3Penumbra
An Afterthought to Umbra
By: dontwaitupxx
Special thanks to bhujerban for beta'ing this for me!
Penumbra: (noun) the partially shaded outer region of the shadow cast by an opaque object, such as the earth or moon over an area experiencing a partial eclipse.
Link wakes with a start, heart pounding, sheets sweaty, and his left hand blindly clutching the empty space beside him.
As usual, she isn't there.
She has been gone for about a year now. Though, if he is completely honest, it's difficult to say. The days blend together, nights and mornings all drawn-out together in one big shadow. The day she left, there had been few words exchanged between them. The memory of her at their front door, with her bags packed, accompanied by both Symin and Purah is etched forever in his mind; her sad, green eyes staring deep into his, as though she was desperately trying to tell him something that he just couldn't understand.
Like a fool – or maybe a brave fool – he hadn't said anything, and let her go. He watched as she climbed atop of her white stallion, watched as she looked back to him one last time, and watched as she let out one final sigh, before she steered her horse off towards the bridge and out of Hateno forever.
He must have stood there for quite some time, for before he knew it, the cold winds of that evening began to buffet him. Looking up, he saw the last rays of dusk disappearing below the horizon. She was gone, and with her, the sun.
She left for Kakariko, just as he had suggested. There, she would be in the loving embrace of the Sheikah, who would guide her and advise her as she reclaimed her throne. It was the future that she envisioned for herself: one where she could take back the throne which had been ripped so viciously from her a century prior.
And he wouldn't be in the way to slow her down.
Even without her here, without the constant reminder of what his fractured mind cannot remember, he still dreams of her. He dreams of her smile, her laugh, her deep green eyes. But when he wakes, he still remembers nothing at all. Those are the good nights. Other nights, he watches her die, a mere spectator frozen in place, as he is far too late to save her from the clutches of the Calamity.
Of course, the reality is almost worse.
Each night is a test of endurance for him and he wonders just how much more of this he can take. Yet, with each passing night, he proves himself stronger, more resilient than the last. But even he has to acknowledge the fact that these nightmares can't go on forever.
Still, a year later, he is plagued by the torturous reminder of what he has lost and cannot find.
Much of his days are spent in bed, staring at a point on the wall, willing his mind to go blank, and reward him with a moment of peace. Other times are spent working himself to the point of exhaustion, in an attempt to keep his dreams at bay for even one night. The seasons blend together. He does not notice autumn has passed until winter is suddenly here, with a thick blanket of snow covering the roofs of the village homes.
Though winter is colder, it is numbing and he is grateful for it, because there is something about summer that feels all the more bitter.
Now, a year later, he sits on the edge of his bed, his fingers clawing into his chest, his hair, desperately trying to pretend that the cold space behind him is warm. He imagines her fingertips, cool and soft against the back of his neck, feels the warm fanning of her breath on his shoulder, and the weight of her arm around his stomach. If he closes his eyes, he can feel her, sense her, remember her – almost. But every time he opens them, she is gone, and with it, every fleeting memory of a love once won.
He runs every scenario through his mind. He misses her, yet the very thought of her has him reeling away. He attempted to fabricate feelings for her – attempted to force himself to love the beautiful girl right in front of him. How hard could that be? But every time he looked at her, every time he met with those beautiful, green eyes, he felt nothing. He looked at a girl who looked back with adoration not meant for him. She loved the man he used to be, and he has no idea how to be that for her.
The tears start falling down his face long before he realizes it, and when he does, it's his own rough fingers that push them away, not soft, delicate ones. He grasps his pillow in one hand and clutches it to his chest. Maybe if he closes his eyes, he can pretend it is her that he is holding.
How can he miss someone he doesn't know how to remember? How can he ache so much for a soul so distant to him? He doesn't know how to miss her – how to love her – and yet still, he does. The dichotomy has sent him through so much turmoil in the last year that he's wondered just how much more of it he can take. He is just one man.
She's better off without him, and he knows it's true. They're just not compatible in this lifetime. Maybe they used to be, but like most things, they fell apart with no way of knowing how to be put back together.
The next moment, he's up. He takes the steps two at a time and doesn't bother to put his shoes on before he steps outside in the muggy, late summer night. He crosses to the pond beside his house, his feet sinking into the dewy ground. He stops.
Then, with little preamble, he drops off into the shallow pool.
The coolness of the water is shocking, and for a sweet, relieving moment, his mind goes blank, as all he can process is the cool, rippling waters against his skin. The water roars against his ears, blocking every sound out. Fish swirl around him, dancing against his feet. His lips curl upwards, once again at home in the wild.
However, when the shock subsides, he remembers, once again, that he does not.
Under the water, he lets out a breath, watching the bubbles cascade above his nose to the surface above. With a gasp, he breaches the water, pushing his bangs back from his head as he swims over to the edge of the pond. There, he lays his shoulders back against the edge, his arms supporting him, and leans his head back to look at the stars.
It's a clear night, much like that night had been all those months ago. The stars are much the same as before, but the planets have shifted a bit. Now, Hylia is rising from the east in its orbit, and Zelda is making her descent towards Mount Lanayru.
He wonders if she sees the same stars that he does on this night. Is she outside too, marking the constellations and tracking the planets? He wonders what she does. Does she still make time for field expeditions and research? Even with his fragmented memory, he knows that she had a passion for science a century prior. Is her journey to reclaim the throne keeping her too busy to dive into the things that she loves? He wonders what she eats everyday, who she talks to, what she's wearing. He wonders if she thinks about him, too.
But that matters not, he supposes. He suggested that she leave and she did. She was already thinking about it. She was unhappy here with him – unsatisfied that he could not fill the same shoes that her knight had one hundred years ago. And she too was unreachable to him. They had been stuck in a vicious cycle: of trying to reach each other but failing miserably. He wonders if she figured this out as well.
Of course she has. He knows this to be the bitter truth. She is the smartest person he knows – analytical almost to a fault.
So if they both know what went wrong, isn't it fair to say that they should be able to fix it?
He doesn't know if it's that easy. It's been nearly a year since she left. He knows that the passage of time can make some wounds untreatable. Had he raced after her a day, a week, even a month after their parting, maybe things could have been reconciled. But he was a fool, and he wallowed in his sorrow for an entire year.
Any chance to fix what was broken is long gone.
He drags himself out of the pond, the cool summer breeze chilling his dripping skin. He staggers back to his small cottage, taking the stairs in slow, deliberate steps. He doesn't bother to dry off before he collapses face first into his mattress. The bed hasn't smelled like her in a while now, but sometimes, if he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, he can catch a hint of her floral scent.
This was not one of those times.
His chest shudders as he cries and he only realizes the next morning when the sun begins to blare into his retinas that he must have cried himself to sleep. Gingerly, he peels himself off from the mattress, pushing back his hair, now brittle from drying wet. He puts on a pair of pants and heads downstairs.
Heading out the front door, he walks over to Epona's stable. Despite his decline in his overall health and wellbeing in the last year, he is at least determined not to drag Epona down with him. She nickers at him gently, her large brown eyes knowing. She deserved better than him. As he steps into the stall, she nuzzles her face against his. She glances over to the empty stall next to her – one that has been empty for just about a year now, too. She stares back at him, and he sighs.
"I know," he whispers, digging his face into her mane, "I miss them, too."
He feeds her and cleans her stable, throwing her an extra apple because she puts up with his sorry ass and she deserves it. When he leaves, he wonders if she too would be better off without him. She's far too domesticated to be set free into the wild, but he thinks about finding a young adventurer, much like he was. It would give Epona the freedom he knows she craves and would give a young man a companion out in the wild.
But he's selfish. Without Epona, he would have nothing left.
He's about to head back inside his little cottage when he catches something in the corner of his eye.
It's in the garden just beyond the pond on his land. It's been a long time since the garden has been tended to – just over a year, in fact. He hasn't dared touch it since she left. Before, they had been trying to cultivate Silent Princesses in the garden.
Of course, that too bore no fruits.
But a sliver of cerulean blue catches his eye. So soft and minute that he's surprised he even saw it. He takes tentative steps forward, bending down, not quite trusting his sight but perhaps trusting his touch.
There, blooming magnificent in their garden, is a small, delicate Silent Princess.
Around the blossom are tiny buds, just ready to burst into bloom. They had cultivated not one, but several Silent Princesses.
His heart hammers in his ears. He's on his feet before he realizes it, his front door slamming open as he climbs his steps two at a time. He shrugs on a shirt – doesn't even know which one – and grabs his pack. He saddles Epona, who nickers excitedly at the idea of going for a ride.
Then, an afterthought: he plucks the flower from their garden with gentle fingers.
He rides hard through the countryside, his hair blowing around his face in the afternoon sun. He doesn't even know what he's going to say – but she needs to know. She needshas to see that her work yielded results. Their work yielded results. All it took was a bit of time.
He passes under the wooden wind chimes and prayer cloths at sunset, making his way towards the grand hut in the center of town. He pulls Epona to a stop, her neigh earsplitting, before making his way past the two guards at the foot of the steps.
He has to show her.
He has to see her.
He freezes.
He's standing just in front of the door to Impa's home, his fist raised to knock. He's sweating, his chest heaving from the trip, the Silent Princess clutched desperately in his hand.
What is he doing?
It's been a year since he's seen her – a year since she left. Would she even want to see him again, after all this time?
He didn't even take the time to wash up properly.
He stands there, hair messy from sleep and from the trip and clothes wrinkled. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright. He should have thought this though. He should have gone about this methodically, prepared an outfit, what to say, something. Instead, here he stands, wildly unprepared, with the stem of the Silent Princess breaking in his white-knuckled grasp.
Before he can think to abort mission – to throw himself onto Epona's back and leave without glancing back – the door to Impa's home slides open. Paya stands before him, her cheeks flushed as she takes in Link's ragged appearance.
But he's not looking at her. He's looking just beyond her.
Zelda is just behind and to the left of Paya, and Link wonders if she's ever looked more radiant. She's dressed in Sheikah silks, with her long hair piled high much like Paya's. She stands tall, regal – her green eyes growing large as she takes Link in. The book she held in her hands drops to the ground, breaking the silence.
Link's mouth is dry, and he feels himself trying to formulate words – but nothing is coming out. He looks down to his hand, back to Zelda, to Paya, his hand, Zelda, Sweet Nayru – Zelda.
"Hi," he whispers, completely incapable of rational thought as he takes in her eyes, her hair – Goddesses above what is he doing here?
"Hi," she whispers back, her sweet voice golden to his ears.
They're silent for a moment longer and, this time, it's Paya who breaks it.
"I think I hear Grandmother calling."
She dashes up the stairs without another word, face flushed, eyes wide. Neither Link nor Zelda notice.
She looks at him expectantly and he realizes he should probably explain himself since she hasn't seen or heard from him in a year. He holds out his hand, "I brought you this."
She takes a step towards him, her delicate fingers reaching out. One brushes against his and he swears he feels electricity coursing through them. She takes the flower from his jittery fingers, "You brought me a flower…"
"From your garden," Link stammers, his hand rubbing the back of his head, "Our garden? My garden."
"From the seeds we planted," she murmurs, rubbing a petal between her fingertips, "I had given up on these. I thought nothing could grow in that garden."
"There's more, too," Link interjects, jutting a thumb back behind him, "In the garden, I mean."
Her face twists into a pout, and Link begins to panic, "Did I say something wrong?"
"No," she whispers, prodding the stem of the flower, "It's the stem. It's broken."
"I know. I held it while I rode here."
They're silent again, and it becomes increasingly apparent that this was a bad idea and he should have never come here.
"Anyways," Link takes a step back, "I just thought you should know. I should get going."
He takes one step away when soft, delicate fingers wrap around his bicep. The touch is so achingly familiar it sparks tears to his eyes, "Wait. Do you want some tea?"
"Zel, I need to go," he whispers, his voice thick. He tugs his arm back more forcefully than he means to.
"Link," she pulls on his arm and he's a weak man that can't pull away. Her voice – her scent – her touch – it's all just too much. He collapses into her embrace, dissolving into her arms, his head tucked into her shoulder. The dam bursts. She pulls him close as he shudders and sobs, overwhelmed by that painfully familiar floral scent that has been absent from his bed. Their bed? It's all just too much.
They drift down towards the dark, wooden planks of the porch, his head on her shoulder as he clutches onto her. She holds onto him just as desperately and it's moments later that he realizes that she is crying too.
Soft, familiar fingers wipe away his tears, and he leans into the sensation, committing it to memory. They stay like that for a long time, as the twilight creates a canopy over them.
Sunset Fireflies begin to drift from the treetops, permeating a soft glow throughout the village. By now, most of the Sheikah villagers have retired for the evening. Though, on this particular evening, they are doing well to give their Princess and their Hero some space.
She speaks first and he can feel the way her voice hums against his ear.
"You came all this way to tell me about a flower?"
"It's your favorite flower," he says and when she laughs it's like angels are singing.
"You and I both know this isn't just about a flower."
Her breath shudders and he can hear her thinking. Her thoughts are louder than her words, "I've missed you," she whispers, placing a kiss at his temple. He isn't sure that she's aware of what she's done.
"I've missed you, too," he murmurs back, turning so he's looking at her, "Can we talk?"
She nods, rubbing her hand up his arm, "Yeah."
They sit for a long time in a comfortable silence. Their legs are tangled on the steps; their bodies flush against each other. Link sighs, closing his eyes. If nothing else, at least let him have this moment.
He speaks first, finding his courage, "I… I don't remember," he whispers, staring at a point in the sky, "I'll never remember, I don't think."
"I know," her voice is so soft it's almost inaudible.
"Yet still," he says, licking his lips, "I've missed you. I still dream about you, you know? How can I miss someone I can't remember?"
"I was unfair to you," she whispers and Link's eyes snap to hers, "I never gave you a chance."
"I want to remember you," he rubs his hand on his face, "But it's always just beyond my grasp and –"
"Then don't."
Those two words carve through the thick Kakariko air. Link turns to her, and she grasps his hand, "I've thought a lot about what happened between us over the last year. We were both hung up on the past – with trying to recover something that was gone."
"I don't understand," Link says weakly, his heart sinking.
"Looking to the past, we had no way of looking towards the future," she whispers, "Instead of trying to discover old memories, why don't we try creating new memories?"
He looks at her then. Suddenly, everything stills; all the stars and planets in the heavens twinkling down at them, awaiting their next move. Slowly, deliberately, carefully, he leans in and feels her breath fan over his nose. His eyes shudder closed, savoring the long lost feeling. Her fingers trace up to his cheek, his hand just on the back of her neck. Time is frozen in this moment, and it's Zelda who leans in to close the gap between them. Her lips just barely graze his, feather soft and hesitant. He pulls her in at the waist and kisses her like he means it.
When they pull apart, he opens his eyes, and doesn't see the reminder of all the things he couldn't remember. Instead, he sees his tomorrow.
"I wasn't sure you would come," she whispers against his lips, her thumb catching against his jawline.
"I'm surprised I could even stay away at all."
The moon shines brilliantly overhead.
A/N: Follow me on tumblr at dontwaitupxx! Thanks for reading!
