Chapter Text
The night Mother died, the sky was clear and surprisingly warm. Winter had been wicked that year, with more than a few blizzards to its name, but nearing its close. By Mother’s final night, the frigid weather that had accompanied her illness had thawed into only a slight chill.
A sign that the fever will break soon, Zelda had told the head healer, filled with hope till the very end. Healer Mika, a Zora with a marvelously colored salmon crest, had not corrected her. Whether that was an act of kindness or resignation, Zelda had not known. All Zelda had known was that by the final night, Mika had made herself scarce, stopping by every few hours to take Mother’s vitals, purse her fishy lips together, and slip out of the room-- nothing like the smothering, around the clock care the Zora had provided all last week.
Surely, that had been a sign things were going well. Mika wouldn’t be so absent if Mother was worsening. Zelda knew it.
(Or, maybe, Zelda considered, weeks later, once the funeral was said and done, Mika had realized there was nothing more to do. Maybe Mika had been exhausted by Queen Zelda’s vomit and sweat - better to let the Queen spend her last nights surrounded by family instead of forcing experimental herbs down her raw throat or exhausting her further with untested spells. Better to let her last night be one of rest.)
Princess Zelda, the most recent leaf on the branch of the Royal Hylian family tree, had held her mother’s hand that whole night, convinced even as bile and exhaustion stained the Queen’s face that all would be well. Why wouldn’t it be, when the Gods were kind? Why wouldn’t it be, when her Mother was the Golden Maiden of Hyrule, the crowned head of a mighty empire, chosen by the Goddesses to rule a country destined by divine fate to protect all under its flag? Why worry, when Nayru, Din, and Farore looked down at them with such love? Mother was blessed, beloved. Mother was invincible.
Until she wasn’t.
Zelda ran her fingers through Mother’s hair, arranging the golden stands in elegant spirals on her pillow. The hair was grimy with sweat and fever-- Zelda would have to have someone come and wash it soon. Surely, clean hair would help Mother perk up a bit.
Mother’s hair, usually a fine waterfall of honey, was covered in braids, some small and simple, others winding ones with too many strands to count. Zelda had braided each one, pushing intention and prayer into each curl. Mother stressed the importance of prayer often.
“It is our link to Them,” she would tell Zelda each night as she combed Zelda’s hair, pushing devotion into each curl. “Through prayer, through these holy words, we become, just for a moment, like Them. It is the closest you will ever be. Pray, and pray often.”
Mother spoke of Them, the Three, Din, Nayru, and Farore, to Zelda with a steadfast devotion that Zelda envied. Most Golden Maidens (at least, according to Zelda’s tutors) took Hylia as their Patroness-- after all, the Goddess Hylia, ruler of Light and Life, had been the first of all Golden Maidens, taking on the role the moment she covered Hyrule with her enourmous, feathered wings.
Yet, even with Hylia’s history with their land, Mother had dedicated herself to Din with a ferocity that few Golden Maidens in living memory ever had. In her rib cage, Mother carried a soft-spoken but fiery love of the Goddess of Power, and in her weak moments, Zelda yearned for someone to speak of her the way Mother spoke of Din… loved without question, adored without a second thought. Cherished in someone’s heart so deeply that there was no room for fear or loneliness.
Zelda’s winding fingers disturbed a braid near Mother’s temple, and Zelda frowned as a strand broke free, moving her hand to fix the braid back into something fitting of Mother’s beauty. The heat of Mother’s brow burned Zelda’s tanned fingers. The fever had stripped the color from Mother’s skin, making the contrast between her and Zelda’s own flesh even clearer.
Zelda looked little like Mother, and even less like Father; King Romarus was a near skeleton of a man, with pale, blue-toned skin, thin brows, and flax-straight pepper hair. Beside him, Mother stood out like a flame against shadows, with skin that was like milk caught in sunlight and corn-honey curls, bouncy and full. Zelda’s skin was tanner than them both, and her hair was almost copper; Goddesses be blessed, at least she had her Mother’s eyes! Round and black as jet, deep set into her face with heavy, graceful lids. So unlike Father’s watery blue. Zelda loved her dark coffee eyes, though she could never seem to make them glitter like Mother could.
“Zeld…a?” Mother murmured, eyelids fluttering. Zelda gasped. It was the first word Mother had said in three days, outside of feverish moans and whimpers. She grabbed the water pitcher from Mother’s bedside table, quickly filling a glass.
“Zelda, is that you?” Mother looked up at her, and for the first time in days, fever did not cloud her eyes. She was lucid. Things were getting better! The Gods were kind, and Mother was lucid.
“Shh, don’t talk. Save your strength,” Zelda whispered, helping Mother tilt her head and gulp down the lukewarm water. “Careful, slow sips. I don’t want you to choke.”
Mother coughed, water droplets clinging to her lips, and Zelda scooted closer on the bed, pulling her Mother’s head into her lap.
“I’m right here, Mother. All is well.”
Mother squinted her eyes, peering at Zelda through her lashes.
“Where’s your father?” Mother rasped. Zelda dabbed her lips with her skirt, and Mother sluggishly pushed her away. “Where’s Romarus?”
“He left a few days ago, those he should return any moment now. I’ll fetch one of his manservants for you--”
“No!”
The word was harsh, and despite Mother’s weak, shaky voice, it echoed throughout the room.
“No… please, don’t.”
Zelda shifted her Mother’s head, pulling her closer into her lap.
“Alright…” Zelda said softly. Mother’s breathing was rough, labored, against her. “Alright, then.”
“Impa,” Mother said suddenly, struggling to sit up, “I-- we-- need Impa.”
Zelda gently guided her Mother back down to her lap. “Mother, please, don’t move. You need your rest.”
“No, no, I need Impa. I need Impa,” Mother’s breaths came out sharp and shallow as she pushed against Zelda’s hands, forcing herself away and into a curled, crooked, but finally upright position. Zelda swallowed. Mother swayed dangerously, but she jerked away when Zelda tried to steady her.
“Okay,” Zelda said, trying to keep any concern from her voice. Mother's body shook as she curled and uncurled her clammy fingers. She looked awful, but her eyes were open, and that was better than this morning. Very well-- if Mother wanted Impa, Zelda would bring her Impa. “Okay.”
The stone floor somehow felt colder than it had before as Zelda moved away from Mother’s bed, her bare feet echoing against the elegantly carved stones. There was no point looking proper when Mother was beside her, and her shoes pinched uncomforably anyways. Hyrule Castle was old, older than any other building in Hyrule, save perhaps the Temple of Time. The floors had been smoothed by centuries of use, but the outlines of triangles and mighty, feathered birds were still clearly etched. As a child, Zelda made a game of jumping from carving to carving, running her toes against the curving lines of mortar that glittered in-between the stones. Now, as she ran for the large, oak door of the sick room, she made no such moves.
She threw open the door, startling the guard outside-- Edmun had been posted there for evening charge, and in a few hours would be replaced by Marciu, for the night watch.
“My Lady!”
Edmun bowed low and Zelda waved him up.
“Fetch Lady Impa for me,” She said, before adding on an rushed ‘please’. Even in all this excitement, Mother would be terribly upset if she saw Zelda being impolite. Edmun furrowed his brow.
“Lady Impa?”
“Yes.”
“May I wait till the changing? I don’t want to leave the two of you alone--”
“That is very kind, but I’m plenty able to sit with her Majesty for alone for a few minutes. Lady Impa, now... please.”
Edmun’s frown deepened, but he nodded, dipping into a low bow again before darting off.
Impa-- the Sheikah would be overjoyed to see Mother lucid, and Mother would, hopefully, be calmed by the face of her old friend.
Impa had been Mother’s confidant since as long as Zelda could remember, and then long before that. Before Zelda’s birth, Impa had been the Queen’s head bodyguard, the Shadow, as required of ever Sheikah Chief. It was a beautiful, historically rich practice; in Hyrule’s infancy, when Hylia had traveled throughout the Continent, working to purify the land and defend it from Darkness, She had required a partner, a provider and guard, and found one in the Mighty Impa, the very first of the Sheikah. The woman had stood behind Hylia until her death, and, on her deathbed, swore dedication to the Goddess even from the Sacred Realm--
“As long as my bloodline bleeds upon this blessed soil, it bleeds for You.”
The Sheikah forever remembered the duty and honor of their first Chief. It was as simple to them as breathing; they dedicated themselves to the Goddess and Her people without objection or compromise. Until the roots of Hyrule’s Royal Family Tree were withered to nothing and its branches rotted away completely, the Sheikah would be bound in blood to their Rulers. The needs of Hyrule would be their needs, the wants of the Royal Family their wants.
Centuries-- centuries upon centuries-- of upheld promises and endless devotion. Truly, beautiful.
As her people’s leader, Chief of the Sheikah, and Shadow General of the Sheikah’s Shadow Guard, Impa had been gifted upon her coming of age to Mother, and when Impa grew too old to hold a sword and the new Chief, Graysand, took up the mantle, Mother had gifted Impa to a newborn Zelda.
Impa, officially, was a maidservant and nothing more. She could not even stand at Zelda’s side in public, instead paces behind Zelda and her handmaidens. But behind closed doors, Impa was almost as much a parent to her as Mother was. She taught her, held her, loved her in a way few others did.
When Zelda cried, Impa wiped her tears. When she raged, Impa took her fury in stride. When she yearned, the old woman held her in her arms, singing old Sheikah songs to her in the language of shadows, a language Zelda wasn’t supposed to know even existed. There were many things Impa told her that she was never supposed to know. The Sheikah were a people of secrets, but when Impa was close, only a few paces behind her, the Sheikah seemed to Zelda as bright and clear as a sunny day.
Edmun’s boots slapped on the stone as he returned, Impa just behind, moving without a sound. With her was a tall, lithe man, the dark of his nose bridge and red of his eyes the only parts visible of his cowled face. Graysand’s quick movements were even quieter than Impa’s, as if the shadows of the hallways had swallowed up any sound that might come from him-- even his heartbeat. Zelda frowned. Father must have returned if Graysand was back.
Zelda and Father’s parting earlier that week had been… unpleasant. Hopefully, Mother’s improving condition would smooth over any lingering anger.
Graysand dropped to one knee, head tilted down, eyes lingering on the ground beside Zelda’s bare feet. Graysand was a traditionalist to the extreme degree-- until Zelda acknowledged him, he wouldn’t even look upon her skin. Behind him, Imp bowed as best she could. Age clung to her joints, making bending more difficult than it had been in years past. Her white hair was covered with a black veil that flowed over her own cowl. Zelda had seen her face bare more times than she could count-- something no one outside a small circle of trusted friends was to ever know.
The old woman’s face was brown and wrinkled, and no smile lines or laughter lines could be found. Impa was many things, but ‘smiley’ was not one of them. Her eyes, a dark, ruby red, had become more and more cloudy over the past year, a slow, inching blindness that frightened Zelda. Despite it all, muscle, honed and ready to strike, were hidden comfortably under the Sheikah’s clothes, just like the daggers hidden on the small of her back and the long, thin blades tapped against the back of her gloved hands, ready to slice free of fabric and stab any threat with a single flick of her wrist.
Impa was old, frail, dying. But she was not dead yet.
“Shadow Graysand,” Zelda said, swallowing any discontent. “I am glad to see you’ve returned.”
“It is good to see you well, my Lady,” Shadow General Graysand replied, voice soft and blank. “However, the sight of only a single guard before your mother’s sick bed could be seen as alarming.”
“We were quite safe under Sir. Edmun’s watchful eye.”
Zelda could feel Graysand’s glare beside her feet, even if his expression was perfectly schooled.
“I see. In the future, I would prefer a Sheikah to aid him.”
“... Of course. Rise.”
Graysand stood with sharp, efficient motions, towering over Zelda. He was only 26, likely still growing, but still managed to make Zelda feel like a child under his gaze, even with her superior rank. She kept her eyes lowered, away from the harshness of his covered face.
“Lady Impa,” Zelda said. Her maidservant straightened. “Mother called for you. She seems to be feeling better-- lucid, even.”
“That’s amazing!” Edmun cried out. The guard spun to Zelda, both his manners and his post forgotten. His hopeful smile made his eyes shine. “Shall I fetch Healer Mika?”
“Please, do,” Graysand said, not bothering Edmun a glance. “It would be good for you to make yourself useful.”
Edmun’s smile fell. “Her Majesty and Her Ladyship were well and safe these past days with me and the Royal Guard. Of that, I can assure you.”
Most guards wouldn’t bother to entertain a Sheikah’s opinion-- the Shadow Army was, at the end of the day, made up of inferior blood, nothing when compared to the golden blessing bestowed upon the Hylians. Hylian ears were pointed, stretching to the sky to hear the words of Hylia, the whispers of the Three that created them, but Zelda had seen Impa’s ears hundreds of times. They were strangely shaped, almost cauliflower-like, swollen and malformed. Not suited for Gods at all.
Still, Graysand, as the Shadow, personal bodyguard of the King and Queen, out ranked Edmun. Hells, Graysand was possibly the only Sheikah to outrank a Hylian in the entire Continent.
“I’m sure they were. Fetch Healer Mika, if you please.”
Edmun swallowed, mouth twisted into something sour, but held his tongue. He grunted an acknowledgement to his superior, bowed curtly to Zelda, and turned on his heels, quickly disappearing down the hall deeper into the Healing Ward.
“... Mother called for you,” Zelda said again to Impa. If they had been alone, Impa would have pulled her close and pulled down her cowl to kiss Zelda’s forehead. Instead, the old woman dipped her head and waited for Zelda to lead the way.
Mother’s eyes were closed when the door shut behind the three of them, and for a moment, Zelda’s heart stopped.
No! No, no, no…
She rushed to Mother’s side, and the woman’s eyelids slowly opened, crusted over with sickness.
“Mother--”
“Impa?”
“Right here, my Queen,” Impa said. She curtsied, and Zelda could practically hear her bones creak. Mother’s smile was weak, but there.
“Your Grace,” Graysand dropped as low as he could. Mother’s eyes widened, just for a split second, and something akin to dread sunk into the curves of her face.
“Shadow?” she breathed.
“Ever present, your Grace.” Graysand said. “It warms my heart to hear you are doing well. We’ve sent for Healer Mika.”
“... Good.” Mother’s eyes lingered on the Shadow, her entire body, once so loose with weakness, suddenly tight, an uneven strain running up her neck.
“Shall I send for his Majesty?” Graysand asked. Mother swallowed. She did not tell him to rise.
“He’s returned?”
“Yes, at the start of the hour. It shall please his Majesty to know you are feeling better; he worried about your health the whole trip.”
Mother’s fingers curled into claws above the satin sheets. The purple fabrics were nearly black with sweat.
“... Go, leave. Fetch him yourself.”
Graysand head twitched, forgetting for a moment not to look up, before he groveled deeper before her. “The idea of leaving you and her Ladyship alone--”
“We shall be fine. I don’t wish to… sully my husband’s time by having him bothered by some servant. Leave, please.”
“As you wish,” Graysand said, and while his voice was just as flat as ever, Zelda could picture his molars grinding as he spoke. “Am I dismissed?”
“Yes.”
Graysand stood. There was something in his eyes that made Zelda’s insides squirm. “I shall be but a moment.”
Mother nodded, never turning her gaze from him until the door closed behind him. She let out a shuddering breath and a soft, aborted sob. Impa was at her side in an instant, pulling her close, not unlike how Zelda had held Mother earlier.
“No-- no, we don’t have much time,” Mother said, pushing Impa away. She grabbed for Zelda. “Beloved, please.”
Zelda climbed up the bed and close to Mother. With only Impa as company, it was finally safe to let out the fear and exhaustion that has hounded her the past to weeks. Mother smelled of vomit and exhaustion. Her hands were hot as a furnace as she cupped Zelda’s face. She was beautiful.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?” She said softly to Impa, and though her face was closed to Zelda’s own, her eyes were far away.
“Mother, no!” Zelda cried, and Mother shook her head.
“Shh. Not now, my dear.”
Impa’s hand came to rest on Mother’s elbow. It seemed to be confirmation enough for her.
“I’m sorry,” Mother said softly, leaning forward to rest her forehead on Zelda’s.
“He’ll be here sooner than later,” Impa said, voice stern but not unkind, and Mother nodded.
“I wanted more time,” she croaked, leaning more heavily against Zelda. “I had so much planned--”
A retching cough cut her off, and she lurched to the side to avoid spitting blood and bile onto Zelda’s face.
Zelda tried to rush back to grab the forgotten glass from the bedside table, but Mother grabbed her shoulder, her grip suddenly impossibly strong.
“Healer Mika will be here soon, Mother,” Zelda said, “She’ll make everything right.”
Mother shook her head, pressing the back of her hand to her bloodied lips.
“This is a gift,” she wheezed. “A boon from Din. A final chance.”
“Your Grace?” Impa said. It was not quite a question but not a statement either, and Mother nodded before another lurching cough ripped free, splattering the purple satins with red.
“Very well,” Impa squeezed Mother’s elbow. “I will follow however you wish. I always will.”
Zelda looked between the two women, confused, and Mother let out a weak, pained laugh. Zelda pulled away.
“Listen. Listen, vehvi,” Mother hissed. She snatched Zelda’s wrist again.“Your Mother is a coward. I wanted so badly to tell you, but your father… oh, vehvi…”
The word was soft, strange, like sand across stone, and while Zelda didn’t know much Gerudo-- why should she, when the barbarians lived so far and visited so rarely?-- she recognized the lit of the words. “Do not trust your father. He is a foul man. I have protected you to the best of my ability, but when I am gone, I don’t know what he’ll do--”
The coughing returned, and with it splatters of bloody saliva down Mother’s lips, chin, and nightgown. Mother’s face, already pale, was like wax, the blood stark against her translucent lips.
The coughing didn’t stop this time.
“I am a coward,” Mother forced through the horrible, violent sounds. “So scared of being without Holodrum’s loyalty that I abandoned it all. Your Mama is a coward.”
Zelda looked helplessly at Impa, begging her to do… do something, but the old woman just stared as Mother’s grip ground Zelda’s wrist bones together.
“Mother, you’re frightening me,” She whispered. Mother wheezed in a breath, choking on air.
“Hush. Your Vamvai was always so brave. Brave and beautiful. You look so much like her. You have her nose, her cheekbones. Her laugh.” The word Vamvai was new, though the suffix, vai, was familiar enough. Gerudo again. The way it rolled off Mother’s tongue was foreign, but felt right. “I have never known how to tell you about her. When I should. If you were ready. And now, I am too late.”
Zelda would have bruises when Mother finally let go. She was frightened to pry her fingers off of her, in case her Mother crumbled to dust without Zelda to hold as some kind of lifeline.
“Impa--”
“Always, your Grace,” Impa said, already sure of what Mother was asking. Mother smiled. The blood in her teeth made her look closer to a redead than a queen.
“Do not let him--”
“You have my word.”
“Good. Her uncle, he might…” Mother’s eyes turned skyward as something horrid caught in her throat. The gasping coughs were silent now, her eyes wide and bulging, and Zelda screamed.
“Mika!” She shouted, turning for the door, but even in dying, Mother’s grip was like steel. “Edmun, we need Mika-- Impa, please--!”
The oak doors flew open. A crowd pushed through them, Healer Mika and her entourage, the changing guard, Graysand, and, behind him, Father, towering and terrifying.
“Zelda? Zelda?” He rushed to Queen Zelda’s side, shouting his wife’s name and shoving Impa out of the way. He yanked Zelda’s wrist free as he knocked her off of the bed. “Damn it, why did no one send for me sooner?”
Mother managed to make one last sound, a heavy sucking in of air, spitting blood and saliva on her beloved husband’s face, before sagging forward against his chest. Healer Mika tried to squeeze between husband and wife, but Father’s grip on Mother was impossible to break.
“My Zelda?” He breathed, “Darling? Zelda!?”
The words fell on dead ears. Queen Zelda, beloved wife, daughter, and secret keeper, was gone.
---
The funeral lasted seven days, as customary. Zelda had expected to want nothing more than to curl under her sheets and die, to be buried beside Mother and rot in the earth together, but responsibilities kept the agony at bay. The grief waited, searching for the right moment to sneak free and strike, but if Zelda simply kept her mind busy, kept fixated on planning funeral feasts as she watched the bruises on her wrists bloom from red to purple, the grief could not-- would not-- catch her.
“I’m proud of you,” Father said the last night of the funeral. Just that morning, a regal, gold and marble sarcophagus had swallowed Mother up, and as the bejeweled lid slid over her face, Zelda had given the body one last glance. Queen Zelda’s face was plumper in death than it had been during those last few days. Her color was better, too, peachy and golden, and her hair elegantly displayed. The mortician had done a lovely job.
If only the healers had too.
Father spent the hight of the funeral shaking, his knees threatening to give out, but Zelda spent it looking straight ahead, eyes sore but dry, mouth thin and tongue heavy. Graysand, as Mother’s life-bound protector, had prostrated himself before the sarcophagus, face pressed to the cold floor of the Temple of Time as he recited the vow he first made when he took on the role of Chief and Shadow. The display served as a reminder of his promise to watch over the Hylian Royal Line even in death, a reminder of the bond of blood between them. Historically, a Chief would have died with their Golden Maiden, throat slit over her sarcophagus in a final show of ultimate devotion, but it had been centuries since that practice had fallen out of favor. Instead, the Shadow Guards had spent the night of Mother’s death searching for their sacrifice-- a wolfos. A monstrous one, black as night, that would be slaughtered in remembrance of the fallen Golden Maiden in Graysand’s stead. Legends said that the first Impa had ridden such a beast when she fought beside Hylia in the great Imprisoning Wars, and slaughtered it for her Goddess as a sign of submission when she first promised herself to Her. Now, the thing took Graysand’s place, staining the white of Mother’s final resting with hot, red, oxidized blood.
Impa hadn’t been let inside the Temple for the funeral. After all, she was just a maid. Instead, she had stood in the dusty street outside the stained-glass doors, face covered and eyes hard.
“I’m proud of you,” Father said again. Zelda looked up from the cold meats of the funeral feast. The fires of the castles had been cold for seven days, and would not be lit until sunrise, when the seventh day and night had finally passed. No fire meant no light, and that meant eating outside, bundled up against the blistering cold that had returned seemingly as soon as Mother’s heart stopped beating.
A thin line of ice settled on the surface of Zelda’s drink as her breath came out in frigid puffs.
(Do not trust your father.)
“Oh?” She said, only half listening.
“I worried I might faint at the ceremony, yet, you did not let a single tear fall. You will be a wonderful Golden Maiden. You have the heart of a ruler already.”
“... I see. Thank you.”
Father tapped his finger on his wine goblet. Grease from his pork dinner clung to the top lip of his mustache. He looked like hell, but Zelda refused to dwell on it. If she let herself notice, let herself think of why his hands shook and his voice came out in croaks, she would have to think of Mother, of her bloody face and terrifying words, and that, Zelda could not do.
“I have been… thinking, these past few days.” He continued, “Mostly worrying, I suppose. Graysand spent far too much of his time split between Zelda-- your mother-- and I, especially in those last weeks.”
Zelda brought a piece of frigid truffle to her lips, chewing methodically.
“And, of course, that meant even less time for him to be beside you.”
“I am fine. I have Impa.”
“That’s my concern.”
Zelda’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Yes, she and Graysand saw enough other little, and talked together even less. Zelda liked it that way. Impa was comfortable, always ready to keep and exchange secrets with Zelda and Zelda alone, unlike the Shadow, whose mouth knew Father’s ear far too well for Zelda’s liking.
“What?”
“You’ll be our Golden Maiden, soon, and Graysand will likely swear himself to you even before the coronation. He’s anxious to fulfil his duty. The two of you… the two of you have spent so little time together. I let your mother convince me a Sheikah maid was good enough for you, and that sharing a Shadow was good enough for the both of us, but I… I cannot lose you too.”
“I don’t understand,” Zelda said slowly.
“I fear that entrusting you to an old woman when your mother and I were already splitting Graysand’s attention put undo stress upon Zelda’s heart. Stress is so very dangerous, you know. It can make even the strongest bodies weak, susceptible to illness…”
“Are you implying that having Lady Impa as my bodyguard made Mother sick?” Zelda said. She narrowed her eyes at Father. She searched for some sign he was joking, maybe trying and failing to lighten the mood, but instead he just gave her a weary, wet look.
“No. I am telling you, it is so.”
Zelda’s grip on her fork tightened. The cold metal stuck uncomfortably to her bare skin.
“I am having Graysand replace her, starting this afternoon. I have already lost your mother-- I refuse to lose you, too.”
“What?”
“Zelda--” Father started with a sigh, bringing a hand to his temple, “I know this is not ideal--”
“Not ideal--?! Impa isn’t a dog you can replace, or an old toy to toss out, she’s--”
“A maid, Zelda. Not a bodyguard, not even a governess. She’s a maid.”
“... She was Mother’s Shadow,” Zelda forced out, swallowing her anger. “She watched over Mother for decades, and--”
“And Zelda isn’t here. She’s gone, darling. Things must go on. We must go on.”
Gone. For the first time, Zelda let herself hear the world, truly hear it. Gone. Passed on. No longer with us. Eternally sleeping.
Dead.
“No.” Zelda jerked up from her chair, throwing her fork down with a clatter and hiking up her skirts as she moved back from the table. “No, I am Queen, and I will not let you send her away!”
Father pinched the bridge of his nose. “Zelda, please, sit down. Let’s talk about this.”
“No! I am the ruler of this land, and if I say no then--”
“Not yet!” Father hissed as he stood. “You are not ruler, yet. Until your coronation, you are still my daughter, and I am still your King, and I will not have some decrepit, walking corpse of a shadow-eater whisk you around when a perfectly good soldier is ready to impale himself on his own sword for you.”
Zelda stared at Father, wide-eyed. His voice had never risen above a whisper, his breath controlled and collected. Mist hung around her face from her shaking breaths.
Shadow-eater. She’d never head her Father use that word before. Servants around the castle, yes, soldiers, loudly, the people of the court, always, but Zelda had always assumed Father too proper for such vulgarities. Apparently, she had thought wrong.
“Please, don’t call her that,” Zelda said, shrinking under Father’s height. Father tilted his head back to the skies, as if searching the heavens for something. Slowly, sluggishly, snow began to fall.
“You really must learn from your mother’s mistakes, my dear,” Father said. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. “Wasting your heart on lesser creatures will do nothing for your Kingdom.”
Zelda looked down at her pale skirts. They fluttered softly in the stiff, frigid breeze.
“Do you know why your maid has such hideous ears?” Father said softly, and Zelda shook her head.
“Because the Elders of the shadow-eaters’ silly little council cut off the tips of the ears of their babies and let them fester and rot before they are weened. Sheikah don’t need ears that stretch to the heavens, not like we do. We are their heavens. Without us, they are nothing. Their Elders have the soundness of mind to remember such things. If I asked, Impa would throw herself upon my sword. Be glad I am asking only absence from her, instead.”
Zelda eyes lowered past her skirts to her slippers, then to the garden stones beneath her feet.
“Yes, Father,” she whispered.
“Good. Now, let us finish before dinner freezes solid. Sit. Eat.”
And Zelda did.
---
Dawn brought with it fire. The torches and scones were lit, the fireplaces stoked, and hot water run through the channels under the marble floors, warming the frigid stone. Breakfast would be served soon now that the holy flame in the Temple of Time had been re-lit by Zelda’s hand.
The ceremony had felt surreal, almost dreamy, and Zelda wasn’t sure her mind had been inside her brain for any of it.
Zelda had seen the Temple’s holy flame extinguished only once, when Mother’s body was presented. When the guardian of the Temple had bowed low on the stone before Mother’s corpse, Zelda had been dimly aware that, once re-lit, the holy flame would burn until the day of her own burial; now, seeing the massive bonfire flickering with flame once again, there was a new, uncomfortable certianty in that knowledge.
The Temple had been nearly empty during the ceremony, just the Royal Guard’s highest ranking officers, Father, and Graysand. The Shadow knelt at Father’s side the entire service, never looking up at the glittering diamonds and golds of the Temple of Time, never acknowledging Zelda’s rehearsed prayer as she took the flame in hand. There had been other Sheikah scattered throughout the Temple’s corridors and rafters, watching with ruby eyes for any sign of trouble, but they would never be seen. A Shadow present in a hall of Light was distasteful enough. If the common people crowding in the courtyard to watch through the wide, open doors of the Temple knew there were even more Sheikah staining the Temple with their shadowy hands, the people’s revulsion might have ruined the whole ceremony.
The crowd had stretched far past the front steps and courtyard, spilling into the streets of the royal district of Castle Town, until many of them were too far to see anything but a red pinprick of flickering light held by a silhouette of white and gold. They cheered regardless, hands reaching to the sky, crying out to Zelda as if she might meet their eye if they simply called her name loud enough.
Zelda had taken the flaming torch, soaked with so much holy oil that even a weak spark on the rag could have survived a rainstorm, and pressed it against the tinder of the bonfire. She should have been excited. This signaled the start of a new era, a new Golden Maiden, a coronation in less than a month’s time! The end of mourning, of weeping. The return of Light!
Zelda just wanted to eat her eggs hot again.
The ride back from the Temple to Hyrule Castle had been silent. Graysand had offered her a hand into the carriage, and Zelda had refused it. Father’s sharp look was enough to make heat rise to her cheeks, but she was glad when the Shadow slipped back to his hidden spot outside the carriage, away from Zelda’s side.
Her people pressed around the carriage as they rode past, and ran their fingers over the wood and cloth, as if touching something that had merely brushed against Zelda’s skirts would bless them. Zelda smiled limply at them, waving at small, thin faced children and hunchbacked elders. Only hours ago, the streets had been filled with wailing and tears. Now, with the seven days over, all traces of grief, political or otherwise, had vanished.
Was it really that easy?
“We shall eat in the private hall,” Father told her as a servant took his hand and helped him down from the carriage. The raised wheels made so the muck and mud of Castle Town’s streets would never sully the white silks that framed the windows, but also meant that rising and leaving the carriage was a tricky thing-- at least, if you were to do so as elegantly as expected. The servant offered Zelda her hand when Father straightened on solid ground, and Zelda refused, crawling down the steps even as the shit of the streets rubbed against her skirts from the wheels. Father frowned.
“You realize that your first public appearance as Golden Maiden means there are new… expectations. Queenship and princess-hood are quite different.”
“I’m not one yet,” Zelda mumbled, straightening her skirts. Father raised an eyebrow. “I simply mean, the coronation is not for a month.”
“In their eyes, it might as well have been the moment the sun rose today.” he replied. He reached out, yanking on a curl that had slipped free of Zelda’s circlet. It stung, sharp against her scalp. Zelda ignored it. He hadn’t meant to pull so hard. Father was like that-- unaware of the strength that hid behind his skeletal frame.
“Come. I’m starved for hot food, and I’ve had enough of screaming idiots for one day. The private hall. It shall be quieter.”
Zelda swallowed, suddenly not hungry. In fact, the idea of a hot plate of eggs made her feel rather sick.
“I’m not feeling well.”
“Then a servant will fetch you some tea. Something to settle a stomach. Come.”
He put a hand on her elbow, guiding her forward, and Zelda jumped when she noticed the silhouette behind him. Graysand. She hadn’t even noticed the Shadow appear.
“May I bathe first?” Zelda said, placing stiff, frigid fingers over Father’s hand. He wrinkled his nose.
“Zelda. Remember those around you. We needn’t be vulgar around the help.”
“I sullied my skirts. I don’t want to embarrass you if someone comes to call.”
Father removed his hand from her and sighed. “Fine. Be quick. Graysand, show her to her wing.”
“That isn’t necessary--” Zelda started.
“Graysand. Show the girl to her wing.” Father said. His voice was steady, even calm to the unknowing ear, but Zelda knew the tone well enough. She’d been lucky these past few days-- seven days without an argument must have been a record of some kind. But Father’s voice served as a clear sign that Zelda was toeing a line, one she was never quite sure how to avoid crossing.
(Do not trust your father.)
(He is a foul man)
(I have protected you to the best of my ability, but when I am gone, I don’t know what he’ll do--)
Graysand bowed low to them both, before inclining his head to Zelda, a clear sign to lead the way.
After all, it wasn’t like a Shadow could walk beside her.
“I’ll be quick,” Zelda said. Father had already turned his attention elsewhere.
---
The walk through the castle was fast, but somehow still felt impossibly slow. Zelda kept her skirts crumpled in her fists as she sped-walked down the corridors, as if she could actually somehow shake a Shadow. Graysand was always six paces behind, matching her speed perfectly, never making a sound.
“Fetch Impa,” Zelda said as soon as they reached the entrance to her wing of Hyrule Castle. Graysand stared at her, his blank, bloody eyes seeing right through her bodice, straight past her ribcage, and into her heart.
“Impa is elsewhere.”
“I need to bathe. Fetch Impa.”
“Impa is elsewhere.”
“I need to bathe. I need someone to run my bath, strip my clothes, wash me, and clothe me. Are you ready to unlace my skirts? Undo the buttons of my brazier and tell my Father you ran your hands across my bare skin, saw me naked as you washed my hair? I am taking a bath, which requires stripping, and touching, and looking, none of which I will ever allow you to do. Fetch. Impa.”
Graysand, for the first time since Zelda met him, seemed almost taken aback. The perfect, steeled mask of indifference that hid away any part of his face not already covered by a cowl, was cracked. His eyes widened, his shoulders tight.
“I… I shall fetch Impa.”
“Thank you.” Zelda gritted out, and the Shadow turned on his heels, vanishing into the gloom of the castle’s corridors. Zelda ducked down the hall of her wing, darting into the large, private bathroom of her bedroom suite, and slammed the massive door closed, locking it firmly.
She stood there, shivering in her frocks as the room slowly heated from the hot water running through the walls, until Impa’s quiet, rhythmic knock came on the door.
“My Lady,” she said through the door, “are you decent?”
Zelda yanked the door open, dragging the old Sheikah inside, and promptly buried herself in her friend’s breasts. Impa didn’t even flinch, just untangled herself from Zelda’s arms and turned to lock the door.
“Come,” she said, cupping Zelda’s face in her gloved hands. “Let’s wash you up.” Zelda nodded.
“He’s terrible,” she whispered, pulling herself back into Impa’s chest.
“Your Father, or the Shadow?”
“Both.”
“Careful, beloved. Walls have ears-- I should know. I was one of them for many years.”
Zelda reached up, brushing Impa’s head scarf to the side. Her ear was half hidden by her cowl, but the tip was still visible. Curled and warped, like a festered wound, frozen in time.
“You never know who is listening,” Impa said. Her voice was almost cold as she moved Zelda’s hand, letting her scarf fall back into place. Zelda reached up again, fingers almost close enough to touch the jagged skin, and Impa’s hand jerked up to catch hers. “Bath. Now. Unless you want me to dunk you under cold water instead of heating this tub.”
Zelda swallowed and finally stepped out of Impa’s embrace. The old woman circled her, running a hand across Zelda’s shoulders. Under anyone else's eyes, Zelda might have felt like an animal set to be auctioned. Father’s gaze often stirred the same feeling-- a sinking dread in her stomach and the impression that, if he said the right word, she might never see light again.
(Do not trust your father.)
Impa pinched her side.
“You haven’t been eating.”
“I’ve been stressed. And cold food is disgusting.”
Impa scoffed. “Be glad you weren’t born Sheikah, my Lady.” Zelda smiled. It was soft and small, but might have been her first smile in seven days. She was sure that under her cowl, Impa’s mouth was slanted and twitching, the closest the old woman ever came to a smile of her own.
“I don’t know. Perhaps it would be nice, growing up beside you.”
“Hm. A thought I’m sure his Majesty would love to hear.”
Yes, Impa’s mouth was slanting. Zelda didn’t need to see it to know.
“I’m sure he would. Let’s tell him.”
“Let’s get you warmed up, first. Then we’ll see. You’re practically cold as ice.”
Impa stopped circling and stood at Zelda’s back. Her hands moved with professional efficiency as she undid Zelda’s dress' laces, not needing the hook that the other maids used even with her crooked fingers.
“I won’t let him do this,” Zelda whispered as Impa slipped her shoulders free. “I won’t let him take you from me.”
Impa’s hands kept moving. Next came the lacing of her corset, and the buttons of her shift, and then Zelda’s top half was bare, the cold morning air of the castle wrapping tightly against her skin. The strings and buttons that held her skirts close to her began to loosen.
“I promise. I will not let Father come and tell me what to do. He’s not even here half the time, running around killing things in forests or doing Goddess knows what in Holodrum. I’m the Queen now, and if he really thinks I’ll let him--”
Impa’s hand was freezing as it rested on Zelda’s back.
“Ears, my Lady. Ears.”
Zelda bristled. “Let them listen. I am Queen.”
“Not yet.”
Zelda turned to face Impa, kicked her skirts to the side. She didn’t shrink in her nakedness, just crossed her arms and stuck out her nose.
“You are mine. I shall not let him take you from me.”
Impa’s eyes shifted, but instead of providing comfort, Zelda saw something close to bitterness in them. Impa signed, closed them, then opened them again before taking Zelda’s hands in her own. She twisted Zelda’s wrist back and forth, running her thumb across the healing bruises.
For a long, long time, everything was silent.
“Impa…?” Zelda called softly. “I’ll always protect you, you know. I won’t let anyone steal you from me. We’ll be together, forever.”
Impa’s hand covered the bruises, her fingers coming to rest on the spots, mimicking Mother’s grasp.
“Your mother tried her best, but in the end, she was still a Hylian.” Impa whispered, so soft that she might have only been breathing.
“What?”
“Nothing, pay me no heed.”
“No, please-- talk to me. What about Mother?”
“My Lad--,”
“Please.”
Impa’s hands drifted off her skin. “Your mother, Scared Realm receive her, was many good, true things. A loving mother, a dedicated friend… but she was still Hylian. Still royal. Still them. Your vamvai would have raised you right. Raised you to be better. I know it.”
Impa’s voice was low and husky as the Sheikah slipped free from her lips. Impa had taught Zelda the language almost as soon as she began to learn her letters, thought Impa was always sure to drill a fear of someone discovering it into Zelda. At that age, Zelda hadn’t understood. Why would sharing language be a bad thing? Why would Impa ever need to hide her native tongue?
Shadow-eater.
“I have failed her, haven’t I?” Impa muttered. “Truly.”
“I-- I don’t understand.”
“Let’s get you clean,” Impa said blankly. “In the tub. I’ll heat the water.” When she moved away from Zelda, Zelda couldn’t help the twisting in her stomach that told her she had done something deeply, deeply wrong.
“Impa, wait--”
“The tub, my Lady.”
Zelda caught her maid’s hand. She could feel the outline of Impa’s blades through her coarse wool gloves. “I’m sorry. Whatever I said, I’m sorry.”
Impa sighed. She pulled down her cowl with a single finger. Her brown, wrinkled face was covered with a sheen of sweat from the thick linen of the mask. Her mouth wasn’t slanted or twitching, instead set in a hard line.
“My Lady, I love you. I shall always love you, as closely as my own kin. Your mother was a dear, dear friend, and I am honored to have served as her Shadow and secret keeper. I know she tried her best to raise you the way she should. But her life, my life-- our lives, you and I-- are too different.”
Zelda furrowed her brow. She released Impa, reaching for her face instead, but Impa stepped back, out of her reach.
“Of course we’re different,” Zelda said. “Just look at you.”
Impa turned away, moving to the faucet and turning it on. She was silent as she waited for the tub to fill, silent as she tested the water’s temperature, silent as she poured in fleet lotus oils and bathing salts.
“You cannot own a person, Zelda,” Impa said finally.
Zelda had almost forgotten what her name, free of titles or honorifics, sounded like in Impa’s mouth.
“Slavery is an unforgivable sin,” Zelda agreed. Finally, she climbed into the tub, sinking into the steaming water. The smell of flowers and sweet perfumes wafted up around her, the oil that lay atop the water soaking into her skin as she pulled her knees to her chest. The massive tub easily swallowed her up, the water covering her knees and shoulders, brushing against her chin.
“It is. But… to own a person as cattle, sell them from master to master-- that slavery easy to see. Other forms hide better.”
Impa sat on the edge of the tub, running a hand through Zelda’s hair.
“Can you imagine it? Being marked at birth as belonging to another. Mutilated, conscripted, from your first breath, held under the knife if you ever dare to fight back--”
“That’s horrible,” Zelda breathed, disgust curling along the words. An infant, sold into servitude? What monster would sell a baby?
Impa pulled a comb made of silver from the box at the base of the tub, followers by bottles of creams and shampoo. The comb stung as it caught on Zelda’s curls. Impa’s touch was usually so gentle; now, she seemed not to care as she yanked the comb through Zelda’s hair. Impa scoffed at Zelda’s reply, and the callousness was shocking.
“Yes. It is.”
“Who-- who’s doing this? Did Mother know? Does Father know? Tell me, and I’ll see the person freed and their master punished--”
“It’s you.”
Impa’s hand tightened in Zelda’s hair, pulling at her scalp.
“What?”
“It’s you. Your mother, your father, the Royal family, the whole damn Continent--”
“Impa, I don’t--”
“Hush. I’m talking.”
Impa let the comb fall into the water. She picked up a bottle sharply, and when she buried her hands in Zelda’s hair, her movements were cold and stiff.
“When I was born, I was taken from my mother before the cord was even cut, and the midwife went to work, just like she does with every baby. I do not remember the pain, but when I look upon myself, when I touch my own head, I can imagine it. Imagine how I must have screamed when she took a knife and sliced off the tips of my ears. They wrap them to stop the bleeding, but no other aid is given. If the baby dies from infection or shock, well… it is better to die small and innocent and loved than to suffer what might come if a soldier were to find a shadow-eater who can still ‘hear the Goddesses’.
Our language is outlawed, our temples made your family’s prisons and torture houses, our bodies given in service to others-- my people maim and brutalize others in your family’s name, raise a sword to whomever yours need to silence, out of fear we will find ourselves under your knife if we refuse. Every day, I thank Hylia that Chiefdom is chosen by council and not by blood-- the thought of bringing my own flesh into this life is sickening.”
Impa took a long, deep breath. “Ears,” she muttered to herself, “too many ears. Too many fucking ears.”
“Impa…” Zelda tried to find words, any words, but her mouth was full of sand. Her tongue was thick and swollen against her teeth. “I don’t…”
“Pay me no heed, my Lady. Just the ramblings of an old, old woman.”
Zelda was suddenly very glad Impa was behind her and not in front. She was terrified to look her in the face, afraid she’d see hatred directed at her.
Did Impa really think Zelda thought she owned her?
… Did Zelda think she owned Impa? Hadn’t she said as such, not even five minutes earlier? What did she actually know of the Sheikah? She knew their language, yes, their history, religion, culture.
… Right? Sure, it was what she had learned from tutors and temple guardians and such, but they wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t make up stories… Hylians were chosen by the Goddesses. That’s simply how it was. An indisputable fact, one that had been true since the beginning of creation.
“I’m ready to get out now,” Zelda whispered. It was that wrong thing to say, and she knew it, but she didn’t know what the right thing possibly could be. “I… I can prepare myself for breakfast.”
“Very well.”
Zelda suddenly realized that, should Father really ban Impa from seeing her, this might be the last conversation they were to have for a long, long time. The thought terrified her-- she paused upon stepping out of the tub, before finally pulling Impa against her.
Impa stiffened, before finally wrapping an arm around Zelda’s back and giving her a half-hearted squeeze.
“I love you,” Zelda said softly into Impa’s mutilated ear.
“I know,” her nanny replied. Her voice was impossibly weary. After a final, agonizing second, Impa pulled back. “You’re vamvai was always so deeply passionate. So fierce in her love of justice. I know she’s in you, despite it all.”
“What does that mean?” Zelda asked. “The word. Vaam-vie--”
“Vamvai,” Impa looked around, eyes narrowed. She stepped closer, leaning against Zelda’s ear.
Zelda was sure that Impa was only frightened of prying ears, but she couldn’t help but picture Impa as her own, personal Goddess, old and powerful as she whispered Sheikah words into Zelda’s holy, pointed ears.
“It’s Gerduo. The title is fashioned, long since out of style. Your mother favored it more than your vamvai did-- said it sounded fancy. Regardless, your vamvai was happy to use it to please her Majesty... anything to please her Majesty. The love that ran between the two of them was a terrifying and firey thing. It... it means blood mother.”