Chapter Text
There’s good paperwork and then there’s bad paperwork.
Sir Link, Commandant of the Royal Guard, drips wax onto the parchment lying on his desk. He presses his signet ring into the seal with a flourish and a grin—this document would belong to the former category.
The youngest commander in the Order’s history leans back, allowing himself to bask in happy warmth. Within the depths of his bustling headquarters, sunlight cascades through his window, alighting on dancing dust motes, his paperwork, and himself. Then there’s the kind of warmth that radiates from within, brewing in his chest, pulling his grin into a full-blown smile. A smile Link tries to hide—lest his knights, streaming in and out, think something amiss.
With his seal, Link has just finalized the logistics for a research expedition into the Maritta Ruins—and no one in the entirety of Hyrule is happier at an archaeological dig-site than a certain princess. She’ll be even more elated when he tells her that they can depart in two days.
Indeed—when she’s happy, he’s happy.
It’s been six months since Link saved Princess Zelda’s life in the sands of Gerudo. Two scant seasons since the desert’s heat began to thaw the icy chill of their sworn vows.
It’s been months of increasingly familiar conversations between the pair, with Link ever-present by Princess Zelda’s side.
It’s been weeks since Link realized with a jolt as sharp as a thunderclap: he enjoys her company.
Now, Link looks forward to their morning greeting outside her royal apartments; as they walk about, speaking in hushed tones, he no longer trails three paces in deference but follows at a distance near enough to measure in inches. And there’s a pang of something he’s not ready to name, when he bids goodnight at her door.
This realisation he’s kept to himself, of course.
His gaze shifts to the far side of his desk—where the other type of paperwork lies.
The waxen shards of King Rhoam’s seal lie scattered around an unraveled scroll—one which commands Zelda and Link to begin her long-awaited (and in his insinuation, long-delinquent) pilgrimage to the three sacred springs. The first tour will be the Spring of Courage; the king will permit no more than two months to make arrangements.
A cloud blankets the sun, a shadow falling across the desk. Link’s security plan for the trek to Faron lies next to His Majesty’s order, barely begun.
He can’t find the inspiration to throw himself into the work. Small wonder, with his thoughts straying to King Rhoam’s scowling face, berating his own daughter for her lack of ‘effort’; his ministers arrayed behind him, nodding along and tutting over her continued ‘failure’; chambermaids’ side-long glances as he escorts her through the halls, their scorn barely hidden as they whisper behind raised hands.
Link clenches his fist and leans further back in his chair, exhaling towards the ceiling.
When the doors burst open, he nearly falls onto his back.
Fellow knights snicker as he saves himself with a miracle kick to the underside of his table. A breathless page runs in and slides to a stop, saluting and standing at attention. Link tidies himself and nods. “Strich. What’s wrong?”
"Sir, apologies. You’re being summoned. Presence is requested. The garden. Urgently.”
“Take a breath.” Link squints at the messenger. "Alright...but by who? And why?"
"Ladies Impa and Purah sent me, and um...your prin—" Strich clears his throat. "The princess is in a tree."
A blink. Then another. "Come again?"
Strich tries again, much more slowly—and Link can tell that the poor boy is straining to avoid insulting him in the process. "Southwest corner of the garden. She’s at the top of a tree—the tree—and they can't get her to come down. Sir."
A snort bursts from a corner of the room. Another man groans, and murmurs start filling the air.
Link rubs his eyes. His ears must be lying to him—they have to be. This page is surely talking in euphemisms. "Very well, I'm on my way. Dismissed."
Just as young Strich scurries off, a voice rumbles behind Link with a rustic burr. “Yer princess, eh?”
Link turns in his chair to face his second-in-command. “A slip of the tongue, from a nervous boy. It happens, Cawlin.”
Sir Cawlin chuckles, “One can only guess what the lass has got into this time. Luckily, she’s got you to sort her out.” Under his breath he says, “I suppose we should be glad she’s still yer princess.”
“Stop calling her that.” Link narrows his eyes. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”
Cawlin swings his gaze around the room. “You lot are dismissed. Gather your squires. I’ll see you at the training ground shortly.” After every knight shuffles out of sight, his salt-and-pepper beard twitches with barely disguised mirth. “Aye, I see I’ve struck a nerve, then.”
“You have not.” But Link still scowls.
Cawlin raises his hands in apology. “I stand corrected. But what I mean is…well…the men are whisperin’ amongst themselves. About her. Surely you’ve heard them?”
“I am very aware that the court slanders the princess. I am disappointed to learn our knights do the same.”
Cawlin shakes his head. “No slander, mind. But the lads are startin’ to wonder when our ‘saviour’ will find her powers. They’re fearin’ she’s cursed. Or doomed—and us with her. The men might guard her perimeters or clear the roads afore and aft of ye both…but ye’re her personal guard. Ye’re the one by her side—all the time.”
“…Yes? And?” Link waves him on, growing uncomfortable with where this might be heading.
“The lads hope…” Cawlin sighs and pauses, clearly searching for the right phrase. “They hope you can do somethin’ about it. Help her keep her mind straight—away from her little distractions.” He points in the direction of the gardens. “And help her hasten on to her birthright—afore it’s too late.”
Link stands, his hand sweeping over suddenly tired eyes. He speaks with rising annoyance, “If I could, I would. If I knew the answer, I would immediately tell her and save her from daily anguish! Doesn’t anyone in this damned castle understand—” Irritation washes through Link in heated waves, and he takes a steadying breath. No need to eviscerate his long-time comrade. “Sorry for raising my voice. I meant no offence.”
Cawlin huffs and chides, as an elder brother ought. “It’ll take more than a wee bit o’ yer squealy bawlin’ to put me out. But…are you alright lad? If you need to unload what’s on yer mind, my lips are sealed. Y'know I’m good for it.”
“I…do. And I appreciate you lending an ear in the past. It’s just that…” Link sighs. “No one else sees what I see. No one works harder in Hyrule than her. Every day. Hours at prayers, even when Hylia never responds. Hours with her nose buried in scrolls—searching for a different answer. She tortures herself in the effort.” He sags and lowers his voice. “She’s wasting away.”
Cawlin pats his shoulder, the reinforcing touch of a fellow man-at-arms. Link looks him squarely in the eye and says, “I’ve no patience for anyone speaking or thinking ill of her. At least for anyone in my charge.” He straightens with purpose. “Next morning assembly, I’ll remind our Order that whatever our fate, it is the honour of a lifetime to serve and defend the Princess. And the King and Kingdom of course,” Link adds the last two hurriedly.
“Ah. An interesting order of priority.”
“Wipe that filthy grin off your face.” Link swats his friend’s hand off his shoulder and nods at the door. “Don’t you have squires to train?”
“Aye, I reckon I do.” Cawlin strides to the exit then pauses. With a jaunty smirk thrown over his shoulder he says, “Have fun fetchin’ yer cat from her tree.”
“Don’t call her that either.” He disappears around the corner before Link can mutter, “Ass.”
Finally alone, Link rakes his hair and gathers his thoughts while he fastens the Master Sword. Then he stares at the armoury cabinet for nearly a minute before shaking his head and opening its doors.
He retrieves two coils of rope and his climbing gloves. Just in case.
Link strides through the headquarters’ exit completely certain that this affair is a wild misunderstanding—a divine prank by Hylia and The Blessed Three, or a jest by Lady Purah. But he does smile as he leaves.
That smile grows as he walks towards the garden gate to retrieve the princess-turned-cat. Their respective duties would have called them apart for the day—an increasingly rare occurrence. But now he will cross paths with the princess after all, and that is a silver lining as far as Link is concerned.
If his errand was not so ludicrous, Link would deem this the perfect stroll.
As his boots crunch on graveled paths, he passes shrubs of nightshade and armoranth, their jasmine-sweet scent inviting him to linger and admire flowers of teal and violet. His fingers brush the southern wall as he walks, his knuckles tickled by starblooms set on creeping vines. Oak trees dot the landscape, their boughs laden with sparrows plying Link with the sweetest song.
A warm sun fills sapphire skies. Not a cloud hovers in sight. Link’s senses come alive with every new delight.
Yes, truly—the perfect stroll. Or it would be if only he had someone to share it with.
He remembers the disappointment when Princess Zelda’s morning itinerary revealed that today was a ‘research all-day’ and that Lady Impa would be the primary guard. That disappointment lingers, trailing him into a lonely tunnel of willow trees, their branches forming a silvery-green roof that casts shadows across his face.
With only solitude for company, his mind’s voice fills the silence with facts on how willow bark can be used to enhance the medicinal properties of various elixirs. Link no longer questions why that voice sounds girlish and light.
He walks towards a distant point of white at the tunnel’s end—that bright pinprick growing larger with every step. Finally, the surrounding dark peels away, yielding to daylight, revealing his destination in the far distance—tall, majestic, and proud.
There was a reason Page Strich called it ‘the tree’ with no other qualification.
Nestled in the garden’s corner is a gargantuan Great Oak, and arguably the largest tree in Hyrule—second only to the Great Deku. Some say the centrepiece of the Royal Garden was planted by the founding matriarch of House Bosphoramus. Twenty generations later, it stands taller than some castle towers of the lower walls.
If Princess Zelda is truly perched at its hundred-foot apex…that could be a problem. And if the Line of Bosphoramus truly spans twenty Zeldas, Link idly wonders if nineteen forebears are looking down from Hylia’s Refuge in consternation at their descendant. But luckily for all, the princess is not up there—the idea too preposterous to be real.
His gaze wanders down from the oak’s crown to its base, spotting two figures who appear as tiny as the tree is large. They huddle in conversation, one wearing a research coat, the other a silken robe. But both bear the colours of the Sheikah: cream edged with scarlet.
And as he approaches, vaunted Sheikah senses come into play, both ladies turning to him though the distance is far. One regards Link with a neutral face, hands folded within her sleeves, the other—
“LINKY-Y-Y! OVER HEREEEEEEEEEEE! HURRY!!!”
Purah waves both arms overhead, bouncing on tip-toes like a buzzing hummingbird. Impa shakes her head.
No two sisters could be less alike, Linky ponders. And not for the first time, he doubts their supposed kinship.
Link reaches them and raises his sword hand in salutation, Impa responding with the courtly bow of her people—the angle denoting the respect of a peer. She straightens, and his eye catches the curve of her kodachi, sheathed in her sash. He reminds himself to be grateful for Impa's vigilant watch over Princess Zelda today…even if it somehow permitted this confusion.
He tilts his head back, craning his neck to peer through the dense foliage. Her Highness is nowhere to be seen.
When neither lady admits that this is all merely a prank, Link regards them both. He crosses his arms, fingers tapping biceps. “I know I heard what I heard.” He sighs. “But it can’t be what I heard. Right?”
“Well…you see…um, that would depend on what you heard,” hedges Purah.
“You are the one who summoned me.”
“Ah, right. Forgot.”
His throat rumbles low. Wherever the princess is, she better be under guard; his patience wears thin.
“So, this is what it is, Linky—the Castle Tradefair was this morning…”
He nods—checking every incoming caravan for hidden assassins was the purview of his Order.
“…AND it happened to be the princess’ all-day research day! A perfect coinky-dink!”
He nods again—more curtly. If that blasted quirk on the princess’ calendar ends up causing actual trouble…then Link will ban these ‘research all-days’ from occurring without him ever again. He’ll do it, he’ll put his boot down—he’ll brave large sorrowful eyes and pouty lips if he must.
“And in another coinky-dink—it was kismet, I gotta tell ya—there was this merchant, see—a guy I’d never seen before. And he was selling something the princess and I had to check out. HAD to! You don’t understand it was this ginormous—”
“Purah…” he growls right as Impa says, “Perhaps more haste in the telling is in order.”
“Alright, alright, geez! Cutting to the chase, the princess bought a shroom—one that’s totally new. It doesn’t even have a record in the Royal Apothecary’s diary.”
“And this is important because??” Link’s voice frays at the seams, barely containing his frustration.
As a Knight of the Royal Order, he is beholden to at least seven codes of chivalric conduct, with three covering gentlemanly behaviour towards the fairer sex. But damned if he doesn’t want to place hands on Purah’s shoulders and shake out the truth of what’s happened to the princess.
Finally, Purah comes to the point:
“She ate it.”
A blank stare.
“She…ate it?”
“Yeppers! One bite, down the hatch, and gulp it went! Y’know, for a dainty little thing, the princess sure has a big mouth—”
“DETAILS Purah! The important ones! What happened next?”
“She went loopy.”
Another blank stare.
“She started giggling about following ‘the voices.’ And before we could stop her, she climbed this.” Purah points to the very top of the canopy—and now the Great Oak seems thousands of feet tall. There is danger here—his spine tingles, ice-cold.
“So that I understand everything correctly.” Link exhales. He inhales—a mighty draught. “You let her eat: an unknown and possibly poisonous plant.” His teeth gnash by the end of that ridiculous sentence. “And although she isn’t dead of poison—thank The Three—she would be dead, instantly, if she were to fall?” Link clenches his fist, nails digging to the point of pain—anything to distract from a rising wave of panic.
“She was curious!” Purah wails. “And technically shrooms aren’t pl—”
He throws up his hands. “Unbelievable.” He glares at her. “Inexcusable!”
“You know how she gets,” Purah says.
“Believe me I do.” Does Link ever know. She tried to make me eat a frog just a few days ago he mentally adds. But with his voice, he spits out, “But that’s no excuse.”
“Linky don’t get mad at me! I was just doing my job! As the Director of Royal Research, it is my responsibility—”
“But when it involves her safety, you’ve crossed over into my responsibility. Keeping Princess Zelda alive is my oath.”
Suddenly Link realises that in all this interrogation there’s been a sister who’s stayed quiet—too quiet. The respectable one. The sensible one. The supposedly responsible one. Link whirls to her.
“And you let this happen under your watch??”
Lady Impa bows, and this time the angle is lower, with eyes downcast. By her posture she tenders an apology; she adds to it with words. “Forgive me Sir Link, I was walking the perimeter when the incident happened.” Link sees her hands twisting inside her sleeves. “…and Her Highness is faster than she looks. I am truly sorry.”
The pain in her eyes and contrite tone thaws Link’s ire. A little. He’s been exactly where Impa’s standing. He of all people knows how hard it is to keep track of the Princess-Scholar when she’s in the throes of fancy. He releases a strained breath.
“So…can you please explain the nature of this ‘loopiness?’” he says to Impa, a peace offering extended within the calm ask.
She replies, “There are rumours of shrooms from beyond the borders of the realm. Ones that have unusual medicinal properties. Some would say mind-altering. Heightened senses, strange visions, and…the partakers might do things they wouldn’t otherwise. They are not themselves.”
“Like a trance is controlling her?” Link says.
“Like a trance,” Impa agrees. “I believe this is what we are dealing with.”
He leans in. “Do you think this was intentional? An attack aimed at her?” His tone drips with threat—not at Impa, but at a phantom shade that might be hovering over the princess. It could be a plot of the Yiga—they obviously have no love for Ganon’s future Sealer. “How long has it been? If I saddle Oathkeeper now, I can ride out and drag this merchant—”
“Long gone,” Impa shakes her head. “My retainers have already swept the roads. There’s no sign of him.”
And like that, Link’s dream of caving in the merchant’s face with his shield crumbles into dust. However, deep in his mind, he plots a military campaign to find and raze the Yiga’s headquarters to the ground. Just in case. A wild beast—the wolf—buried deep within his breast, awakens and howls in agreement at the thought. At the thought of avenging Princess Zelda and smiting—
Purah pulls him out of red-misted daydreams. “Turn that frown upside down! The guy looked totally fine. He didn’t have a creeper’s ugly weirdo face. In fact—it was rugged. Handsome.” Link stares at her. Purah doesn’t get the hint. “And swarthy even! With dreamy eyes that were batting at us—"
“Okay, I get it. Forget him,” Link says quickly.
“Maybe that’s how he was able to attract the princess’ attention in the first place—”
“I said I get it. Not a threat then.” But the butterflies fluttering in Link’s gut say he’s lying. For some reason he wants to hit this handsome man even more. He shakes his head. “So why am I here? Why didn’t you two retrieve her yourselves?”
To that, Impa flicks her glance down at the long folds of her stately robe, then back to him in silent response. Chastised, he purses his lips and nods. Link has witnessed Impa fighting—impressively—in such attire, but climbing a tree with trains of silk tangling at her legs would be a feat beyond reckoning. As one, they look at Purah—raking her head to toe, then back at each other. Impa shakes her head. Link nods again.
Point taken. Acclaimed Purah might be—but an athlete she is not. She wouldn’t have the strength to bring Princess Zelda down on her own.
“Hey, I think I just got insulted,” Purah grumbles.
Impa ignores her and says to Link, “Her Highness wouldn’t listen to either of us. She trusts you...and there’s no one else she confides in more. Ever since you two…” She trails off, but the unspoken words became close still ring clearly in Link’s ears. Her hesitation lingers for a spell. “We thought you best suited to bring her back to us. Especially if she’s not herself and can’t recognize friend from foe.”
Link inclines his head. Impa’s instincts are probably right—they usually are, this mishap notwithstanding. “Agreed. Would you keep this safe for me? It might get in my way.” He unbuckles the Master Sword to hand over to her, scabbard and all.
“I’ll guard it with my life.”
Nodding, he turns away to look at the Great Oak and begin plotting a course.
But wait—what’s this? All about its rooted base, scraps of tattered fabric litter the ground in familiar shades of champion blue and cream. He bends down, picking up the largest piece, and holds it up in silent question.
“Ah,” Impa says. “By the time I arrived, Her Highness had ascended a fair bit. Just after she passed from sight, I heard a rip and saw that piece floating down. Followed by another. I think her dress got caught on branches, and that was her remedy.”
“Yeah,” Purah adds, “Pieces were raining pretty darn thick for a while. Then it stopped. Hylia only knows how much dress she still has on.” She looks up. “Hope she’s not naked up there.”
Link swallows, hard. It’s hot out here. Was it always this hot?
Yes—that’s it, the sun’s heat is the sole reason for his sweaty hands and the difficulty in donning his climbing gloves. Link is grateful he had the foresight to bring them—now he prays he won’t need that same fortuitous luck with the coils of rope slung around his chest. But then, if the princess is in a state of undress, maybe he can coil the rope around her to protect her modesty.
Before he can do anything else, Impa’s warning stills him:
“Sir Link. If these are the shrooms of rumour, then know this: they can drastically enhance the emotion of whatever one is feeling. If she’s happy she’ll be intensely happy. If sad, intensely sad. To the point of danger. If she realises how high she is and becomes scared, then…” Her voice cracks, just a touch. “Panic.”
Concerned, Link asks, “And what was she, right before she escaped?”
Purah says, “She was doing research. What do you think she was?” This then, Link knows. Her tone grows quiet, her shoulders slump. “And I gotta be honest, it was kinda nice to see. The princess doesn’t have much reason to be happy nowadays.”
This, Link also knows. Impa sends him off with this charge, a charge from one who’s served her entire life as Zelda’s mentor: “Prepare yourself—and make sure our princess stays happy.”
After a beat, he responds to her challenge with the truth: “Is that any different from how I live every day?”
“That’s what I was hoping to hear.”
Link catches satisfaction glinting in her red eyes; he turns to examine his first handhold.
He begins to climb, and the quest for Princess Zelda is on.
The broad expanse of trunk towers above him, a forbidding ascent. He's searched for her before—among shrines on the plains of Central Hyrule, and more frantically in the deserts of Gerudo. By oath he was merely fulfilling his duty. But if he's being honest, he'd now willingly search for her anywhere, in any corner of the kingdom, oath or no oath.
What then, is a mere tree to a faithful knight like Link?