A/N: Well hi there, friends! Here's a little something that's been churning around in my head for a while. On subsequent playthroughs of BotW, I've been increasingly obsessed with Mipha. We know so little about her, and about her relationship with Link. So I decided to explore it a bit more.

Much of this fic is inspired by CrazygurlMadness' "One Last Year." If you haven't checked it out yet, I STRONGLY ADVISE that you do so. It fills in the backstory in a way that is pure perfection.

Lastly: I'm also looking for beta readers for an original work of romantic fantasy/adventure that I've put together. If you're interested in providing me with critical feedback, please DM me and we can talk about it a bit more.

And... that's it! Thank you for reading the author's notes. Don't forget to review when you're done. ;)

Cheers,

-L

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."

- C.S. Lewis

Grief lay over the little house. Zelda imagined the feeling to be like chalk dust, sticky enough to coat its walls and windows in a thick, invisible layer.

Zelda wrapped her arms around herself, looking across the bridge at the little building. It was well-kept. There was light shining through its windows. And yet it seemed to radiate pain and sadness, waves of hopelessness and despair washing out from it like the tide.

Link's house. Link's grief.

Zelda turned to Paya with a wan smile.

"Thank you," she said, knowing her own voice was soft and full of heartbreak. "It was good of you to escort me here."

Paya shrugged her meek, self-conscious shrug.

"We're all worried," she said. She shrugged again. "M- maybe you can help?"

"I hope so," Zelda agreed, turning back to the house.

Six months. Six months since they'd sealed the Calamity. Six months that Zelda had been breathing fresh air, been free to move her body as she pleased. Six months, and it felt like a lifetime.

Two months ago, they'd gone to Zora's Domain. Before that, Link had been at her side constantly. But while she worked on the Divine Beast, he'd done something—gone somewhere—and even though his body and mind had come back, his heart had not. After he delivered her back to the Sheikah village, he'd taken his horse and left.

That had been a month ago. There had been no word from him. Nothing. Only silence, painful in its quietness, until Zelda hadn't been able to stand it anymore. She had asked Impa to have someone escort her to wherever Link was.

And Link, it appeared, was in a house in Hateno that was brimming with grief.

"Would you like m-me to come in with you?" Paya asked, taking an uncertain step forward. She held the bridle of her horse in one hand. "I c-can, if you'd l-l-like."

"No, thank you," Zelda said softly. She turned. "I know you're due at your aunt's."

With the death of the Calamity, it had become safe to travel. Paya had decided it was time to spend some time with her great-aunt Purah, who had restored herself to her former, aging body. Though the girl was shy and stammered, Paya was clever, and Zelda knew she would one day likely be the leader of the Sheikah. That meant knowing about the ancient technology—and Purah would share all her knowledge with her niece, Zelda was certain. That journey had given Zelda an easy escort to Hateno, where she would seek out the hero. Perhaps it wouldn't be proper, Zelda traveling to Link's home and staying there—but everyone was too worried to argue.

They'd been worried with good reason, Zelda thought, eyeing the sad house once more.

"You'll come f-find us if you n-n-need anything?" Paya asked as Zelda hefted her backpack higher on her shoulder. "You know how to g-get to the lab?"

"I'm sure everything will be fine," said Zelda. "But yes. I will come find you if I need help, and I know how to get to the lab." It was hard to miss, sitting atop a giant hill and all — but Zelda didn't say that. She summoned what she hoped was an encouraging smile. "Please give Purah my regards. I'll come see you two as soon as I am able."

"Alright," Paya agreed. She led the horses away from the bridge, looking over her shoulder at Zelda one last time with worry. Zelda gave a little wave, forcing a smile, pretending everything would be alright.

But it might not be.

Zelda took a deep breath and screwed up her courage. She'd fought the Calamity—survived inside of it—for a century. If she could do that, she could do this.

She set her shoulders, strode forward, and knocked gently on the door.

No response.

"Link?" she asked the wood. "Link?"

Still no response.

"I know you're in there," she said, then waited.

Still nothing.

"I'm coming in."

The door was locked, but a touch of her power flipped the latch, and she let herself in. She stepped through, shutting the door behind her to keep out the cold. It was the depth of winter, and though the day was clear, it was chilly outside. The sky overhead was heavy with clouds. It would likely snow soon.

Zelda looked around. The house was neat and orderly. Racks of weapons hung on the wall. New furniture, barely used, was arranged in a pleasing way. A small fire was blazing in the hearth. Zelda set her rucksack down by the door.

No Link.

There was a staircase to her right, and she ascended it. "Link?" She found herself in a little loft, and it was there that she found the hero.

He was lying in his bed, huddled under blankets. If downstairs had been orderly, upstairs was not. A trident — Mipha's trident — lay on the floor next to the bed. There were dirty dishes piled around, and the loft smelled of unwashed linens.

"Link?" Zelda asked again.

"Go away," he mumbled.

Zelda looked at him. His hair was greasy and unwashed. His cheeks were rough with a surprisingly thick new beard. His blue eyes, usually so alert and intent, were glassy with pain.

Zelda had never been allowed the luxury of grief. When her mother died, she'd tucked her pain deep within herself and carried on: she hadn't even shed a tear, and the king had been proud of her for it. When her father, and the champions, and all of Hyrule had burned, she hadn't dared think of it. She wondered what it would be like to let herself feel the pain that still lurked and throbbed within her.

She looked at Link and her heart twisted.

Her own pain could wait. Would wait, as it already had for so long.

She gathered Link's dishes and carried them downstairs.

She put the dishes on the sideboard, then checked the bucket by the fire. He had fresh water, but not much. Glad she hadn't taken off her winter gear just yet, Zelda went back into the cold. Though it was only afternoon, the light was dimming. The sun would go down soon — no more than an hour, Zelda thought as she squinted up at the dreary clouds. She'd found two buckets and a yoke under the stairs, and she made her way to the pond by the side of Link's house. The surface had frozen, but there was a little stable beside it. Zelda took a moment to check on Epona — the horse was in far better shape than her master, with fresh hay and warm bedding. And in the other stall sat a heavy sledgehammer. It took all of Zelda's strength to heft it. She wobbled out to the pond and used it to break the surface of the ice, then dragged it back to the shelter of the stable. She filled her buckets, managed to struggle them and the yoke onto her shoulders, and swayed back to the house. She left the buckets by the fire, found two more, and repeated her miserable chore. She was panting by the time she'd finished a second trek, sweating in spite of the cold.

There were no signs of life from the loft. Zelda stoutly ignored a wave of alarm at Link's inattention. She was the intruder here: it was hardly polite of her to expect him to leap to his feet to help her.

Even still…

While the four buckets of fresh water warmed, Zelda set about to cleaning Link's dirty dishes. He hadn't been doing much cooking for himself, it appeared: judging by the crumbs (not to mention the mostly-eaten loaf of bread on the sideboard) he'd been sticking mostly to sandwiches. That was fine with Zelda: it was easier to clean off breadcrumbs than crusted rice, although it was worryingly out of character for her favorite glutton to eat only plain fare…

She already knew something was wrong. That much was obvious. Zelda told herself to quit belaboring the point, and focus on the tasks at hand.

She finished cleaning the dishes, then went back upstairs. Link had fallen back asleep. She didn't dare brush her fingers against his forehead to check for fever — didn't want to see what happened when he was startled into wakefulness. Instead, she breathed carefully through her mouth as she gathered the chamberpot (thankfully not too full) and took it downstairs, outside, and to the latrine some distance away. She dumped its contents, but some foulness was still stuck to the side. Shivering, Zelda made her way back to the cabin, grabbed the mostly-empty bucket, and hauled it out to the pond. She drew water, then used that to clean the inside of the chamberpot, making sure to dump the refuse into the latrine, instead of the soil where it could run and poison drinking water.

Chamberpot clean, Zelda carried it and the bucket back to the house. The chamberpot went back to the loft, and Zelda scrubbed her hands clean beside the fire. She looked around the house: it wasn't tidy, precisely… more sterile. But it needed dusting, and Zelda knew that was something she could do to make it more comfortable, more home-like. The weapons of the fallen Champions hung on the wall, and though it choked her up to see it, she didn't let the grief through.

There would be time for grief later. Right now, Link needed her.

She found a rag and she dusted: dusted the weapons and their frames, dusted the tables and bookshelves and books, dusted every corner and cranny she could reach. She threw a few more logs on the fire, then glanced up at the loft again. Still nothing.

There was food stashed in chests under the stairs, and Zelda rummaged around for ingredients. She was no cook, but she could manage mushrooms and rice well enough. Link had taught her the recipe long ago, when they'd traveled Hyrule together. He'd taught her everything she knew about survival beyond the castle's walls, actually: how to cook, how to camp, how to soothe a frightened horse.

And then after the Calamity, when they traveled together, Zelda saw how people spoke to him. How they clung to him as though he were a lifeline, as though they were still afraid to hope. He was always gentle with the people who greeted him. Patient. Kind.

And now he was hurting, and it was Zelda's turn to help.

Zelda let the mushrooms and rice cook over the fire, and looked around for something to do. Some way to help. Link's rucksack was by the door, still packed; Zelda unpacked it. Weapons and ammunition went into their drawers and up onto their racks. Dirty clothing went into a basket under the stairs, as did Link's camp blankets. There was a pile of clean fabric, and Zelda began to rummage through it. Trousers and socks, sheets — all had holes, snags, or tears.

Good thing Link had taught Zelda to sew.

She searched until she found a needle and thread, then took the mending over by the fire. As darkness fell outside, she worked by the flickering light, patching holes and fixing what she could.

She only wished she knew how to mend Link.

Link wouldn't eat in front of her. Zelda quickly found that the best strategy was to take food up to him, leave it by his bedside, and return for the bowls later. Zelda cooked, she scoured the house, she even tended to Link's weapons and gear. She went and sat in the stable with Epona, passing the long, freezing hours as best she could, worrying. It snowed, and it was cold, and the days were short and dark. Some of the melancholia that Link must have felt seemed to be infecting Zelda. But she refused to acknowledge it. Pressed it down into her where the rest of the darkness sat.

At night, she slept on a pallet she made up in front of the fire. Link didn't offer her his bed, and she didn't ask. They barely exchanged words: though he was ordinarily quiet, he seemed resentful of her being in his home, wouldn't speak to her at all. And she didn't know how to reach him.

On the third day, Zelda decided that what Link needed was a bath. She'd found a large wooden washtub in the storage shed behind the house, and she dragged it through the snow, through the front door, and set it before the fire. Then, she labored under the yoke to fill the buckets from the pond — her muscles ached from ferrying buckets to and from the house, and from hefting the sledgehammer to break the ice. But she didn't complain.

She spent the better part of the afternoon heating water over the fire. Finally, when the bath was ready, she went upstairs. Link was tangled in his sheets, and opened his eyes when she crested the stairs. She'd never seen him look so dull. Zelda summoned a smile.

"I've drawn a bath for you," she told him. "Come downstairs. You need to wash."

"I'm fine," he said woodenly.

"You're not fine," Zelda said. "You have a beard and you smell like a dead Hinox. I need to change your sheets and you need a bath." Her temper had begun to spark. She stamped it out. "Come downstairs, Link."

He regarded her with his dull eyes for a long moment.

"I don't need you," he told her.

She thought about agreeing with him. Or challenging him to prove it. Instead, she tried another wan smile.

"Please," she said softly.

The 'please' did the trick. Link hauled himself from the bed, attired only in his undershorts. Zelda remembered the first time she'd seen him in them, when they'd traveled together so long ago on her pilgrimage to the three springs. She'd never seen a man undressed before, never even seen a man without a shirt. But she quickly learned that for two people traveling in close company — even a man and a woman — there wasn't much modesty to be had.

Once Link was out of the bed and downstairs, Zelda took her time in the loft. She stripped the bed of its stinking linens, and remade it with new sheets. The quilt didn't smell too badly, so Zelda decided to leave it until after she'd washed and dried the laundry. She could swap it out with one of the clean camp blankets.

Her ears caught the soft splashing of Link in the tub. She knelt and looked under the bed. Mipha's trident was there. Zelda thought about picking up and putting it away on its rack, then decided not to. Link had brought it upstairs for a reason.

She peeked over the railing of the loft. Link's modesty was safely covered by the water. She took the dirty linens in her arms and hauled them down the stairs. She tossed them into the basket with the rest of the dirty fabric, then looked at Link. Firelight flickered across the water of the tub. Outside, wind and snow brushed wintry fingers against the windows. He looked very lonely.

"Would you like me to wash your hair?" Zelda asked him.

Link shrugged listlessly.

Zelda rolled up her sleeves and pulled a stool up to the back of the tub. She'd set a bottle of shampoo and a small wash pail beside the tub, and now she grabbed the pail, dipped it into the water, and carefully poured its contents over Link's head, taking extra caution not to get water in his eyes. She squirted shampoo into her palms and began to rub it into Link's hair, massaging his scalp. He sat still, almost lifeless beneath her hands, and her heart broke for him.

His hair was thick, like a wolf's pelt. Even wet, Zelda could tell how soft it was. Before the Calamity, at the end, she'd often wondered what it would feel like to run her hands through it, especially if he was kissing her, or… doing other, more intimate things. She'd fantasized about what it might be like to have Link in her bed — and she wasn't alone. She knew most of the women of the castle had wondered what it might be like to have that power and muscle over them, to feel his skin against theirs…

No matter. It was a girlish fantasy, and any traces of girlishness or fantasy in Zelda were gone.

She rinsed the soap from Link's hair, then gave it a second rinse for good measure. There was soap nearby, so she tended to his shoulders and what parts of his back she could reach. He was covered in scars: old ones she remembered, puckered scars from his near-death, and shiny new scars that were still faintly pink. She watched his muscles flex under his skin as she scrubbed his shoulders clean, and thought about all the weight those shoulders had borne. The weight of a kingdom. The weight of the world.

She couldn't blame him for breaking down.

Her fingers must have been tracing the line of an old, long scar because he sighed.

"I don't remember how I got that one," he told her.

"You were once given a lashing," she told him. "When you were a page. You came away from the experience with several scars."

He stirred under her hands at that.

"What did I do?" he asked her.

"You got in a fight," she told him. Her fingers smoothed across the scar. "Several fights. Some of the older boys were picking on a younger child who was far smaller and weaker than them. Even though you weren't much bigger, you decided to take them on. You beat them badly — and they told on you. The punishment for fighting was lashes," she said. Her fingers paused. "You all got them that day."

Link went still, as though he was listening very intently all of a sudden.

"Were you there?" he asked her.

"I was not," she told him. "Though I heard the stories. And you told me about it once you became my guard."

Link nodded slowly. His wet hair slid over one wide shoulder.

"How old were we?" he asked her.

"When you were lashed?" Zelda asked. "You were eleven. I was eight."

His hands were on the rim of the tub. They clenched.

"How old was I when I lived in Zora's Domain?" he asked her.

Zelda reached for a comb.

"You were very young," she said. "Your father was stationed there when you were six. You stayed there for three years, until you were old enough to go to Hyrule Castle and become a page."

Link didn't respond. But there was something new to his quietness, a kind of alertness that hadn't been there before. So Zelda continued talking as she started combing his hair.

"You told me once that you had a difficult time adjusting to life in the castle. You weren't used to being enclosed. You missed the water in Zora's Domain, and your family, and your friends there. But you were good at fighting, and that helped you adjust. Though," she carefully pulled the comb through his thick hair, "you said what you had most difficulty adjusting to was wearing shoes. When you lived in Zora's Domain, you never needed them.

"Sometimes, the Zora would swim down the river to the castle, and would update us on Zora's Domain," Zelda continued. "I remember seeing you with Demon Sergeant Seggin once. He'd reported to my father, and then he had sought you out afterwards to deliver letters from your father and friends. I was walking by the courtyard where you two were, and you looked so happy to see him." She gently pried a tangle out of his hair. "Your smile was like the sun coming out. And then you flung yourself at him. I'd never seen a Zora embrace a Hylian before, but the Demon Sergeant seemed just as happy to see you as you were to see him. The Zora were all very fond of you."

Link shifted away from Zelda's touch, and she let him go.

"Did something happen?" she asked as he pulled away. "In Zora's Domain?"

"No," he said.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" Zelda asked him.

Link didn't turn, didn't look at her.

"The first time I went back to Zora's Domain, I didn't have any of my memories," he said. "And Seggin hated me."

"He doesn't hate you anymore," Zelda said, thinking back to the old Zora's respectful greeting.

"He doesn't," Link agreed. "But I remember more now."

Zelda felt her fingers clenching in her lap.

"How much do you remember?"

"Not enough," he said darkly.

She wasn't sure if he was talking about their memories, or about their conversation. Either way, they didn't speak again until Link asked Zelda to leave so he could get out of the tub. Zelda complied, bundling herself in a thick winter cloak and making her way out to the stable to check on Epona. The horse was better company than her master: the stable was warm, and she seemed to be happy to see Zelda. She had enough hay and oats, and flicked her tail in welcome when Zelda walked into the little stable.

Zelda sat with Epona for a while, brushing the horse and wishing she knew how to help the creature's master. Whatever hurt dwelled in Link was beyond her power to heal. Zelda stifled a sense of rising frustration. He felt so distant, so far: almost as though his heart had retreated into that horrible sleep in the Shrine of Resurrection, leaving his body to wander, adrift.

It had been a week and she still didn't know how to reach him.

At least he was getting out of bed more now. He'd come and sit by the fire for an hour or two every day. They didn't speak of Zora's Domain again after Link's bath, but Zelda did go down to the village and borrow a book of Hylian history from the schoolmistress. When Link seemed up for it, she'd read the book aloud, filling in the gaps in his knowledge of the kingdom's history. She could have told him, of course: her knowledge of Hyrule was far deeper than anything in a children's history primer. But the cadence of the words seemed to soothe Link, and Zelda appreciated the opportunity to read.

"Late in the Second Era," Zelda read one morning as Link sat listlessly by the fire, "the Hylian Parliament annexed a southern province. It was known at the time as Ordon, and had petitioned the King numerous times over the previous century for annexation. There was nothing south of Ordon other than the sea, and though the people of Ordon enjoyed their democratic society, they needed the protection of their Hylian neighbors from some of the raiding parties that were coming to their shores in pirate longboats. This annexation came with a steep cost however; when the Calamity rose at the end of the Second Era and washed Hyrule in darkness, Ordon went with its new neighbor into the twilight."

Link shifted.

"I don't want to hear about the Calamity," he said. "Not in any era."

Zelda paused, blinking.

"Alright," she said. She turned a few pages ahead and cleared her throat. "Once the Calamity had been vanquished, the people of Hyrule came together to rebuild. However, the military was deeply corrupt, and it took the leadership of the Ordonian Hero to turn the troops around. The relationships he'd forged during his journeys led to stronger allegiance to the crown princess of the time, Zelda Harkinian IX, with notable contributions to the rebuilding effort being made by the Zoras of Zora's Domain. When famine spread across the country in the year after the Calamity, it was Prince Ralis who directed his people to share their fish and kelp with the citizens of Hyrule."

Link shifted again.

"Stop," he said.

Zelda squinted at him. She closed the book with a snap and strode over to kneel before him.

"Link," she said, resting her hand on his knee. "You need to talk to me. What's going on?"

He shook his head firmly.

"Please," she said. "I can't help you if you won't talk to me."

He turned his face away from her.

"I don't want your help," he told her.

That hurt. But she recognized the set of his shoulders and his jaw in a sudden swirl of pain — knew what he was feeling.

"I didn't want your help either, once upon a time," she told him. "But you didn't let me drive you away. And now, I'm here for you, even if you don't want me."

"That was different," Link said. His voice was becoming more agitated. More snappish. "We were working towards a goal."

"And now that we've achieved it, we need to move on," Zelda said. "Please, Link. Please tell me what's wrong."

He looked at her for a long moment.

"You knew me back then," he said. "Better than anyone by the end. Right?"

"Right," Zelda agreed.

"Was I in love with Mipha?"

Of all the questions Zelda had been expecting, that hadn't been one of them.

"I don't know," she said frankly. "You were very fond of her — you were very close — but love? I… I truly don't know, Link."

Link let out a low, dark chuckle.

"Why not?" he asked her. "Didn't you know everything? Or were you so busy with your own feelings that you didn't notice anyone else's?"

What? What had gotten into him?

"What on earth are you talking about, Link?" she asked.

"Mipha," Link said angrily. There was a furious blue sparkle in his eyes, and Zelda thought for a horrible moment that that rage was directed at her. "She was in love with me. She wanted to marry me. Prince Sidon told me so. She loved me so much that she made me armor, and I can barely remember her. I don't know if I loved her back." He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "She loved me and I don't remember her."

"It's not your fault," Zelda said. "The Sleep of Restoration—"

"You don't understand," Link said angrily. He looked up. His face was very close to her own, and very angry. Zelda suddenly recalled how dangerous he really was: she'd seen him kill three silver Lynels once in a small space, and he hadn't been as strong or as deadly as he was now. He could hurt her.

But he wouldn't.

"Please help me, then," Zelda said, when it seemed like an explanation wasn't forthcoming. Link had frozen, his face a hair's breadth away from her own. "I want to understand."

"I don't know who I am," he said after a moment, sitting back. "You took that from me. You took everything from me. You kept me alive to serve you, and you took away my memories. Who I am. There was a woman who loved me, and I don't know if I loved her back. I stood at her grave and I felt nothing. That's your fault. And no amount of playing house or pretending you're sorry will fix it. Not unless you can make my memories come back."

The words hit her like a slap. Her fault. She swallowed her pain. Princesses didn't feel pain. She force herself to meet Link's blue eyes. They were feral, almost animal. She was proud her voice remained steady.

"Is that truly how you feel? Do you want me to go?" she asked him.

His throat worked. After a moment, he swallowed.

"Do what you want, princess," he told her.

Zelda looked away from him.

"All I want is to help you," she said.

He looked up. His blue eyes were still full of pain and anger.

"I don't need your help," he said again. "If that's the only reason why you're here, you should leave."

Zelda looked at him: the angry set of his jaw, the tense line of his shoulders, the way his hands had clenched into fists.

"Alright," she said. "I'll go."

The Rito had given her a set of Snowquill gear, which Zelda had worn on her journey to Hateno and left beside the door. She pulled the thick pants and tunic on over her clothes, gathered a change of clothing and loaded it into her bag, and took one last look at Link. He was still sitting beside the fire, and was clearly looking anywhere but at her.

Resigned, she hoisted her bag onto her back and slipped out the door into the snow. As she walked away from the cabin, she heard a wounded roar, followed by a loud crash, as though someone had flung a pot against a wall.

Zelda refused to cry.

Uploaded on Thursday, October 19, 2017