[ she has spent much of her life lately being lead. she feels it now, the familiarity of impa's teachings washing over her, the way she held an arm out for the goddess' spirit vessel to come forward, with her, but never too far behind. always just a step past her, following like she needed to. sheik can watch it: the way her face lights up with hope, starry and packed. her eyes glisten with it, the promise of something, but then it all collapses. her expression falls, folding in on itself in a way so fast and thorough that a lawn chair might be jealous.

she follows him. he can lead their way through. she has been following so much, these days. ]

I have no need to be like flotsam. [ firmly, though it is a statement polluted by sadness. she should tell him a year, she thinks, but she knows where she places on the timeline. she looks back up at him, and thinks to herself she will not drag him down with her, into her. hylia has caused too many curses, and he is awfully polite, and she is awfully hungry for control.

(that, too, may be hylia. who knows.)

a little fear hits her, though: what if she has told him too much, as is? ]

I haven't asked it yet. You'll forgive me, won't you? But I want to know your name.