Zelink Short Stories - Chapter 16: Chapter 16

I release a slow breath, willing my arms to hold steady. The string is pulled back, my arrow ready to fire into the deer munching on grass in a clearing. I'd been hesitating again. As eager as I was to learn my husband's ways, I'm not a Barbarian like him. But that hasn't stopped me from trying to adapt.
I bite down on my lip and let my arrow fly. I'm both disappointed and relieved when it lands in a tree behind the animal, scaring it off along with any other small creatures hiding in the thick brush. I huff a sigh and emerge from my leafy hiding spot. It'd been perfect: just out of view from any prey and the wind was blowing towards me so the doe wouldn't be scared off by my scent. I understand the stealth aspect of hunting but it's my inconsistent aim keeping me from succeeding.
I cross the clearing, wrapping my fingers around the shaft of the arrow to wrench in from the bark when I hear a twig snap off to the side. My hand creeps to my knife out of fear for a monster to show itself. Instead, my eyes meet a familiar blonde making her way towards me. I wonder who sent her to track me: my husband or their mother.
"You didn't let anyone know you were leaving."
I yank the buried arrowhead from the tree and press my finger against the point. No blood. Shooting it into a tree dulled it beyond use. "I just wanted to be alone I guess."
"Are you nervous?" As much as I don't want to admit it, I nod without looking at my husband's sister. "It's okay to be. It's your first." While that's true, none of the warriors in this tribe are nervous before their first tournaments. They rile themselves up with excitement, spending the days leading up to the battles sharpening their favorite weapons and perfecting their armor. I ran to the woods to hide.
"Maybe." I tuck the dull arrow with the rest in the quiver on my back and replace the bow as well. "Are you here to drag me back home?" I say with a small smile that she returns.
"Bound if needed."
"I'll come willingly." I fall into step next to her towards the place I've called home for a little over a year. "Did he send you?"
"No, Mother did. She wants to talk to you." No doubt a word about the tournament tomorrow. I'll listen to whatever wisdom she's willing to pass on. "He went looking for you too but he went in the wrong direction and I didn't bother to correct him," she laughs. While my husband is the best warrior in our tribe, his sister takes the title of best tracker.
"Think he's realized his mistake by now?"
"I doubt it." He will eventually and if not, Aryll can go out to find him.
The walk back home is long. I must have been so lost in thought on my way out here that I didn't notice I'd ventured so deep into the woods. Not the wisest decision but I've been practicing how to fight since shortly after my marriage to my Barbarian husband and I can take care of myself. I wouldn't have entered the tournament if I didn't know how to fight though part of it was the need to prove myself. This tribe has accepted me, taken me in as their own, and yet I haven't felt like I've earned it yet.
They are fighters bound by courage and honor. I'm just a Hylian whose father wanted to strengthen ties. I suppose that could be counted as brave-me coming here to marry a Barbarian. But I had no choice in that matter. I would belong to whoever was the most brutal in the tournament.
I don't let my thoughts linger too long on what Link did to win me. Ripping out a heart with his bare hands made my own fall out of my chest. I thought my marriage was going to be hell. That a man who ripped out hearts and delighted in it would surely be awful to the wife he'd won by way of violence.
And I was wrong. I knew I was wrong from our wedding night. I wasn't broken in by the tribe like a poor dog as the stories promised. I wasn't pinned to the floor and bred like the rumors I'd been told. My arrival was celebrated. I was my husband's prize, yes, but they welcomed me, fed me, told me their real stories. He'd kissed me under the stars, promised to teach me whatever I wished. I'd thought it would be impossible to love a Barbarian. How wrong I was.
The trees thin, the landscape melting to the tents of my home. I've come to love it here as well. I never ventured this far south before the tournament. I was forbidden, told I'd be kidnapped by these people I now call family.
Aryll squeezes my arm outside of the chief's tent. "I'm going to go find Link before he spends all afternoon out there." I should have told him I was leaving so he wouldn't worry.
I give her a smile and pull back the flap on the tent. The floor is covered in furs with a wooden base built underneath. It's large-big enough to hold meetings. The fire in the middle is nothing more than smoldering embers, the orange the same as the hair of the woman sitting in a throne decorated with monster bones and swaths of fabric.
"Sit," she says, motioning to the space in front of her feet. I obey, removing my quiver and sitting with my back to her, my legs crossed as she rakes her fingers through my hair. "I thought I'd told you to not wander so far on your own."
"I just needed to think." I wince as she tugs out a tangle. "I didn't mean to worry you."
"It was my son you worried. He seemed to think you were mauled by cougars or attacked by a group of lizalfos."
"Sorry," I mumble. I've only practiced with one-on-one fights. He would have good reason to be worried if I ran into a group of monsters.
"Speak up when you talk. I don't know how many times I must tell you." She parts my hair to the side and picks up a section above my ear, starting a braid. "Now, what's bothering you?"
"Nothi-"
"Don't lie to me, girl. Anyone with sense can see right through them." She continues to add hair to the braid, attaching it to my scalp.
"I'm nervous for tomorrow," I admit as much as I don't want to. There's a reason why my husband is as brutal as he is in fights. He learned everything from his parents, two of the most ruthless fighters in the tribe's history. I doubt the woman behind me has ever felt nervous before a tournament.
She stops adding hair at the tip of my ear, braiding the length left over. "You aren't a Barbarian," she says simply while starting the next braid right above the first.
"As everyone keeps saying."
"Because it's true. Your people have fighters but war isn't in your blood. We thrive in it. Hylians enjoy their political games above blades. Blood isn't glory to them." I wince as she tugs apart another tangle. "I was surprised when you said you wanted to learn how to fight. No one expected you to." A small consolation I suppose.
"But what about tomorrow?"
"What about it?"
I turn to face her, taking in her hard face, the cold eyes, the scars across her cheek. I shrunk in her presence in my first few weeks here. All that her hands are capable of, the weaknesses her eyes see that only a skilled killer has the sense for. She'd been terrifying with her tight words and the lack of comfort in them. Even so, she filled a place I didn't know was so empty.
"It's to the death or yield. Your people don't yield."
She cups my chin, brushing her thumb over my cheek. "And you aren't a Barbarian, child. No one will fault you for not being one of us."
"But-"
"You training to join is an accomplishment in itself. And you're more capable than you're letting yourself believe. Don't make assumptions about your abilities before you enter that arena." I nod and turn to let her finish the braids.
It's hard to believe the praise I've received from the near perfect fighters of this tribe when I finish training with more bruises and scrapes than the person I sparred with. I've gained some muscle but I still struggle with balance. I can wield blades but I'm slow to swing them. I can fight without weapons but I lack the power behind my kicks and punches. They say they're impressed. I feel like I've lept backwards each time I drag my sore body to my tent and fall asleep before Link has a chance to kiss me goodnight.
I trace the white scar on my palm where I sliced through my skin to complete my half of our blood bond. That night had been wild with feasting and dancing and yelling up at the stars. I felt free for the first time with the tribe I'd been told were cold-hearted murderers. But my mind had still lingered on what Father was thinking while I married his enemy. I wondered if he'd been worried. If he still worries. I haven't seen him since that day. I'm not sure what to say when I see him and when he sees me for the woman I am now.
She adds small braids until she reaches the part, doing the same on the other side. Then she starts one large braid going down the middle of my head, feeding in the smaller braids as she goes along. My hair is too long to leave down during fights. It can easily get caught or pulled. I've thought about cutting it just for the convenience of short hair.
"Look at me, child," she says after securing the braid. I turn to face her once more. "Are you sure you're ready to participate in a tournament?"
"Do you think I am?"
"I think you're too hard on yourself. Discipline is important and holding yourself to a high standard is vital. However, you don't see the progress you've made."
"I've only won a few sparring matches here. How can I count that as an accomplishment?"
"You won't be fighting Barbarians in that arena. You'll be paired with another of similar strength. And don't forget that you managed to make my son break a sweat when you last sparred." He'd bragged for a week after that training session, telling everyone of the kicks I'd landed.
Remembering brings some confidence with it. And more fear. That was only sparring that resulted in bruises and minor cuts that healed with rest. Tomorrow, blood will be spilled. I struggle to kill deer.
"What if I can't do it?"
She narrows her icy eyes. "Can't do what, child?" I swallow hard, forcing myself to hold her stare.
"Kill."
"If you can't kill, you have no place in that ring. It's meant for predators. Wolves. If you go in a rabbit, you'll feel the claws at your throat." My mouth goes dry.
"You've trained hard," she continues. "Your hands know how to kill but your mind is what's stopping you. So I will ask again: are you ready to fight in that tournament tomorrow?"
My mind screams, begging me to say no and cower away from the fear. To go only in support of my tribe and husband. It would be easy.
I haven't been training for something easy.
I nod and say, "Yes."
"Then give them hell, my child."
I poke at the fire, grinding my teeth together. I can kill. I've killed monsters. I helped Link carve out the heart of a lynel. I chopped off the heads off bokoblins. I can do it tomorrow. I can make everyone proud.
"I'm not sure what the wood did to deserve that kind of treatment," one of the women I'm with says. She stirs the stew inside the pot, smiling down at me.
"I wasn't paying attention," I mutter, setting my stick down. The sooty end smokes, ashes falling from it onto the ground. "Is it ready?"
"Almost. Why don't you go collect the children."
I brush off the dirt on my bare knees and begin walking towards the sounds of playful yelling and young war cries. The children here are eager to become warriors like their parents. They run wild with sticks, attacking each other with them as if they were real weapons. Turning fifteen can't come any sooner for them.
I come to a small clearing in the tents that the children are fond of playing in. There's little ones of varying ages playing with sticks and small crafted bows made from string and flexible branches. Some are playing dead, holding the pretend weapons under their arms to give the appearance of having been impaled. They're children and yet they already yearn for the violence.
In the middle of the chaos, there's a small group of children huddled around a muscular blond man as he shows them a knife. It seems he finally made his way back.
"Supper is ready, you hooligans," I say, allowing myself to smile and forget about tomorrow for a few moments. Every head snaps in my direction, including my husband's. He grins at the sight of me.
The children drop their weapons to return to later and run off to collect their bowls. You'd think they were starved.
My husband stands and tucks his knife away. He strides towards me, bare-chested and perfect.
"I didn't mean to scare you," I explain. "I just needed time to-" His arm sweeps behind me and hooks around my waist, tugging me flush against him. Anything I might have said is silence with a deep kiss I'm content to melt into.
"A warning would've been appreciated." His smirk still makes my heart skip. "Aryll told me you wandered several miles west."
"I didn't know I'd gone that far."
"Which is why you shouldn't go out like that on your own yet. You still have more to learn about the creatures lurking in those woods."
"What creatures?"
"The scary ones."
"I thought Link of the Barbarians wasn't afraid of anything."
"There's one thing that scares me and it's far worse than creatures lurking in the shadows."
I fall silent, staring up at him with my hands on his chest. He's fearless until it comes to me. As our love grew, so did our fears of something happening to the other. He still trained me like I asked but I could see the doubts he tried to mask behind his pride in me.
"Can we talk later?" I ask when I find my words.
"You don't want to talk now?"
I shake my head. "Later. And besides-" I poke his stomach, smiling. "-I don't think you can last that long before dinner."
He tears into a piece of meat with still round cheeks. He hardly ever swallows before he's moving on to the next bite. Being a heathen is part of being a Barbarian I suppose.
The eating habits here was as much a shock as the other differences I discovered when I married him. In my old tribe, each home made their food and ate privately, using utensils for most foods. The women here cook for everyone and we eat together. I can't say I hate it.
I soak a chunk of bread in the broth of my stew and bring it to my mouth to nibble on it. Hunger is distant with worry in its place. There's only so many times I can tell myself I'll prevail tomorrow until it feels like a tedious lie. Any one mistake could leave me on the ground, yielding. Hylians hold no shame to yield. They would rather go home than die honorably. Barbarians would die before they let that word pass their lips.
But they don't often lose.
I want to truly be one of them. I want to walk into that arena knowing I'll be walking out victorious. The image is perfect in my mind. I fight like one of them, harsh and mercilessly. My opponent doesn't yield and I kill them without hesitation. I would rejoin my tribe with blood on my hands and there'd be no doubt that I'm a Barbarian.
But as everyone keeps saying, I'm not one. Not by blood at least. I'm part of them through marriage and by that only.
I sigh heavily and let my eyes jump to every small group that's formed, their overlapping chatter consisting of excitement for tomorrow. This tournament is different from the one my husband fought in to win my hand. There'll be events based on skill and strength. Many of our new fighters will be fighting alongside each other and the skilled will be put up to more difficult challenges. Events won't be announced until we arrive and knowing my father, they will favor his allies. He admitted to making it unfair for Link in his attempt to kill him. Father had been counting on the Zora to win me.
He was told I'd be participating. Link's mother sent word on my insistence and we received no reply. He would have taken it as a sort of taunt. This tribe won me and now I'll be fighting for them when he had kept me out of the arena completely.
My eyes land on a baby sitting in her father's lap, enjoying a piece of bread like I am. She was the most recent child born to this tribe though one of the younger wives is pregnant now. I'd met her the night I first arrived and she made it her mission to lead me through each part of being a Barbarian, especially regarding the men.
Protective, stubborn, and hungry was how she described them. She said it was the perfect combination and I've found that the women aren't much different at times. The lack of pickiness is comforting. I would have to do something very wrong to be ridiculed for it. Finding my flaws was a hobby of my father's, and not one I've fully moved past yet.
The baby falls back into her father, laughing at the face he gives her. He kisses her head and continues on with the conversation he's having with a group of young fighters.
Bearing children is an entirely different fear I've pushed to the side for now. It's always been expected of me to produce heirs for myself. Now I'll be giving my husband his heirs and the pressure is worse than it was before. That's not to mention the size of his head.
I do want children and so does Link. But not yet. Just the thought of being good enough as a parent while I'm fearing tomorrow is enough to make me nauseous.
"You need to eat more than bread, my love."
"I'm not very hungry," I say, avoiding his gaze while I soak another chunk of bread in the broth. His calm is almost unnerving. He knows he's going to kill tomorrow and yet he's eating without a second thought.
"I didn't ask if you were. You need strength for tomorrow." I try to plead with my eyes. He doesn't budge. Doe eyes don't work on him.
I lift my bowl and scoop a potato with my spoon. "If I get sick, I'll be sure to aim it at you."
"I move faster than you think," he says with a smirk. I stick my tongue out at him and force myself to eat.
The stew goes down easier than I thought and he manages to convince me to eat another bowl. It's enough to fill my stomach to the point of poking out while to him it would be considered nothing. He trains each and every day and eats enough for five people to make up for it.
By the time he's finished, I'm not sure if I'm exhausted or restless. Everyone will be going in for an early evening because we leave before dawn.
I send Link to our tent while I wash our bowls. I asked to talk to him to ease my worries and now the talk with him is adding to them.
Members of the tribe bid me goodnight as they wrangle their children in for the night. Some I won't see until after while others will be fighting as well. They've told me I'll be fine-that I only need to focus on my goal of winning. They make it sound easy.
I pull back the flap to our tent to find Link sitting on our bed of furs when I had been hoping he was already asleep.
"You didn't need to wait up," I say, setting our bowls on the desk he uses for weapons and I use for jotting down thoughts that take up too much space in my head.
"You said you needed to talk to me."
"It's not that important."
"It is to me. Come here." I can't find it in me to argue any further.
I sit in his lap, wrapping my legs around his waist. He rests his hands on my hips, calming me with the gentle strokes of his fingers.
"Who did your hair?" His callouses scratch the bare skin at my sides.
"Your mother."
He winces playfully and smiles. "She's not a gentle braider."
"Is she ever gentle?"
"Not often enough to count."
She's a hard woman, showing her love differently than most mothers would. She doesn't coddle her children or anyone for that matter. The respect she carries was earned through holding values above emotion. Pain may be uncomfortable but it's necessary and she doesn't shy away from it.
His father tends to be on the softer side and I sometimes wonder how they found each other with that difference. Link says it wasn't easy for his father. He courted her by showing off during hunts and demonstrating his skill with a blade in the arena. They proved to be each other's equals.
I can see both of them in him. His eyes are unforgiving like his mother's. They seem to hold fear captive by the throat and promise pain. Now as he looks at me, they're soft-loving like the rest of his normally cold features.
"What's on your mind, my love?"
A slight curve forces its way onto my lips. "That I love when you call me that." I remember the way my cheeks had burned when he'd let that little bit of affection free. There's a certain triumph that comes with knowing a man has fallen on his face for you.
"Was that all you needed to talk to me about?" he jokes, pulling me closer until my stomach is pressed against his.
"I wish it were." I bring my hands up from where they'd been resting on his shoulders and I run them through his hair. This he gets from his father. Thick and blond and unruly. Maybe his mother should braid his hair for tomorrow.
"You'll be okay tomorrow."
"I haven't said what was bothering me yet." I twist a strand of hair around my finger, wondering how it can be so coarse yet soft at the same time.
"You give your thoughts away in your eyes. I was only reading them." He chuckles when I cover his eyes with my hand. He simply pulls it away to his mouth and kisses my palm. "Talk to me, you beautiful woman."
"Beautiful?" I muse, twisting more of his golden hair between my fingers. I prefer it when he leaves it down like this to sweep over his broad shoulders.
"Shamelessly so." He smiles under my palm, adding another kiss. He knows I'm stalling but he won't push.
"And for how long have you found me beautiful, Link of the Barbarians?"
"Since the day I fought for you, my love."
I'd found him handsome that day as well. I think part of it was Father's disdain as we watched him dominate the arena. I wanted to do anything he wouldn't like in retaliation to the way he was giving me away. But I can't blame it all on my rebellious mood. I was infatuated by his focus, watching his muscles flex with each movement. The paint had been smudged across the planes of his stomach from sweat and hits he'd endured. He'd fought like he wanted me.
I pull my hand from his grip gently and move it to his hair. I need anything to keep me from giving in to the nervousness. "How do you do it?" I ask.
"How do I do what?"
"Everything. Fighting without fear. You can kill without doubt or regret and you seem to savor the violence. How?"
"Because I do savor it. I've been training since I could wield a knife. I was always taught to crave the warmth blood gives. It's just who I am."
"Were you ever scared?"
"I was never taught to be scared. Fear is something I give, not something I feel."
"I can't seem to feel anything other than fear," I mumble, scratching my nails along his scalp.
"Fear of getting hurt or fear of failing?"
"I don't know."
"Yes you do." I close my eyes to keep him from reading them. His laugh is smooth and weightless.
"You've gotten hurt plenty," he continues. "I watched you get up each time you got a new bruise or cut."
"What's a little blood?" I smile. I can feel his even with my eyes closed.
"I know you're not scared of getting hurt."
"And how do you know that?"
"Because your eyes tell me the mistake that earned the scar hurts more than the pain itself," he whispers.
I lose my smile and open my eyes to find his have softened completely. "I just want to be worthy of the tribe."
"You are. You have nothing to prove."
"So you don't think I should fight tomorrow."
"That's not what I said. Fighter or not, you're still my wife and I'll be happy with whichever you choose."
"Do you think I'm strong enough?"
"Of course I do. You learned skills in a year that most have been practicing since childhood." His fingers move in aimless circles at my waist. "And I trained you myself," he adds with another small smile.
"But what if-"
"If there's no other way out, you yield." I press my lips together. Hearing it from him is different.
I nod and let my fingers move through his hair again. If my mind is really what's stopping me, maybe I just need to be in the moment to lose the fears.
"You should get some sleep now," he says. "We have to be up in a few hours."
"I'm not tired." Mischief flashes across his face.
"I have something we could do to fix that." He tightens his arms to ensure I can't escape and he nips at my neck, tickling my skin with his teeth and lips.
"Is it your goal to exhaust me?" I say, smiling and matching his playful tone.
"Do you want to be exhausted?"
"I don't think that would serve me well tomorrow."
"Maybe not." His hand moves up my spine until he reaches the strings securing my top. "But it'll distract you tonight." He tugs on the strings, undoing them without much effort.
"Link," I laugh when my top falls away, leaving me bare in front of him.
"What an unfortunate accident." He smiles, tossing the fabric across the tent.
I drape my arms over his shoulders and rest my forehead against his. "An accident, was it?"
"Of course it was." He tilts his head, brushing a light kiss on my lips. "Don't give tomorrow another thought, my love."
And so I don't.
The air is warm and thick when I wake up alone in our tent. I vaguely remember him lifting me off so he could get up. He'd whispered to go back to sleep-that he wouldn't be gone long. I didn't argue and drifted off to sleep without any trouble. He'd tired me out as promised but not enough to carry too far into the morning.
I sit up and stretch my arms over my head, not bothering to cover myself with the blanket after. It's too warm and no one comes in except for him and possibly his mother but that awkwardness wasn't given time to take hold when she'd gotten me ready for my wedding.
Link comes in just then and I can make out his armor with the bit of light provided by the candle on our desk. It's the same set he wore when he won me. The leather is dark brown, the two spaulders held together by a ring of bone. Most of his legs are exposed as well with the shorts and torn fabric hanging from the belt. He's wearing everything but the skull helmet still waiting for him in the corner of the tent. He's already painted as well, covered in carefully placed red lines across his body and handprints on his stomach.
"How'd you sleep?" he asks.
"Alright I suppose," I yawn. I take in the pile of furs and fabric he's holding in one hand, a bowl in the other. "What's that?"
He smiles. "Your armor."
He shows me the helmet and excitement stubs out any fear creeping its way back. It's nearly identical to his with its skull and red mane. The horns are slightly smaller and the mane is free of braids but this was a surprise. He didn't tell me he had a helmet made.
I pull on the shorts first and the belt draped with ripped fabric, leaving only my upper thighs covered. The top is one piece rather than two spaulders like his. The leather is the same as well as the lynel fur making up the short sleeves.
I turn around and pull my braid over my shoulder, letting him lace it. "It's going to need to be tight," he says as he synches the top together. "It'll be uncomfortable to fight otherwise."
Some of the other girls had given me bindings to wrap my breasts with during sparring. It was enough for training but the tournament will be more rigorous. He tightens the top until my breasts are practically flattened to my chest while still giving me room to breathe.
"You can use these as weapons if you need to," he says as he secures the arm guards to my forearms, "but don't rely on them. If you find that you are, you've let your opponent get too close."
I swallow. "Okay," I say, my voice shaky.
"Don't be scared. You know how to fight."
"The real question is do I know how to win."
He smiles, picking up a dagger. "I think you do," he says, dragging the blade across his palm.
He adds his blood to the red paint and begins decorating my body. He draws lines on my arms and down to my stomach where he marks me with his handprint. I watch him as he kneels and smile when he rests my foot on his leg, adding paint and kisses to my skin. Each stroke of his fingers is soft and intentional as he marks me to look like a warrior. I am one on the outside but I have yet to discover the fighter inside.
"How do I look?" I ask when he stands. The paint tightens on my skin as it dries, the feeling similar to blood.
He places the helmet on my head, the skull casting a shadow over my face. "Beautiful."
My mouth goes dry at the sight of the arena. It stands tall and alone, surrounded only by tents from the visiting tribes. But it's not just the sight of it that makes me sick. We're in Hylian territory now. My old home.
The trees and rivers are familiar yet distant. I spent my entire life here and it was so easy to forget. Who's to say they haven't forgotten me as well?
Link's horse snorts, shaking her head as if she can't stand being here. Barbarians are hated to some extent by all of the other tribes. Not even the Yiga are as hated as we are with their sly nature.
My unease refuses to settle the closer we get. Everyone I used to know is going to watch me fight with my old enemy rather than against them. My father will be watching. And he hates Barbarians more than anyone.
He cursed each fight Link won. His fury was unmatched as he watched my husband rip the still beating heart from the final contender-his last hope that I wouldn't go to this animalistic tribe. He tried to find a way to keep me rather than giving me to the victor like he promised. The cold, sharp rage that shone in Link's eyes is something I hope to never see again.
His hand is warm and calloused over mine as he rubs my skin with subtle strokes, calming me without words. I close my eyes to feel my body pressed against his, shutting out the sounds from our tribe as we approach. Tonight we'll come home victorious with new cuts that'll scar and remind of how strong we are. Or how strong I hope to be.
I stay at his side when we leave the horses to roam. They come when they hear their master's whistle. Other tribes have to tie their horses to keep them from abandoning them. A horse's loyalty is only as good as the master.
Some of our tribe splits off to claim their section. They are parents who came to see their children slaughter. They hold no doubts over the blood their kin will spill for this game. If it weren't for these allowed fights between tribes, every border would become a battle ground.
The Sheikah and Yiga have had a fued ever since the latter split to create their own tribe nearly a hundred years ago. The Rito are prideful and make enemies more easily than most. The Gorons horde riches and the Zora dabble in magic they refuse to share. Hylians have the power the Gerudo want and the Barbarians don't need a reason to cut another's throat. Some spilled blood is necessary.
The colosseum looms high over my head, the stone worn but far from crumbling. And sooner than I'm ready, the shadows from the tunnels built beneath blocks the sun. The rush of blood in my ears drowns out the excited echoes of my fellow tribe. If it weren't for Link's hand placed firmly on the small of my back, I may have turned the other way.
I find myself in one of the chambers under the arena. The cheers just past the stairs on the other end reach me and my stomach churns.
"I think I'm going to be sick," I mumble.
Link leaves for a brief moment and returns just as I start looking for a bucket. He pinches my cheeks to part my lips and wedges a piece of ginger against my gums. "Better?"
I nod, the taste of it easing the nausea. "Thank you."
"My sister has more if you need it." I find Aryll helping another girl adjust the bone shards she binded to her forearms. My mind flashes with the image of them buried in someone's neck and a fresh wave of nausea hits my gut.
I begin chewing the ginger.
One of the doors leading to another set of tunnels opens and Hylian guards filter in. Link and another fighter step in front of me just as I see a glimpse of the cape I was tasked with cleaning in my younger years.
"Did you lose the way to your throne?" Link's mother asks, her tone sharp with claws. I try to peek between the muscular bodies hiding me. I can't see anything more than her orange hair spilling down beneath her headdress.
"Pleasant as always, but I'm afraid I don't have time for games." My throat tightens at the sound of my father's voice. And with all that I've left, I still try to push past Link to get to him. He doesn't budge.
"Out with it then. We've been so eager for this tournament."
"I'm sure you have." I hear the scuff of his boots and Link presses me further back. "Is my daughter among you?"
"She is."
"I'd like her back." My breath catches and my heart seems to go silent. He was so eager to give me away.
"You gave her up-"
"In a competition you were never supposed to win. She has no place with your people."
"Then tell me why she's fit in so well." Link lets me through at the wave of her hand and she beckons me forward. She places her hand on my shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. A silent promise to not let him have me.
His stare burns into me and I dread every moment it takes for me to meet it. Surrounded by his guards, he looks as large and terrifying as the last time I saw him. But the disgust is new.
His lip curls as he takes in my helmet, my armor. The paint mixed with blood drawn on my body. My scars are new and pale and some cuts haven't fully healed. Every last part of me disgusts him.
"What have they done to you," he says a bit breathlessly, his voice filled with something like shame.
"They-they haven't-" I swallow back the tears I hadn't realized were threatening to fall. "They haven't done anything to me," I say slowly. He can't see me as weak now when I've worked so hard to be strong.
"Look at you." He waves his hand in disgust. "They've turned you into one of them."
"I am one of them."
"Is that what they've told you? That you're to forget where you came from and who your real family is?"
"I haven't forgotten-"
"Then you'll come home."
"I can't," I mutter. My legs ache to retreat back to Link-back to where Father can't reach me. But the chief's hold is firm, giving just enough pressure to both soothe me and threaten consequences if I don't stand my ground. "You forced me to make a new home when you married me off. I won't leave it."
"You call living with animals a home?" he spits. The tension grows thick at his words, adding a certain sting to the air that promises violence.
The chief smiles, unbothered, and moves her hand to smooth it down the red mane on my helmet. "If we're animals, you're having a very difficult time controlling your pack, aren't you?" she purrs. "How embarrassing it must be to play king to subjects who refuse to stand on the crumbling stones of your ambitions."
"I would watch what you say, witch."
"I prefer bastard but my husband doesn't take kindly to either." He takes up her other side, hand on his blade, looming over nearly everyone in the room.
"Don't you dare threaten me-"
"You entertain me, Rhoam. We can pretend you hadn't threatened us first with your soldiers if you wish, though I do hope you came here for a reason and not to draw out arguments we can settle in the arena."
He straightens, looking over me once more. "If you refuse to come home as you're told, I have no choice but to propose a new competition to win you back." My heart thumps harder against my ribs. Link nearly died in the first and Father won't make that mistake twice.
"You play games you think you'll win but lose and turn to others to blame for your failures," she says, a vicious grin on her lips. "Is that really how you'd like to play now?"
"I want my daughter back," he grinds out.
"Very well. My son is prepared to fight for what's his."
"Your son won't be a competitor."
"Oh? Would you prefer someone else from my family? I promise the results will be the same."
"Zelda will fight." I might have thought I heard wrong if it weren't for the hush that falls over the room, dropping it into silence. The blood rushing in my ears becomes sickeningly loud.
"How much you've changed in the year she's become my daughter instead of yours. " She tilts her head, the bones she wears clinking. "I thought you'd do anything to keep your princess out of the arena. I can't say I don't enjoy this desperate side of you-the one willing to thrust her into a fight. One might say it's animalistic."
"Are we agreed?" He spits the words with venom, ignoring her taunts.
"Perhaps. I wish to hear your terms." I sway on my feet. She can't be considering this. Link won me; it can't be undone.
"She yields and she remains here, her marriage into your family considered null."
"And if your fighter yields as your people so often do?"
Father locks his eyes with mine when he says, "That won't be an issue." Bile rises in my throat. I'll have no choice but to kill if I want to return home to my husband.
"The question remains. When she wins, the Barbarians will replace your tribe in overseeing the tournaments."
"That is ridiculous-"
"Those are my terms." She takes a step forward, her smile full of satisfaction. He laid his weakness bare and she didn't hesitate to pounce. "Now are we agreed?"
He says nothing as he holds his hands out for a dagger to be placed in it. She draws hers at the same time and they drag the blades across their palms, sealing the deal in blood. There's no undoing it now.
"It'll be the last event," he says and promptly leaves the way he came, his thick cape flowing behind him as his guards follow. The murmurs resume once the door closes but I don't hear them.
"I-" I start without getting to finish. Link grips my arm, smudging a bit of the paint there, and puts himself between me and his mother.
"She's not ready for that kind of fight," he seethes.
"Then she shouldn't have come here. You both understood the consequences of these tournaments."
"You didn't have to agree to his unfair competition. She's my wife; I should have been the one to decide."
"And I am your mother and chief," she snarls, silencing him. "You will not question me again, is that clear?"
"Yes, Mother," he bites out.
She brushes him aside with her spear and steps towards me, her face a mix of calculation and pride. It takes everything in me to not retreat from the violence her eyes crave. "You wished for a chance to prove yourself. Here it is. Fail and you will no longer be a Barbarian, do you understand?"
I open my mouth and close it when nothing comes out. The year I've been part of them has been better than the other seventeen years of my life. I can't go back.
She narrows her eyes, forcing the answer from me. "Yes, Mother," I say in a near whimper.
I can't go back.
Blood sprays across the sand.
Bright and thick, spurting from where Link's father sliced cleanly across his opponent's throat with one of his blades. He's a master with the metal that now gleams red, his movements fluid and quick enough to miss with a single blink.
The Sheikah crumples to his knees, choking on the very thing meant to keep him alive. He falls next to the other who died with his intestines in his hands.
Three they pitted against him and only one remains, retreating too many steps as he blocks the attacks. They become weaker with each hit until he's knocked back by a kick. And Link's father drives his blade through the bottom of his jaw, the end of the knife visible at the top of his head.
His wife watches next to me, humming with approval. She looks at him like she's never loved anything in her life as much as him. I wouldn't be surprised if it were true. Barbarian men are hard to shake once they have you in their grasp.
He yanks his blade free and drags his arm across his face, smearing the blood there, and the chief smiles, holding her staff in a way that reminds me of the way I gripped my chair when I watched Link fight to win me.
Aryll leans closer, a bored look on her face. "I'm going to be a middle child by the end of the night."
"Hush," her mother snaps before I have the chance to swallow the nausea from my impending competition. She cracks the blunt end of her staff across Aryll's painted shins, earning a hiss of pain. It'll bruise to match the purple blooming in the crook of her elbow where she strangled her opponent, keeping her from having the breath she needed to yield.
She broke her neck at the end. All it took was a sharp tug and the Gerudo girl stopped moving. The crack was drowned out by the cheers in the stands, particularly by Link's father who held no leash on his pride for the kill his daughter made.
He jams his knives back into the sheaths at his sides and stalks from the arena where the bodies lay bleeding until someone drags them away. And whether Aryll was joking or not, I'll be sure to stay far from the chief's tent tonight.
I suck on the new piece of ginger Aryll had given me, my heart thundering in my chest. I still have my event despite the challenge Father presented. And it just so happens to be next, nestled between each bloody fight that stained the sand with gore.
Splintered wood and shards of bone litter the arena as well. Arrowheads lay with tips that look rusted from blood, teeth with bits of gum still clinging to it. Fingers and ripped clothing. Anything too small to be picked up when the bodies are collected is left and will be covered by a fresh layer of sand until the next tournament that boasts more victories and buries the weak.
I take a shaky breath, my lungs refusing to fill fully. This tournament has been particularly brutal. Our tribe is the only one still without dead though a woman lost an eye and a boy was shot through the shoulder with an arrow. He used the same one to kill his opponent once he pried it from his flesh.
Aryll had watched him closely and his eyes seemed to lock with hers for a moment just before he made his kill. And with the slight tilt of her father's head when he was finished and bloody, I'd say he has a chance.
"Next!"
Hot saliva pools in the back of my mouth and my stomach twists. If I'm too weak for this, I'll be too weak for his finale. I'll have to go back. Go back to ridicule and uselessness-
The warmth and roughness of Link's hand wrapping around mine silences something deep that shouldn't have such a loud voice. He lifts my hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on my fingers. He holds my stare, reminding me of everything he taught me.
And once he lets go, I find myself walking down the steps, passing the rest of the fighters towards the arena. The sand is soft beneath my boots despite the horrors it holds.
I move to the rack of weapons. Daggers, swords, maces, bows and arrows. Link told me any weapon is a good one but the first I long for is the best.
My fingers wrap around the middle of a spear. The wood is weighted and the steel tip is long and sharp. I've used plenty of spears before and I always found I preferred the distance it puts between me and my opponent. Most Barbarians want to be as close as possible during their kills.
I finally turn, gripping my weapon in my both hands and step towards my Hylian opponent who has chosen hers as well. Twin daggers as long as her forearm.
Her lips twist into a snarl once we meet in the center of the arena. I swallow with a dry mouth.
She's won fights before while I was still Hylian, winning against each tribe except Barbarians. I don't wish to give her the satisfaction now.
"Begin!"
I forget to breathe as she lunges. I knock her daggers away but too soon she swings them again and again and again. Stabbing and twisting, taking small notches from my spear with each attack I block.
I retreat the same steps that Shiekah had before Link's father skewered his brain. But she doesn't go for killing blows, I realize. My father would have forbid it when he wants me back so desperately.
I notice too late when she breaks her pattern and feigns a swipe, slicing a dagger across my stomach and finishing it by planting her heel in my nose. The arena goes white for a split second before tears spill from my eyes. Hot and thick from the throbbing pain spreading across my face.
The stinging comes next alongside the warmth trickling down the cut just wide enough to bleed.
A metallic taste seeps across my lips and heat builds in my chest. I smear the blood away and stare at the red on my palm until my vision straightens. And when I finally look up, her smirk is clear and wicked. Taunting.
I spit the blood and ginger from my mouth, baring my teeth as something new takes over.
She charges and I let her come to me, meeting her with my spear. She slams her daggers down at the same time I thrust the spear upwards to block, burying the blades deep into the wood. Her face pales and I smile.
I spin the handle, ripping the blades from her grip and flinging them across the sand. And with each swing I take, she retreats further from them, blocking with her arms and feet until she's bleeding from the splintered wood.
The cheers grow louder and I soak in the praise. This isn't like fighting a Barbarian. This is easier.
She screams as I drive the sharp metal into her hip, meeting bone before I yank it free. I spin and jam the blunt end into her stomach, kicking her temple before I finish the turn. She sprawls on the ground and I spin once more, twisting the spear over my wrists.
"I yield!"
My arms halt just as the blade pierces the skin above her heart. A drop of blood trickles down her heaving chest, her body covered in wounds and sweat.
"I yield," she repeats, breathless and seething. She glares up at me, remaining still even as I drop the bloody-ended spear next to her.
The cheers from my tribe drowns the silence from the others. It had sounded so loud before and now as I turn in place, the other tribes sit in shock.
I find Father in his throne, staring down at what became of me. He didn't think it were true.
I didn't know it was real either.
The matches continue once I leave the arena and my opponent returns to the Hylians having lost. They're no less gruesome than before. Stronger fighters are given harder challenges and prove effortlessly why they're the best.
Headless bodies are hauled off, leaving trails of blood from the stump at the shoulders. Fighters yield only after their limbs are crushed or lost. Throats are slit, intestines are spilled, and hearts are pierced. As the slaughter continues, I lose track of who will be leaving with the most dead.
"Next!" my father's voice rings out. My heartbeat begins to quicken and pound once more. This would have been the finale. A worthy challenge for the champion of the last tournament.
Link's hand leaves my waist where he had rested it when I returned to the stands. He'd looked at me like he would have devoured every inch of me had it not been for the thousands surrounding us. Hungry, territorial, Barbarian man.
He looks equal halves his mother and father as he stalks to the center with a sword. Deadly and unforgiving and awaiting blood.
A challenger from each tribe joins him, their weapons raised to take revenge for the prize he won from them. Another one of Father's unfair events. He must think I'll have nothing to stay for if he kills my husband.
"Begin!"
Link's feet are the first to move.
He charges to the Goron first, sliding across the sand to dodge the strong swing of his hammer. He slices the back of the Goron's legs with his sword, cutting the tendons behind his knees, sending him buckling to the ground. He uses his body as a shield for the arrow the Rito shoots.
Link throws his sword next the same way he'd thrown the spear in the last tournament, impaling the Rito fighter. Even if he yielded, he wouldn't live.
I watched nearly every moment of his training since he won me, trying to study him. But watching him now, my mind goes blank. He's stronger than the last fights. The mistakes he'd made before seem impossible as he kills the opponents before they have the chance to yield like the previous challengers.
It's almost a taunt to say they'll never win. Their number of dead grows while ours remain none. They sharpened their weapons only to be killed by them in the end.
Aryll rests her elbows on the stone ledge in front of us. Her face is bored as she watches the same slaughter I am. "A middle child and an aunt I suppose," she mutters just loud enough for me to hear over the cheers.
I can't help but focus more on him. The sweat smudging the paint on his body and the defined muscles bulging with each perfect movement. It's the same features I was enjoying before only now he is mine. A blush creeps to my ears as I remind myself of the first time I was brave enough to touch him. It was an entirely new kind of conquering I learned beneath him-one I eased into without fear of what his hands were capable of.
He bares his teeth wildly, his fists bloody and raised as he turns his attention to the last survivor. Neither have weapons as the rest are buried deep in the flesh of the dead. And without giving his prey time to prepare, he lunges.
He's graceful in the way that pure strength is. A wolf rather than a cat, tearing through what stands before him. He punches and kicks, putting on a show as the hits disorient the man failing to fight back. Blood sprays from his mouth and nose, spattering Link's skin. He'd told me before that he thrives in it-that the warmth gives strength.
The Zora sprawls on the ground and only manages to raise his hands as Link removes his helmet, raising it over his head before he slams it down over and over, crushing his skull. The man stops moving, his face little more than an unrecognizable mess of blood and gore.
Cheers erupt louder than before and Link leaves the bodies behind. Without the helmet to cover his eyes, there's no doubt that they're on me.
I drink up the sight of him stalking back to the stands, his helmet hanging at his side from where his fingers are buried in the mane. Flecks of blood stain his face while his hands are wet with it. A warrior and nothing less.
He doesn't bother drying his hand before he cups my cheek and tilts my head to look at him. The blood hasn't had the chance to cool.
"What if I lose?" I say as the fear settles deeper than it had before. "I'll have to go back. I can't-"
A hint of a smile pulls at his mouth-just enough to keep my breath steady. "Do you really think I'd let him keep you?"
I swallow. He'd start a war and nothing on his face says he'll regret it.
"You are in danger of pain, not death," he continues. "Hit first and hold nothing back. End it as quickly as you can." I nod. Bloodshed is his religion and I pray I can worship the same.
He lowers his face to mine and kisses me with all the rage he refuses to show for my sake. But even as I break away, I tell myself I'll be home with him tonight not wasting a single moment.
"As you all know," my father says to the tribes once they fall silent, "my daughter was taken last year in the tournament." I keep walking. Not taken. Won at his decision and no others.
"However," he continues. "The Barbarians have agreed to let her participate in a second tournament to return her where she belongs." My helmet blocking out the sun, I look to where he is before his throne, speaking as though he already won. "The rules are simple: she yields and comes back home. Only by killing my new champion will she be allowed to leave."
That shaky determination Link built begins to crumble at the sight of my opponent entering the arena. Taller than my husband and muscle packed to every inch of his frame, he approaches with sick amusement carved into his face.
I'd known of him before I left and I stayed well away. He's crueler than a Barbarian, enjoying carving his opponents into pieces before he kills them, and his size does nothing to hold him back. I wonder what Father promised him to break me-how much it took to ask him to ruin everything I've finally earned.
I search the racks for something to gut him with. Anything to kill him before it really starts. But...
Empty.
Every last dagger, shield, and arrow was removed.
I look back at that battle-scarred face, my breaths going shallow.
I should have known. I should have known Father would make the wall too high to climb. As long as he remains on top, he'd watch his own daughter bleed at the bottom.
"The fight will be hand-to-hand," Father says with the wave of his hand, sitting back. Then the word I've been dreading.
"Begin."
He doesn't bother dodging my attack. Not the first, the second. He simply blocks them using his arms. Each kick and punch misses its mark even as I drive my hips forward like Link taught me, twisting my body to fill the hits with power. The pain doesn't make him flinch once.
His smile sinks into me like claws, cutting into every part of me that thought I would win. I should have never asked to fight-never trained to be something I'm not. My eyes begin to sting. I don't belong in an arena.
Too soon my fists ache and my legs turn leaden. And the more my chest heaves, I realize this is what he wanted. To tire me enough that I would bury my own success. He could handle anything I threw at him until then. Besides, what's a little blood when there's a prize waiting?
I slow my attacks and force my breathing to steady and my thoughts to hush. Pity won't beat him and neither will pure force.
I keep my fists raised as he circles. He'll lunge when he thinks I'm weak.
"Tired already?" he purrs. "Though I suppose a year isn't long to train." He throws a punch arching towards my jaw. I feel the rush of it across my face as I duck back. "But maybe it was enough."
I grind my teeth, leaping back from the hit aimed at my ribs. It becomes a dance of dodging just out of his reach before throwing attacks of my own, studying his movements and searching for weak points.
I let him closer and my arms scream with each powerful hit I block with the bone guards. I let him get used to it-let him fall into a comfortable rhythm of attacks where he'll stay to wear me down.
But even a rabbit can learn to get away.
I drive my knee into his groin.
I climb onto his back in the next moment and wrap my arm around his neck, squeezing as tight as I can. Link made me practice on him during training and I hated every second of it. I fell into fear each time his body went slack but I don't linger with hesitation now.
He climbs onto his feet, prying at my arms. His nails dig into my skin, drawing blood, and I tighten my grip. I bite back each shriek of pain as he claws at my thighs clamped firmly on his shoulders. Just a little longer until he falls. A little longer and I could use my helmet to crush his skull. He'll be dead before he can wake.
My breath rushes out of me as my back collides with the wall of the colosseum. He leans forward and repeats the movement, crushing me against the stone. And with my grip loosened just enough, he grabs the shoulders of my armor and throws me over his head to the sand.
The ground spins even as I stop rolling. My lip bleeds from where I split it with my teeth and I force myself to my feet. What's a little blood, I remind myself, watching him rub his neck as he steps closer.
"It's going to hurt a lot more now," he promises, that same cruel amusement gleaming in his too-dark eyes. All those bodies he slowly tore apart creep into my memory. He could do the same without killing me.
I sway at the thought and duck the first punch only to land in the other. Sparks of pain spread into my side but they're smothered by the blinding pain to my ribs. A kick to my hip sends me sprawling into the filthy sand and I scramble back to my feet just to meet a kick to my head that flings my helmet too far away to matter anymore.
I become blind and dumb to his attacks. My skin bleeds and bruises form on my bones. It's a game to him and Father knew it too. Just a cat playing with its food until it's hungry enough to pounce.
His foot connects with my chin and black creeps into my vision, shadowing the sun hanging over my face. I force my teeth from my tongue as it swells too large for my mouth, choking on the hot blood streaming down my throat.
Yield. The word begins to taste sweet through the metallic tang filling my mouth and spilling from my lips. Yield and it would end. But yield and a new pain would take hold.
My vision clears just enough to see that grin above me. "Your father promised you to me when I win." His breath is warm and his words coat me like poison. Always a piece he can trade to get what he wants. And it's never been me.
I spit my blood onto his face, hoping it'll blind him for a moment. My knuckles crack each time I thrust them into his ribs. Not enough, not enough, not enough.
I only see the glint of sunlight reflecting off the sharpened blade before he buries the dagger in my thigh. I scream as he twists it, drowning out the uproar from the crowd at the weapon he wasn't supposed to have.
But Father doesn't stop the fight. He watches without an order to kill him for breaking the rules. He could have given him the dagger himself.
I reach for the handle and he yanks it free, tossing it far away before I have the chance to use it against him. I shove him back with my feet, twisting to my stomach and sift through the sand as I crawl, my leg limp and useless. They couldn't have picked up everything. There has to be something. There has to be-
He drags me through the sand wet with my blood but I don't stop clawing through it-don't stop searching as everything seems to darken and tilt. I bite back a scream when he sinks his fingers into the gash, trying to force the defeat from my lips.
My fingers close around a shard of wood splintered from a spear just as he flips me onto my back, wrapping his fist around my throat. I don't fight or try to break free-don't think before I shove the shard into his eye, flattening my palm against the end to drive it into his brain. His mouth parted, the blood drips out slow from the crushed socket onto my neck and face. He goes slack, slumping forward. Dead.
Tears run through the blood and sand and sweat caked on my cheeks as I strain to shove his limp body off of mine and stand. I clamp my hand over the gushing wound on my thigh, my body sick and weak. Link shouts my name, his voice distant and close at the same time. I don't turn to him just yet though every wounded and bleeding part of me wants to let him carry me home.
The blood already becoming sticky, I let Father watch me smear it from my face. He pales and slackens with his failure. I won't give him this chance again. I won't let him break me.
Never looking away, I bow low to the king who just lost his crown.