There is a place

There is a place, some travelers and adventurers say, nestled east of the peaks of Death Mountain, guarded by the cliffs of the Akkala Highlands, that holds the stony incarnations of fortitude and bravery woven into the mythos of Hyrule. To the young explorer, this destination could seem at once fabricated as much as it is esoteric: it croons tales of knights and princesses standing before Hylia's altar, beseeching Her for the resolve in their souls needed to vanquish the Demon King as prophecy compelled. 

"But what truth is there in legend?" The explorer ponders. 

How many untold centuries had it been since the threat of apocalypse forged itself into reality? Since when were the engravings on Sheikah ruins treated more than bedtime stories and classical literature? A subject for scholars, not sojourners, you'd think. A job for wise women to interrogate these unlivable molds of humanity, the fates of entire nations strung upon mortal shoulders. 

But chains of flesh though they were, people had indeed lived in them, and live them now—for whatever "living" meant when being at the mercy of Hylia's intermittent benevolence, souls praying before Her springs. 

". . . I come seeking help." 

Midnight air mixed with the moonlight and blurry snippets of algae under the surface of the spring waters, creating a film of turquoise beneath the princess' dress. Mossy groves adorned the stones that towered over the shrine like shoulder plates; defending against the erosion of time. Two trees flanked Hylia's statue, aged lumber sprawling out a green thicket that cast shadows en route to the altar that bore Her likeness. Perhaps the trees too were Her sentinels, creating a shield of serenity to keep any Moblins or plunderers from making off with the statue's precious granite, too entranced by the scene to raise a pickaxe. 

And O Hylia, patient as you've been across these millennia, sculpted by Sheikah hands, do you still keep that stony visage on the inside? Sacrilege, sacrilege, one would say, but to the keen eye one must peek through the openings within the stony fixture, to gauge the mood of the masonry that lies beneath its face. 

Your line is carried on through the mortal world: your blood swims in the veins of royalty. Worshipped and deified as you are, is it worth it, staying chained on this mortal plain, instead of roosting atop the heavens? 

"Prayer will awaken my power . . ." So the woman of your descent proclaims. 

Is power yours to give? Is power hers to take? Is power hers to bear, fleshy as her shoulders are, compared to your stolid frame? 

A useless question, one affirms. There's no use sitting down in the minds of goddesses and gods, peeping through their incomprehensible logic. They are there to serve, whether good or ill is to be set down upon life's platter. 

The princess breathed. Her dress's white satin swished in the water, fabric wavy and outstretched. Her hands clasped above four royal triangles, as if hoping they could prop her fingers up from the ground, her skin shading Hyrule's symbol in the wish that sunlight could one day make it golden again. Her head arches up just slightly—enough into the air to stare into Hylia's pupilless eyes, though not so high as to slight Her with vertical hubris—her sapphires gazing out and tepidly looking to her counterpart. 

"To seal Ganon away . . . or, so I've been told." 

Zelda always had a scholar's deliberation about her. You could hear it in her voice. There is a gift in not always being so certain, in not trusting completely in the gospel of words deemed true, though burden as it is to never keep a singular mind. To some, it was a good omen of her eventual reign in the kingdom, an early indicator of wisdom far projected across the winding paths of life; the foresight to prolong the making of a key decision, in the pursuit of knowledge and careful living. The patience to decide right, rather than deciding without delay. 

But not everyone was as patient with the princess' mind as she was with her options. The threat of a new Calamity—of myth made real, burned into the Hylian subconsciousness with imagined flames of disaster—sent tumult through the land. The castle town became abuzz with gossip and worried intrigue, pondering whether the girl could ever corral her manifold hobbies and fascinations, could ever rein in her passions for a submission to her post. 

"Lest she become only an heir to failure . . ." The taverns and theatres spoke, and not always in hushed tones. 

At some point, even the knights of the Hylian Guard couldn't quell the dissent that formed over the princess' musings. The impending fear over what was to come, a Hyrule fated to unravel from its stable perch, created a national unease; and the princess seemed to feel that a million faces of temerity were borne from her timidity. 

But she wasn't scared! That's what she tried to convince herself of, anyway. These diversions to Sheikah research and the unearthing of ancient machinery were but vital stepping-stones towards the safeguarding of the land. She was trying her all to awaken the sleeping strength within her. Every prayer, every sermon, every shrine she ventured off to, in search of this phantom actualization of her destiny. 

She'd prayed at all shrines except for one. The Spring of Power. She thought the name fitting for a discharge of her soul. A translation of her spirit into strength. 

...So she was told. 

"Mother, she said her own power would develop within me . . ." 

The Queen Mother herself had turned to something of legend, if not for the reason her spirit would have wanted. Vanishing from this earth when her daughter was but a young girl, Zelda had only a faint imprint of her affection and wisdom to guide her into the niche of her fate. Without a mentor to steady her in this pursuit, the princess seemed to surrender to her fears, breaking away from her birthright to escape her obligation to crown and country. 

Hyrule mourned long after her casket sank into the ground; it seemed the nation's hopes for a rejection of their destiny were lost. The Mother and her daughter became tragic symbols, political caricatures rather than individuals, as the kingdom braced for disaster. 

"Give me another chance, Father! I've tried all I can!" 

Zelda's plea to King Rhoam flashed before her mind, for a moment. She knew time was running thin. She knew strength was a fleeting thing, so hard to obtain and so hard to contain amid the oscillations of her life. 

But perhaps the most frustrating part of her struggle to embalm her strength was the figure stonier and sturdier than the rockslides of Death Mountain: 

the Champion of Hyrule. 

He didn't look it at first glance. Not particularly tall, burly, well-built, high-born or handsome—and yet the azure finery of the House of Hyrule garnished his tunic, augmenting his physical stature in a way no muscle nor sword could match. The brownish blonde of his hair laid parallel to the princess' golden locks, his hands on the hilt of his scabbard, his feet set on a stone platform away from the altar. 

L i n k. The very name was almost sardonic. As exalted as it was to be connected to the image of the Hero of legend, as the boy was from an early age—besting trained nights in combat as a wee child and blessed to grasp the Master Sword from its slumber as a teen—forever was he beholden to that legend. Though strong of body, mind, and will, Link would always feel the bruises of the chain-links upon his chest, tethering him to the path She had ordained for him. 

But did the name's meaning have to be pre-decided for him? What in his life could he control? The Hylian nobility around him certainly had their inquiries about the boy's psyche. 

"The princess' guard-dog seems to be having a fine time touring Hyrule while we await the end-times," some mused. 

"Surely he has his hobbies! One can't occupy oneself with sword and shield alone. Lest 'Duty' is his greatest form of recreation . . ." others gossiped, clinking drinks at the various balls and soirees Link soldiered through while rising the ranks and becoming Zelda's personal knight. 

"Isn't it obvious?" Low chuckles filled the upper gallery mezzanine at a play one day, with nobles watching the pair of them in the royal box seats. 

"He's got the hots for her, clearly! O Hylia, let's pray he picks a partner who won't ruin the kingdom into rubble . . ." 

Truth be told, he never liked the matchmaking either. When Zelda formally requested Link's company during each gathering, there was always slight consternation along his brow, barely visible, but for a few squiggles of unease along his temple. 

And yet, while he never showed it, he understood the likeness between his and her post too well. Both felt entrapped by the designation of their lives, the artifice of prophecy that was empowered by the machinery of their state. There were moments when Link could look on and see in Zelda, even with all her fanciful dresses and degrees, the fear that laid below her skyward-facing lashes. 

Link had done plenty of seeing in his life—to the point that a single glance upon the man's eyes could make you mistake him for the Royal Seer, and not the Royal Knight that he was designed to be. So much watching, so much waiting, so woven into the background throughout his daily life, listening to the lively murmurs of the luminaries around him; his gaze inspected the warped nature of his life as a swordsman's son who shot so high up the hierarchy, so quickly. 

Perhaps he was a little shy, disregarding the fierce stance during battle and the graceful sashay of his sword swing, but even still he tried to find bliss in the listening. Like he was some great chronicler of Hyrulean history, his eyes visualizing the troop movements of the Royal Army, the passed edicts announced in Rhoam's Chamber; and yet the quiet peaks of Death Mountain too did he ponder at, along with the sapphire shine of Zora seas, and the twirling dunes of Gerudo Valley. 

But Swordsman, gazing far and long as you do, what makes thou ocular marbles sparkle most? 

"...I would hate to admit it," he'd confess to himself, at various points during the adventure, "but I guess it is obvious after all." 

Maybe that's why his eyes were closed, then, as his back faced the praying Zelda: so his ears could see her for him, gauging her demeanor from the way her dress rippled against the spring waters. 

This was his choice, after all. Not the prophecy, not the royal assignment, and to some extent not any affection he had for her—even that had its undertones in myth that was cemented by the inclinations of the nobility—but how he could give aid to a fellow soul of his own accord. Few words came out his mouth most times they were together, true, but he hoped that in his stalwart presence, Zelda could be inspired to keep on just as he did. There was an unspoken kinship between them, he observed, that kept them intertwined, marching as one. 

They'd stay together through this, so he prayed. 

. . . "Curse you!" 

Waters splashed and her voice seared the spring. 

Link opened his eyes, the murky environs before him now visible. He didn't notch his head back over yet, but he could tell something was off. His ears could feel it. 

Zelda's lids shuddered, the blonde threads above her crown angling down. Her voice stilled. 

"Every day . . . I've prayed," she stopped, as if to think to herself, "have I?" 

Had all these travels across the land counted as nothing more than tourism and deified bombast? Could her words not reach the heavens, not even with the wings of the Rito? 

"I've pleaded, O spirits, tied down to ancient gods," though 'begged' swirled in her mind as an option, though 'shackled down' was her preferred choice of term, as she verged between enmity and melancholy. 

Link hesitated. Would sprinting over now break her spirit further? His hands shook on the Master Sword, trying to ease his thrumming heart. 

"And still, You . . . prove deaf to my devotion." 

He stopped. 

She ended, 

"Please, just, tell me . . ." 

What is it, he heard, and Hylia heard, 

"What's wrong with me!?" 

Release. Each letter discharged itself from her mouth, and with it, the invisible streaks of tumult that had boiled within her for so long. 

Many more splashes rung from the spring, coupled with the shaking of steel and a shocked holler: 

"Princess! Are you—alright?" 

He found it hard now to keep up that stony mask. His eyes were wide, and the lines above his brow quaked with an edge of worry. 

It was Zelda who tried to hold up her crumbling veneer. Closing her eyes, suppressing the brine from its outpour, she still faced him, taking a breath. 

"L i n k . . . what's gotten into you?" 

Emotions reversed, postures switched, and yet, the two of them inextricably pushed closer together. 

Link calmed his breath, his hands falling to his soaked sides. 

"Princess, I, I'm sorry..." 

Zelda gazed upon his uncertain brow. Her hand leapt to her mouth, and it was as if Hylia's wisdom had imparted itself into her mind, after all—even for just a moment. 

"Link...don't be. 

I was wondering why you kept with me so long. How you could spend so many hours while I prayed, and meditated, and-" 

She closed her mouth. Link remained silent. What did she see in him, then and now? That not even her father could glean from his stern glance? 

She had always been the one to reason, to pontificate, to express her curiosities and concerns in equal measure: often she unloaded a waterfall of words towards the dam that was her bodyguard. His responses, while sharp, were always short, and seemingly unchanging, just like the narrows of his face. There was a continual element to Link's disposition—that somehow the man's skin was so steely as to shake off every last Moblin or mission like it was nothing—that couldn't be understood. 

"...I never knew you could make a face like that," she smiled. Chuckling slightly, though her voice sounded uneven. 

"Princess...?" 

He knelt, looking her in the eyes. Was there something that he missed, too? Did he try too hard to contain whatever was boiling inside him, to be her trusty aide all this time? 

Zelda looked down. 

"I should be the sorry one, Link. I've always taken you for granted. I've always treated you like some sort of...statue. Some sentinel from the Sheikah, fated to protect me, yet not of his own—programming, I suppose." 

Link hummed a breath. 

"All I could do, Princess, was watch. I thought it'd be best if you took the lead. And I'd just be—nudging you along, in spirit. 

Have I... made a mistake?" 

Was his silence a stab against Zelda's confidence, and not the sooth that he'd hoped it would be? Was seeing someone so unflappable about their destiny, having such ease to bottle up the oscillations of their humanity and frustrations, a living reminder of Zelda's limitations? 

Perhaps she saw him as the personification of all that gossip about her, rumors and ruminations strung across his skin, constantly preening towards her without saying a word about it. 

But now, it was such an odd moment of revelation. 

Zelda pared back a lock of dirty blonde from his face, wet from the springs. As her hand unintentionally caressed his lithe skin, drops of water once again sprinkled in her eyes. But she smiled. 

"We've both been so foolish, haven't we? Keeping our distance from each other like we had the plague, all this time." 

She paused, and her smile grew. 

"Well, Link. In these springs, I think it's about time we had our cure." 

Hylian flesh against flesh enveloped themselves in the springs now, with Zelda's head propped along Link's shoulder, her arms wrapped round his back. She grappled at him, tugging him tight to her, like she'd never be able to see him again. 

She knew Hylia once again hadn't spoken to her or favored her. Ever still the voices of the Hylian pantheon refused to echo through her ears, and dormant lied her soul of the sealing power, asleep against the will of the Kingdom. Indeed, her hands clutched at Link's tunic, roughing up not his skin but the banner of Hyrule itself, in a rare moment of release. Frenetic, between states of euphoria and melancholy, she wondered. 

But then she leaned back, getting a closer look at The Hero—no, of Link. There was moisture around his eyes, too, mouth waffling between a gasp and a joyous chuckle. 

Perhaps Hylia was right all along. Put into this situation as she was, it was Zelda's choice how close she would get to him, how she would perceive him; just as Hyrule perceived her, and yet how Link saw her. An agency of lens. 

Leaning in, she knew that there was so much still left to do. Hyrule's defenses to be prepared. The Guardians to be revved into battle. The last remaining encampments of the Yiga to destroy, and the last words she needed to conjure in her psyche before her ancestral gift could be granted to her. But maybe that could wait. 

Be patient now, Princess, and let the first block on this path to securing Hyrule's future be paved. 

Link was powerless to stop her as her lips crossed his. Their embrace deepened, their union forged further, their hearts beating fast to one another, reaching out to put back together each other's discarded pieces. The stars looked on to Stony Hylia, standing before princess and knight, Zelda and Link. 

No one but the cosmos knew what happened that night. And no one could foresee what would befall Hyrule in the coming months, and years, and decades of survival. Not even me, you see. 

But it is a mythology, an ancestral tradition, that still leaves itself to be written. Take up your chisels, Link and Zelda, traveler and adventurer, and lay your mark upon the chronology of this fair kingdom. 

Because what's penned in stone can never truly be erased; as Nature keeps those words immortalized in the frontispiece of rock and rubble, forevermore.