Chapter Text
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It’s the coldest winter Hyrule can remember, but Zelda spends the whole of it feeling warm. She floats around the castle, half-convinced she’s fallen into some giddy dream. It’s an absurd way to feel at this point in her life, but when she says as much to Impa, all she gets is an eyeroll and a tart question: If twenty is old, what does that make me?
As usual, Impa has a point. Not so long ago, Zelda thought it was her fate to pour everything she has into the bitter earth—her time, her love, her hope—and receive nothing in return. But even though the flow of time stole so much from her, it also carried Link back to her door. And when fear threatened to set him adrift again, Zelda made a difference. She brought him home.
For the first time ever, they have a future together. That possibility softens the hours she spends serving Hyrule, the meals they share at her table, the nights they spend curled up in each other’s arms. It softens the entire world.
It doesn’t take long for them to bridge the last gap. In the gentle light of their chambers, Zelda lifts Link’s shirt over his head and studies the scarred loveliness underneath. He studies her in return—the hard muscles no one expects on a queen, the stretch marks from carrying her daughter, the bright starburst burn she earned in her fight against their oldest enemy.
Link’s fingers brush over the mark, trail up her back, tangle in her long hair. “My beautiful Zelda,” he says, and she surges up to kiss him passionately, making up for lost time.
When the first spring buds begin to sprout in Zelda’s favorite garden, she and Impa dig up a few flowerbeds and spend a quiet day replanting them around the Kakariko graveyard. Weeks later, they return to find it in full bloom—lilies for remembrance, tulips for a new beginning, all of them growing strong at the base of the Shadow Temple, guarding those who finally rest there.
Little Zelda has outgrown the hat that was Owen’s last gift, but he’s visible in her thick curls, in her strong brow. Inside their family tomb, Zelda takes her daughter’s tiny hand and presses it to the stone letters of Owen’s name.
“He was a safe place when I needed one most,” she says softly. “He loved you so much. And he deserved more time. I wish he could see you grow.”
Impa rests a hand on her shoulder—thanks to her, Zelda never has to confront this place alone. And sometimes she’ll walk along the gravestones outside, pausing before the Sheikah names and telling Zelda who they were, how they lived, how they died. Sometimes they weep together. Sometimes they find a way to laugh.
It takes Link months to join them, but he does, holding tight to Zelda’s hand as they walk past the well and into the graveyard. He stands there for a long time, gazing up at the temple that still haunts his dreams.
“It’s peaceful,” he says at last. “I never expected that here. It’s…you should be proud, Zelda.”
“I owed it to Hyrule. We can’t build a future if we ignore the past.”
Laughter drifts over from a patch of tulips across the way, where Impa sits with the baby in her lap. Zelda can’t help but smile at the sound. Link grins right back at her, his face softened by these months of safety, his eyes full of the same fateful clarity she found in the garden all those years ago. And she thinks about what Owen taught her—that even after good dreams die and bad ones come true, there’s always something new to be found. There’s always another story.
For now, Link picks a flower that matches her eyes, tucks it behind her ear, and tells her about the last time he stepped foot in this place: how Sheik waited for him to emerge from the long nightmare of that temple, how she taught him a lesson about fear that’s carried him all this way. And there—safe among the graves and the flowers—they remember the forgotten.
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There’s spring in the air as Link winds his way through Castle Town, sore and satisfied from a day’s work at the ranch. The sound of shouting one street over stirs up his old instincts, but when he turns the corner, all he finds is a brawl among children. Most of them scatter when Link wades into the fray, leaving him alone with two kids he recognizes: the dark-haired sisters from the orphanage.
“Ha!” one of them shouts at her retreating opponents. “Keep running, cowards!”
The younger girl blinks up at Link. “You’re the queen’s friend!”
He catches her sister’s shoulder before she can run off and holds a handkerchief to her bleeding nose. “Everyone all right?”
The older girl snorts scornfully, though that just bloodies his handkerchief even further. She accepts it with dramatic reluctance, like it’s some affront to her pride, and Link suppresses a smile.
“Come on, I’ll walk you home,” he says.
“They won’t come back,” the younger one declares. “And if they do, they don’t stand a chance!”
“I can tell. I’m more worried about what you’ll do to them.”
They grin at him impishly, leading him down the block without further argument. The door to the orphanage is propped open to welcome the warm air. It’s noisy, cluttered with bunk beds and toys and laughing children. A tantalizing smell wafts out of the kitchen, where a few of the older kids are shucking corn and peeling potatoes under Headmistress Rin’s watchful eyes.
She catches sight of the girls and plants her hands on her hips. “You two! What did I say about fighting?”
“They deserved it!” the older sister declares.
“For the love of—go get some ice for your bruises. We’ll talk about this later.” Rin smiles at Link apologetically. “Thanks for bringing them back.”
The girls wave to Link and scamper off, already boasting about their fight to the other children. Surely none of them have led easy lives, but they still seem so…unrestrained. So safe in the knowledge that someone older is around to protect them, make the hard decisions on their behalf. That’s exactly what they should expect from the world.
Rin is watching him with those red Sheikah eyes, sharp with understanding, and suddenly he remembers what she said about how hard it is to understand peace after a lifetime of war. About how they both deserve it anyway.
The question tumbles out before Link can stop it. “Do you need help here?”
“Always,” Rin replies. “Chores, supplies, looking after the little ones, bringing the older ones out for fun—we don’t pay much, though.”
“That’s okay. I…maybe I’ll come back someday.”
“We’d be happy to have you. I’d ask you not to bring that sword next time, though. It might scare the kids—or excite them, which is much worse.”
“Oh,” Link says, the word sticking in his throat for some reason. “Right. Thanks.”
The scabbard taps a familiar rhythm against his back as he sets off for the castle. Except for sparring with Zelda and Impa, Link hasn’t fought since Termina. Yet the Gilded Sword is part of him, as the Master Sword was before it. He’s carried a weapon since the day Mido said he needed one to visit the Great Deku Tree.
And that was only the beginning. He thinks of those sisters with their carefree smiles, fighting just for the thrill of it. At their age, Link was crawling through the mud at the bottom of Kakariko’s well, sobbing in desperate terror as he tried to escape the Dead Hand. And even then—when the hope of rescue was only a distant memory—he was telling himself, You’re a keeper of the world, be grateful for your fate, be grateful.
For so long, he thought all that pain was an enemy he had to conquer—like the shadow in the Water Temple, the soldier with no heart—in order to claw his way back to a version of himself that isn’t made of scars and sorrow. But Link’s enemies are dead and buried; all that remains is a forgotten little kid crouched in the dark. It’s past time to coax that boy to his feet and tell him, Let it go. Let it heal.
He's lost so much he’ll never get back—but he’s also made up of the kindness other people have shown him. He still has Navi perched on his shoulder, guiding him through the end of the world; there’s Tatl too, helping him make sense of the devastating aftermath. He still has the brush of Romani’s lips and the sunshine of her smile. Those are the memories Link takes with him, like a lantern to guide his path.
He can picture the first Zelda who touched his heart, a sly smirk tugging at her lips when he admits that she was right about everything—about time passing and people moving, about how you couldn’t get anywhere if you were fighting the current. About how growing up the right way, the hard way, was exactly what Link needed.
The Zelda he’s made a home with looks up from her book when he walks into their chambers, worry creasing her brow. “Link? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says with a laugh of disbelief, reaching up to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “I’m just—happy. I’m happy I’m still here.”
Zelda sweeps him into her arms, covering him in kisses until he’s breathless with laughter. “I’m happy too,” she says, tears shining in those blue eyes that he remembered when everything else seemed lost. “You were right on time.”
Link leaves his sword at the door that night, and every night that follows. Hyrule flourishes and falters and flourishes again. It’s no small task to unravel two tangled lifetimes of grief and weave them together, but they’re both stubborn enough to stay the course. Link never expected to view time as a gift, but Zelda always had a knack for guiding him to the deeper truth.
He still wakes some days expecting the clock to spin backwards and make all his worst fears come true. It never happens. The river carries him forward. And when the nightmares come, there’s always something good waiting when he wakes up.
On one of those nights, Link sits up in bed; the crying baby pulled him out of the dream before it got bad. Zelda groans, stirring reluctantly, but he puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get her.”
“I love you,” she mumbles, sinking back under the covers. The way she says it, unabashed and unquestioning, fills him with warmth.
He lifts the baby from her crib and starts to hum a lullaby he learned long ago. She goes quiet by the second verse, resting her head near the compass that still hangs over Link’s heart. The song worked on her mother too; Zelda’s already asleep, her hair spilling over the pillow like strands of golden thread. And he catches a glimpse of silver through the window: the moon, full and bright and almost beautiful, nestled over their slumbering kingdom.
Be grateful, Link tells himself, and for the first time since he can remember, the words ring true.
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