[A wounded animal can still bite. He realizes bitterly, in the immediate aftermath of his words, that this is how he chose to react; refuting her optimism doesn't do anything for him, and only serves to hurt her. He doesn't want that. They have only just met, but he feels a staunch certainty that he never has.
There is something in her expression, in that moment, that looks so deeply pained, tired, ashamed -- not so unlike the Zelda of a future time who cursed her inability to live up to her own destiny. Two women, helpless in the face of a divine call, who just wish to be who they are and not who they are meant to be. Perhaps this is her inheritance, as much as the Master Sword is his. Link cannot relate, though, not entirely. Whatever soul pulses in his body, he chose his own path. He sought out the sword on his own.
She huffs and pouts, this capricious Zelda, and he bows to her will just as easily as he bowed to his own princess. Whatever he believes about himself, about his failings, about Zelda's fate -- it doesn't belong on her shoulders, this girl from the sky.
She reaches a hand out as if she has done so a thousand times before. Maybe she has.
He sees it in his mind's eye, fingers slipping through his own, and he swallows, pushing the memory aside.
His rough hand goes around hers. He has always been reaching for it, in some form or another.]
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There is something in her expression, in that moment, that looks so deeply pained, tired, ashamed -- not so unlike the Zelda of a future time who cursed her inability to live up to her own destiny. Two women, helpless in the face of a divine call, who just wish to be who they are and not who they are meant to be. Perhaps this is her inheritance, as much as the Master Sword is his. Link cannot relate, though, not entirely. Whatever soul pulses in his body, he chose his own path. He sought out the sword on his own.
She huffs and pouts, this capricious Zelda, and he bows to her will just as easily as he bowed to his own princess. Whatever he believes about himself, about his failings, about Zelda's fate -- it doesn't belong on her shoulders, this girl from the sky.
She reaches a hand out as if she has done so a thousand times before. Maybe she has.
He sees it in his mind's eye, fingers slipping through his own, and he swallows, pushing the memory aside.
His rough hand goes around hers. He has always been reaching for it, in some form or another.]
Together.
[Always.]