’s envy, pushed back with the motion.
“The Zora, the Gorons, the Rito, the Twili - each of the ambassadors assigned to these races have reported good tidings in regards to our continued cooperation. However—” He raises a hand to stall the inevitable preening from the aforementioned ambassadors. “However. Despite our efforts to… communicate with the Gerudo, they have denied entry to our ambassadors time and time again. Historically, we can expect the most trouble from them.”
Zelda barely holds on to her tongue, the simple question of the gender of the ambassadors sent to the Gerudo struggling against the inside of her clenched teeth. Her carefully bland mask almost shudders as she thinks back on her dreams. Of the man with hair like flames.
Her father, oblivious to her internal dilemma, continues speaking.
“As I’m sure you are all aware, the Kokiri, the spirit-creature inhabitants of the lost woods have sent word of their intent to send their own representative.”
Zelda had not been aware of that. It irks her, as she watches the men around her nod their heads in easy acknowledgement.
“This will be the first time since the last Centennial Summit that an inhabitant of the Lost Woods has been available for diplomatic communication. I cannot stress highly enough how carefully this must be handled.”
Tension creeps, cold, into the council room. It feels like fingers of frost. The members shift uncomfortably. Zelda cannot help but be impressed with her father’s skill at controlling the room, the subtle power in his carefully chosen words. How easily the councillors listen to a man.
King Leonidas lets the intense statement hang.
“At least,” his voice turns jovial, “The Sheikah will be no trouble!”
The tension shatters, and the councillors laugh quietly. Zelda can’t tell where the weight in her throat has come from, as her thoughts drift to Impa. Her knight, with her silent steps, and unwavering loyalty. The chatter of the council room fades to background noise.
A hero and a beast is what the tapestries show, every time. In the forgotten shreds of journals, written by princesses and queens past that Zelda keeps hidden in her room, namesake upon namesake speak of a hero wielding a sacred sword, and a monster who haunts their dreams and then their waking lives.
The idea is daunting—terrifying, even. Zelda has read descriptions on what it feels like to be encased in crystal, to be locked in dungeons. What it feels like to run for your life. The details are never the same, the writers always different, the scraps of information always incomplete.
It’s still enough to make the Centennial Summit feel like a cliff's edge. Zelda cannot see the water below, and she’s been warned of the rocks at the end of the fall before. Impa cannot be a guardrail against the tug of gravity.
After all, it's fate.
The pull is as inevitable as the meeting is asinine, and Zelda cannot help but feel she has not done enough. A mediocre sorceress. A fair but not exceptional archer. An uninterested priestess. A scientist barred from invention. Her life is shaped by what she lacks- her throne, the respect of the council. Her father’s ear. What she lacks the most is information. Knowledge.
Wisdom.
Zelda feels every year of her age, and in understanding those few short moments of her lifetime, realises that she finds herself… lacking. Not in companionship or mettle, in the sharpness of her words, or the deftness of her rapier. Simply lacking in what she should be- what tales they spin of the Zeldas of the past. She is no mysterious sage, no patient royal. Shrewd and vicious, she deems herself. Shrewd and vicious and… terrified.
It would be different, she muses, if she was the one with the blessed sword—the blade of evil’s bane. Different if she was not by virtue of her birth, the prize at the end of a tale, the figurehead to be stolen, the goddess made flesh to be hunted. Zelda doesn’t feel very godly.
Hylia’s golden magic comes to her when called, and Nayru’s cool water flows when tugged, yes, but Zelda is no pillar of impassive marble. Zelda looks at the faces of the goddesses and can see the arch of her nose in Hylia’s, can imitate the grace somehow coaxed into the stone of Nayru’s statues when at the spring of wisdom. She can do no more. She is not pious. She is not measured. Zelda runs like glacial melt, cold and ravenous.
She decides then and there, eyes tracing the carvings of the chair that should be hers, that she isn’t going to wait to be saved. Zelda is shrewd and vicious. Zelda will save herself.
The council room’s vaulted ceilings slowly stop echoing conversation as the meeting slows down, and not a single new decision is come to, simply assurances of contemplation. Members step away from the table and congregate together at platters with goblets of wine and aged cheese. Zelda’s gaze is empty as she watches her father stand and walk to an ambassador’s side, whispering in his ear. Her own footsteps are silent as ever as she rises gracefully to her feet.
The door to the council room feels heavier, on the way out.
Impa is waiting for her in her study when she returns. In the light of day, her white hair stands even more starkly against her dark skin. Perched on the desk, Impa’s broad frame is familiar, comforting.
The long box held delicately in Impa’s calloused hands is less so.
“Your Highness,” Impa starts, rising to her feet. “How was the meeting?”
“How are any of them, Impa? Boring, infantilising. The only shred of information gained was the fact that the Kokiri are sending a representative,” Zelda huffs, rolling her eyes. “Delegated to ceremonial duties, as always. My father cannot intend for me to take the throne without a shred of practical experience!”
Impa has an odd look in her eyes, like she knows something that Zelda does not. It is not a look that Zelda is used to on her loyal knight. She frowns, about to press, when the look is wiped from Impa’s face, as if never there. Zelda can’t be sure if she imagined it. The Sheikah holds the box up towards the princess.
“I… Your Highness. I took the liberty of commissioning this for you. You’ve near outgrown your last one, and with the warnings of your prophetic dreams—”
“You got me a new sword?” beams Zelda. Her hands edge towards the lid of the box.
Impa smiles, but something wistful plays on the edge of it as she removes the lid with a graceful movement.
The rapier inside is beautiful.
The hilt is complex and sweeping, and the blade is so sharp that Zelda can see the way it has almost cut through the fabric it lies on. She picks it up delicately, revelling in the way it immediately feels like an extension of her body.
She studies the sword more closely, seeing the faint blue tint in the blade, feeling the perfect balance. With its intricate hilt, the rapier might have the appearance of something ceremonial—but it is a fine weapon, and Zelda realises, far more masterfully-crafted than the comparatively-clumsy training swords that Impa had drilled her with in secret.
“It’s beautiful,” Zelda breathes out. “Is this folded steel?”
“Yes,” Impa admits. “I oversaw its creation myself.”
“This must have taken weeks…months!”
“I had the forgemaster start making it when you first started having nightmares again. I thought it would make you feel safer.”
“Nothing could make me feel safer than you at my side, my knight.”
Impa says nothing as Zelda continues to admire the blade, just offering the scabbard it had come with.
“Does it have a name?”
Impa arches an eyebrow.
“All the best swords have names, Impa. Evil’s bane. Oathkeeper. Ghirahim. My father’s longsword is named Lion’s Roar.”
“With all due respect, your highness,” Impa deadpans. “Your father is compensating for something.”
Zelda rolls her eyes and pulls a face. The laugh it surprises from Impa is worth it.
“Wit,” the knight suddenly says.
“What?” Zelda’s head tilts up as her attention is pulled away from the sword.”
“Name it Wit,” Impa says. “After all. It is a rapier.”
Zelda studies Impa’s face.
“Wit,” she mumbles. “To let me save myself.”
Zelda may not be wise, not yet. But she is shrewd. She is vicious.
“I like it. All good things come in pairs, right?”
Zelda dreams of a man with hair like flames.
They will stay dreams, if she has anything to say about it.
The Centennial Summit draws nearer.