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revelisms · 9 months

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All Gilded and Golden

I've been getting back into Zelda a bunch recently, so I've thought about sharing this fic here. It's an oldie and a big prosey braindump on Zelda/Link and gender identity, but it's become a bit of a personal favorite of mine :-)

Full story below and cross-posted on AO3.

Rating: M | WC: 2.9k | Zelda POV | Oneshot Even a lifetime of constructs can still find ways to be freed. Or: Zelda and Link, as the night sees them. CW: Mentions of war, blood and violence, themes around gender identity and sex, implied sexual context

The boisterousness of men had long dissuaded her: a vile, sordid thing; each galumphing footfall and splatting hand caking the walls with blood-thirst and sweat—but the coffins of seams and satin fared no better, a confine equally damning. On this night, one of countless predicated on ceremony, she is trapped between both.

Throughout the hall's great arches swelters the sweet of mulled wines and meads, roast hog and wild hare, holly glimmering gold with the light of a thousand pyres. She, the Head of their kingdom's exuberance, sits with a chained elegance: a witch burned for her beauty: a dismal observer to a joy numbly felt.

Boots on tile, shields, swords; metal gleamed and glistening. The banquet roars with the fires of a war freshly won. Blood still stains the silver of her soldiers' armor. The stench of it is suffocating. It spears the air like a tainted stream, and she—queen-becoming, highness of wisdom-born, yes—she is meant to take it in with grace; chew on its rotted flesh and sip down the wine of its poisoned fruit, gleefully.

(She will not—and, were it not for her namesake, the ritual itself would never be demanded. But the fates of ones birthright are ineludible. To tear away the vines of their becoming would be as foolish as attempting to split steal with bare hand alone.

She is not the first in this long line of magic, jeweled crowns smothering, to resent the title she was born with. She will not be the last.)

The thought is a dismissed one, spit into the moon-red of her wine and swallowed down. She has too many hours more to go to slip into such loathing already. But it will pass—it will always pass.

(Come star-rise, the men will scatter: to boast the tall tales of their kills, to drown their sorrows, to fuck—and she will retreat to the night; strip down the shackles of her womanhood: a crumpled, silken corpse, discarded upon the stones; be reborn, rebound, in steel and linen, if for a moment.)

That time is yet to come. She cannot think properly of it, now.

"My lords." Her voice carries clear; her posture lifted, with poise. The long wings of her dress unspool from her seat in a glistening tide. "My ladies." A smile blossoms, demure. "We have, yet again, struck down the forces of our enemy." Cheers, stamping, ripples of applause. "We are richer." A scepter drums raucously. "We are stronger." A chorus of agreement. "We are Hyrule, again."

Such pretty little words, for such blood-hungered hounds. Even the guise of nobility could do little to hide their banquet's unashamed victory.

And yet—one wolf in the pack does not cheer. In a sea of rubied armor, he stands, still as a slab of valley rock: blue-fire in his eyes, blood on his cheek. His mouth does not turn at the graze of her stare.

(He, alone, is the very reason for their triumph; he, whose holy blade had cleaved the filthen head of a demon embodied from the loom of its shoulders: plunged into the cursed light of veins throbbing still, any final shreds of beating life stripped red in a feral slurry.

He had torn into their enemy like a mauling bear, and slipped away like a fox to the shadows. None had chorused his name for celebration. None would. He preferred it, that way.)

Her eyes skip across the mud-streaked wheat of his hair, a knot in her throat. She swallows it down. "Now," she presses on, and raises her hands in a bright flourish, "we celebrate!" The hall erupts to a violent symphony, gauntleted fists pounding glinting steel, great cups filled and cheered. A bard strikes up a rousing jig. The shimmer of a fiddle strings starlight through the laughter's glimmering.

She sinks back to her seat, to the rattle of her chains, and lets the smile fall, gently. It is caught, tender as a fallen bloom, by a single voyeur—as it always is.

(It is improper, for him to keep his eyes on her so. But the wildness of them is like a wash of ocean foam to a blistered wound.)

She dares to let her attention lift, if only for a moment. The bow of his head stirs a quiet warmth beneath the twist of her palms.

He turns in a flush of dark velvet, gold sweeping about the steel at his shoulders, and is swallowed by the crowd.

⚘

Behind the castle walls, she is royal-born; within them, he is a pawn of war. There are expectations for what can and can't be—consequences, explicitly penned, for any lines one may dare to cross in the presence of those whose forgiveness could not be earned, with even a lifetime spent atoning.

But beyond these cursed stones, she is infinite—and he, well...

Outside of the armor, she's never quite sure what to make of him.

He carries himself as though identity itself had failed to settle cleanly about him; as though any christening could not dream of capturing the soul strained against it; as though the wilds of the Green-Valley River and mountain hearths alone knew which name to speak, by the light of the blood moon.

He is the binding of a chain in a great line of prophecy. He is tethered to her. In these moments alone, that is all the clarity she demands.

The night strips their titles to frayed fragmentations; buries their divinity beneath the eaves of the palace's outer gates. He approaches her, always, with the stars held on his back: lays a kiss at the bend of her knuckles, the silk of his hair warm at her hand: leads her, with silent, knowing strides, about the forests' brush, to the great unknown of the world beyond.

There is something comforting, strange though it comes, about the grand insignificance of one's life, when faced with the beauty of it all—miles upon miles of wilderness untamed: the eyes of the great mountains and endless reach of the wide-glittered sea the only ones privy to a history time could not dare to contain.

It should be a damning weight, to a typical mind. But, for her, it is freeing, in a way nothing could have prepared her for.

In the dark, rough earth bruising against her legs, she can breathe—heaving lungfuls of damp, mist-chilled air, eyes closed to the night. Can let her hair fall, rain-wet about the cave of her shoulders, without the burden of its inherent femininity. Can drag muddied fingers about the firm, battle-hardened heat of his own, to be lifted upon the stones' rugged slopes, canopied beneath the valley pine and blessed unquestioning.

(Sometimes, fingers slipping free about the cracks of her shell, she will find herself sobbing; and sometimes, shivering with the cold of the lake's shallows, she will lay a pale hand about the water-beaded slope of his waist and find herself envious; and sometimes, she will pull the heat of his tunic upon her, and hold it to the flat of her sternum with an ache she cannot (will not) name—not yet.)

Most times, they find points of conversation in the quiet. But he is one of few words—and she is one of too many—and the lull that bubbles between the scrape of their heels on dark earth and the claiming of a space wholly theirs, for a time, drifts through touch as much as it is spoken.

Tasting his spirit is enough, in any of its forms. It is the one thing that grounds her, these days.

⚘

"Were you always sure this is what you wanted?" she murmurs, against the tide of his breath.

The night air is cool with a storm across the way. His fingers shift the drape of his cloak about her shoulder. "Hard to say," he says, after a long moment. The cluster of weeds that thistle and sigh about the cliff's edge are frowned upon, thoughtfully. Beyond them, valley settlements lost to the pitch flicker with fireflies of flamelight. "I'm not sure I ever had a choice."

She twists her fingers about the heavy cloth wrapped upon them. "Why do you say that?" She glances up to find the soft angle of his jaw, the sharp line of his nose: golden lashes turned blue to the night: the deep of his eyes—sodalite, in the sun—now a blackish sea: swallowing, and moonbeamed.

He lifts one brow, with an absent sort of smile. The crook of it dimples his cheek. "Well." The smirk loosens, and his stare shifts to steel: hardened, unforgiving, where it wanders through the valley's shadows. "I had to keep going." It is not spoken like an explanation. It is a living fact: present, as much as past. "You take whatever hand you're dealt."

Her eyes slip away, far beyond, steady on the roughened peaks of the cliff's edge. She forces liquid down her throat. Lets her lashes fall. "Did you ever regret it?"

His lungs fill beneath her cheek. "Living?" he breathes out. He turns his eyes to the stars. His fingers burn against her shoulder. "No."

⚘

They are not caught (wine-red eyes ensure of it, though she has yet to be made privy to the silent promise her shadow has made to her)—but wandering eyes stir suspicion, nonetheless.

(The court elders may presume, at the simplest of grievances, that she has found an unsuitable lover—and that, perhaps, could be contested. She will not be so brazen as to display her affections in plain sight. But the palace's inner walls knew the shivers of her pleasure: knew she cradled a carefully-wrapped memory of the taste of his mouth, with every instance the touch of his lips had been given.

That scandal, in itself, is such a simple one. There are far greater grievances to be held by men drunk off priest-magick and blood-rites—but those, she takes care to never shine a light towards, at all.)

In the moments closed off from the prowling of their palace's royals, he shares worn tunics with her, unasked; shows her how to thread shut their daggered weaves with a surgeon's stitch, in place of embroidery. His fingers are gentle, so gentle, through the strands of her hair: the long coils of it plaited and smooth. In a mirror that glistens with the flicker of a single flame, she stares at the bared hollows of her cheeks through her fringe, and fights to put a name to the soul she sees.

(She will not keep those beautiful fabrics, no matter how her heart longs to pull them close. Their evidence would be incriminating to scavenging elders yearning for proof of a sentence yet to be made.

Still—there are things she can keep hold of, in her own ways. She gathers them into the empty space of her palms, locks them away in the small boxes of her being, with as much affection she can muster; tries, fiercely as she can, to not let the gleam of their treasure dim with resentment.)

When he leaves, the scent of him lingers—oiled leather, and sweet hay, and the damp green of a forest path before the light.

She drags her fingers about the bared slope of her shoulder, and aches for that hollow warmth to be her own.

⚘

"Ride away with me." The offer is laid into her hair with utmost reverence: one fully aware of its futility. It is no different than asking a long-lost spirit to return to mortal land, once more.

She twists the pale petals of a gardenia within her fingers. "I can't," she whispers, after two breaths. "You know I can't."

He does—and the crease that slides within the sun-kissed hollow of his cheek is accepting of it. His eyes take her soul by the hand and lead it into the shallows of possibility, no matter. They are the sea's green and the blue of dusk wrapped into one: enchanting, and fierce, and quiet.

"You can't, forever," he affirms. He tilts his head, the line of his weight an easy shift upon his palms, pressed to the marble at the empty space beside her. The garden whistles with the tune of a roving nightingale. A breeze sweeps the dark honey of his hair about his cheek. "But—" (Always, this—and, always, she waits: dreading, longing, for where his reason will get the better of her) "—I don't think an hour or two will hurt you that much."

Damn him. "You're determined, again, aren't you?" she sighs.

The flash of his teeth is sly, and lovely.

⚘

Slowly, she begins to resent the dawn.

The sun's glow spiders a scalding hand about the twist of her sheets: snares about the linen that puddles upon her bones, speckled with long-faded stains of bloodspots and grime. It draws him away, like the tipping night pulls the constellations down with it.

Drowsily, she will let the heat of his clothes be reclaimed: sway into the roughened care of his touch, the kiss of his breath upon her breast.

He will dress with the morning light simmering through the fibers, golden through the long frays of his hair. His touch will haunt her: knuckles pressed warm to the back of her shoulder, brow brushed upon the loose curls of her plait.

The birds will chitter through the open window, long after he is gone. Sitting up in a bare, chilled slump, she will lift a weary hand: begin the slow process of unweaving the ties of her hair, a ripple of moon-yellow about the slope of her back.

Across the room, costumes of royalty will catch the sun's glimmer with lace-clotted teeth.

⚘

Eventually, Impa, reddish eyes downcast, reveals her actions to keep them hidden from prying councilmen—shared simply upon the steps of their chambers, a bottle of mead set between them—and there is little she can do, to wrap her heart around the countless things this woman has always been to her, whether bound by blood or not.

(Most of all, it is her shadow's very being—her strength, her rage, her power; it is beautiful, and it is unforgiving, and it is warmer than any flame.

It eases out confessions long sheltered from the daylight, like a poison drawn from a wound: small, shivering, horrid things. Once she has started, she can't find the will to stop.)

"I wish it wasn't like this." Her heart feels heavy—so heavy. "I wish another life could have some to me. That I wasn't spending—spending so much time, trapped between words—"

Impa's mouth is thin. Her eyes are kind. "Why?"

"Because I don't—" The words shake: incredulous, enraged. "I don't know why I feel like this—"

"Highness." And surely Impa, herself, knows—for she wears her authenticity upon her sleeve; carries her presence without any possibility of burying it. "I understand. I do." The bottle hangs over the great slope of her knee. "But you do not have to crawl through the pages of a life you were not present in, to a find a reason for why you feel the way you do."

If only it were that simple—oh, if only—

"Your story has not been predefined—Crown, or not," Impa continues firmly. It crumbles any scraps of denial to measly things, forgotten. "We are living; oral histories and songs—our existence transcends language." Vermillion eyes turn with gentle focus down a strong shoulder. "Our tales do not have to fit into the words of men."

⚘

Perhaps, indefinability in itself is the answer to it all—and what a freeing, terrifying thought that is.

It is what he has embraced. It is what she has yearned for.

(But it is not an explanation enough—and she is searching, searching still.)

⚘

The banquets arrive and depart in grand flourish, one after another after another, harkening the seasons like a vile overture.

They will never end, so long as a kingdom is here to lay claim to them. She is not so foolish as to forget that. Battles will still be fought, and lost, and won: blood will still be shed in her name: and, contained within the clamor of their noblefolk, they will appear in their assigned roles—allow their eyes to find each other, as they always do; one affirmation of countless unspoken others, no matter the wilds that surround them—and carry out their respective duties, in silence.

It is a routine time will not abandon; one she is unable to avoid.

But it will pass. It will always pass. That, she has not forgotten, either.

⚘

Dusk blooms violet and pink across a blue-blackened streak of rolling hills, her breath sharp and cool between the galloping—and for this moment alone: eyes sinking closed, pressed to his back, to the warm furs of his steed: they are flying.

She tightens her hands about the curve of his waist. Turns her eyes to the sky's settling dark, far beyond the horizon.

He turns over his shoulder, hair fluttering against her cheek. "Where to?"

It is an endless host of possibility—the chance to run across the farthest edges of the world and dip down to the lowest rocky points of the southern shoals—and she could let him ask her, for a lifetime. A smile curls across her mouth, absently, where she tips her chin into his shoulder.

"As far as you want to go," she murmurs. A grin creases through his cheek.

In this moment, she is winged, and golden, and glittering.

In this moment, she doesn't need a definition.

#zelda fanfic #loz #zelda #gilded and golden #link #zelink #so...like of 90% is coming from me just being a nonbinary kid growing up on zelda and projecting onto link *a lot*#(didn't we all)#blame this on me getting emotional listening to zelda piano covers #augh this series #also this is...sort of oot timeline?#not really sure #words just happened #writing #cw war mention #cw blood #cw violence

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quaranmine · 1 year

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as my final thought before i go to bed and then disappear off tumblr for the whole day tomorrow in order to avoid limited life spoilers, i leave you with something about watcher grian in the traffic series.

specifically, this ask from martyn regarding watchers feeding on negative energy.

i'm not focusing on the feeding aspect so much as i am about how martyn says "[grian's] chaotic / mischievous nature actually takes the edge off for a lot of players. Helping them revel in the twists and turns, adopting a more 'the games the game' mindset actually sours the soup so to speak." this is in reference to the watchers feeding on negative energy, and implying that grian disrupts that by trying to make people have fun.

and somehow. THIS HAS JUST BEEN SITTING IN MY MIND FOR DAYS. it's the way that grian isn't, at least at this point, able to break them out of the games, but he is able to cause the watchers annoyance and disrupt their plans. it also dovetails very nicely between the rp "this is a death game loop everyone is trapped in" and the irl "this is a game the creators choose to participate in."

it's a death game but grian's there, smile on his face and pain behind his eyes, trying to coax everyone into having as much of a good time as they can instead.

we also tend to view a lot of grian's more....violent and chaotic incidents in the traffic series as a flaw or negative trait when we do more serious-readings of the series. but this concept, and martyn's wording of "helping [the players] revel in the twists and turns of the game" really imply otherwise. sure, grian kills gleefully and takes a lot of joy in causing trouble, but he is far from the only one. if everyone is encouraged to have fun making traps and scheming, giving in to some of these worse desires--and they are and they do--then they're actively going against the watcher's expected outcomes. they all die in the end, either way. if they can take some fun from dropping tnt minecarts on each other, then at least they died AND pissed off the watchers right?

idk idk it's the tiny bit of control over a hopeless situation that's getting me with this. martyn notes that grian is consistently been an annoyance to the watchers and they haven't been able to stop him, but grian is also clearly unable to stop the death games. (of course the meta reason is the CCs like making them, but from an rp standpoint he would gave ended it by now if it were an easy task.) it's like a stand-off. he can keep causing them problems. they can keep the games going. he can't break everyone out of the games, but he can ensure the games don't go the way they want them to. the players in the games don't have much control over their situation, but if they can find some fun in not taking it so seriously, then that's just a tiny bit more control that they have.

so it's just....a watcher!grian doing the best he can in a bad situation. finding a bright spot in it and trying to make others enjoy it too. and thus the traffic series is goofy and silly, filled with laughter that covers and undercurrent of despair.

grian and scar laughed while they fought in the cactus ring in 3rd life, remember?

#THIS IS MAKING ME SOOOOO #and do not even get me started on this + how martyn said that grian might have killed his allies in last life #as a way to get them out of the game faster. AS A MERCY. augh #grian #watcher grian #traffic series #trafficblr #limited life smp #life series #trafficblr analysis #quara analysis

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