Oed' und leer das Meer ; PG13 - romance/angst - Link x Zelda

Through the desert, they lost their thoughts. The mirror is gone, the Twilight Princess is gone. And yet dusk still comes upon them and night, and dawn. And tirelessly the way heroes can be only do they stop for cover when it starts to rain. (But even in rain had he-) in silence, this small landing, this small enclosure of wood, man made, made by trees, made by the gods.

There they stay in the cloud of their breaths, watching the sway of fog enclosing the landscape before them, green grass, grey sky. Zelda says nothing because Link has said nothing. The departure of his companion had come slowly, quickly, first accomplishment, in the half restored normality of their world, of their lives, and the closure of realization that it was no longer the same, no longer because too much had changed, and she could tell without having to see the entirety of his face, it could have just been the very tips of his fingers, the corner of his shoulder, and she would have known any way. (To you-)

In legends they say…

Interruption.

“It’s not entirely lonely, is it?”

And he’s speaking to her, but addressing the rain.

Trees, dripping, this heavy rain falls with the blank scent of departure. One shade lighter has become darker.

“What is?”

Glancing is not his fixation, he turns his whole face to her and the expression is (what kind of dream did you have?) she wants to ask.

“Traveling with me.”

She can only spare half her face in response, “No.”

(Why do you ask?)

They stand, the rain falling about, around them, and seeping between them. Continuously without end. They were without end. It’s not right. If it continues as it has been further, Zelda thinks the very oceans shall overflow.

“…it’s just,” and he pauses, not the draw of breath, but that look, that face away from her and back to the changed rain “Your face is lonely.”

Her face is lonely. She ponders this, looking to the rain as well (seeing just half of his face, it was not enough) “We who are separate beings, are usually lonely.”

This voice is not hers, this voice is not the one she wants it’s not- “It’s why we seek others and create bonds, we want to destroy that loneliness by being with others.”

It’s still not right. Fate was a- and haboured this feeling in her breast, her eyes, her expression and it does not escape him. False rhapsody could take and spit out spring and she would trade this moment over and over because she never wants to believe it.

“What if you cannot be with others?”

(The way I cannot be with you.)

Distinctly, she did not lie when she had called his eyes proud.

She had thought about them in that tower, horribly bewitching, but Link was a boy, was a man, men were not witches, men did not bewitch others. It was- but nevertheless she had been, and how she had wished to share the same space as he under the same sky instead of wait and ponder and plan and pray and more than the ocean stretching to find space into every crevice- she did hope.

“Even among others… we miss them, we do not reach them- even surrounded by others who we do and have sought- we still can be lonely.”

She was-

The rain destroys their enclosure and before it falls Link pulls her, them, they (we) from it, the branches held by others, dead, dying, living among the floor and instead of seeking further shelter in the woods she steps a few feet further to the open lands, fog dissipated as rain fell through it, piercing and unloving, covering the very existence of every thing. This world to her was- and there is a movement, clink of metal, of sordid wet. He’s taken off his shield (empty sheath what use are you to your master when there is no sword to be held) and holds it about, over their heads, succeeding in nothing, their seconds under the rain has already left them soaked, and the simplicity- the futileness of its own- his accord makes her stifle a laugh.

And probably what he does is smile.

But only briefly. Her amusement does not last long as his mirth does not either and she reaches to press his arm away, “It’s no use.” And he replaces the shield to its usual place and they are cold and wet. She continues (he replies):

“We could get sick.”

“We could die.”

“This is bad.”

“It is isn’t it?”

“It is.”

And they are smiling at each other, they are half smiling at each other and it’s not a frown, it’s a muted mouth and they’ve only ever had time in the after to depart, what use were they? What could they be if they were not both sharing the moment of what could be world’s end? And she does not know, she does not ever know, and she knows he does not ever know either and it is frustrating. This face, her calm, her able, and it’s with that face, that knowing cold (the rain did not provide, it had already been there) that she looks into his face and leans forward to kiss him.

He stops her, hands out, not touching her shoulders, not touching her. (She does not kiss him.)

No words leave him, no expression only and she does not cry, she does not tear (apart), she does not know anything and standing still, resolved, the less noble one is the more noble they are (she is), “Why?”

She hears rain, she hears it trying to claim the earth, fervently, a furious, a desperate she cannot bring herself to be for him until (he had heard her)- “I don’t know you.”

That (resonating in the light that exists)- “Yet I know you.”

And he continues, never letting her in. Saying just as she,

“Why?”

Mirror- if the mirror still existed would he have said anything at all? And she does not think so, because he cannot doubt the reflection, because all he sees is nothing, all she sees is nothing, this is the beautiful world, this is the protection of ages to come and she is not at peace yet, yet because not one inch of them has ever ever- that time she touched his wrist, he touched her hand- that was not emtouching/em that was contact. And all they had ever had was contact. And now she wanted touch.

She replies,

“Because I know you.”

Staring, this reflection-

“And yet I do not know you.”

She can’t tell, she can’t tell why his brow moves and holds that tension why his shoulders gave that slight jerk, why it’s useless to try to see their breath now. And it is hurried, fast, disgraceful, horrible and wonderful all at once, how with force and utter insanity (insanity, violence, oh he could kill kill she thinks in the very same way he cannot) in the very flushed manner he started, he does, tear his gloves, gauntlets, the coverings of his hands from him, as if insulted, angry, mad. He must be mad she thinks, because if he is not mad then she is.

And there they are, bare skin, the rain touching before her- his hands offered up to her. His. Hers. And then. (Follow through.)

She too, in a similar fashion, possessed, gripped, feverishly, this is hysteria, this is laughter, so utterly private that still- when it seeps through the walls and out the window- still no one hears it. She then, she too, the gloves are off, silk, cool, cool over her burning hands. There. Both pairs discarded from the world to swallow them (the rain) and between them is space, delirious, ridiculous space. The kind of space each rib bone has between each other. It’s in faulty symphony that they- both with their arms, their hands tense about them does not move and breaths and shivers and trembles, and mo(u)rning- they do not know. Only that they are with quivering touch- emtouching/em, first her hand in his, his hand in hers, rotating, the fingers tracing over the other, corresponding, one is rough, one is smooth, the bone connects differently, is larger, is finer, is cool and searing hot. The touch of palms and interlacing fingers, all this happening in seconds, as if they are starving immigrants eating upon the lavish meal of an emperor to the other country they have no idea what language is spoken there. Bumbling foreigners. Direction has no meaning if right is left to them and up is down.

And the water is slick, the day is slick, this touch is slick and new, vibrantly new and when they are done, done because they cannot go further it seems, to have touched every part of each other’s skin upon their hands and wrist and arm, these not spacious limbs- he moves faster than she.

It’s not timid or rushed, curious, attentive his left hand reached beneath the hair aside her face, to touch at the lobe of her ear, then her cheek, before the other hand, not wanting to be departed of courage does the same and unlike with their hands it is slow and too gentle and pauses. And he holds her face only momentarily and looks there.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

Her hands reach up to touch at his own, holding them there, holding her gaze to his. And still she does not ask him what he used to dream.

(It’s raining. They really were going to catch cold and die.)

“Likewise to you.”

This continues for minutes, and she wants to call back the lives that never could experience this (and let them take but a second).

“Strange.”

“What?”

“Our handshake.”

Thoughtful, he tells her- “So it is.”

When the rain stops she will discover the sea is vast and empty.