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When she was a child, her favorite portrait in the Great Hall was the one painted on the day of her mother’s coronation.
The previous Queen Zelda was crowned in the wake of her parents’ sudden, tragic deaths at the hands of an illness no doctor could diagnose, the only thing protecting her from the sickness the golden triangles burning on the back of her right hand. Her mother was…nineteen, Zelda thinks, when all of Hyrule became her responsibility, when she had to kneel before a priestess and recite her prayers and earn the right to sit on the throne by pledging her devotion to upholding the Goddess’s peace for the rest of her life.
The painting was of her mother standing tall before two empty thrones, the golden crown settled perfectly on her blonde head and a single tear falling from her blue eyes, the Golden Power glowing on her knuckles as she clutched a ceremonial knighting sword, either awaiting the appearance of her Hero or readying to fight in his place.
“And it finalized her coronation?” Link asks, handing her the jar of soap.
“It made it real,” Zelda replies, scooping out a smidge and lathering it in her palms. “Honestly, the portrait is more official than the entire crowning process. Lean your head back.”
He does, scooting forward in the tub, and she widens her knees to fit his body between them in the water so she’s not digging into his spine. “Did Rhoam get one? After she…”
“Yes,” she runs her soapy hands through his hair and smiles at how he sighs, melting under her touch. His back practically sags against her front, and she has to tap the nape of his neck so he remembers to keep his hair forward a bit so she can actually wash it. “It was us holding hands, walking towards the Temple of Time where her funeral was held.”
The double meaning wasn’t lost on them, that her father was a king not of the Goddess’s bloodline willing to devote himself to Her in memory of his wife, but also that he was a placeholder until Zelda came of age, guiding her to follow in her mother’s footsteps.
“I was there, I think,” Link says, none of the miserable confusion in his voice that used to come with his half-memories seven years ago, when they were fresh from killing the Calamity and he knew nothing but the thirteen fragments she left behind. Now he speaks of events he vaguely recollects like they’re the puzzles they keep under the bed, games to win together whenever they have the time. “My father was on your detail, and my mother came to pay her respects. No one could watch my sister and I because everyone was in mourning, so she brought us with.”
Zelda nods. She doesn’t remember much of her mother’s funeral aside from the tightness of her chest as she stared at the white coffin, but she remembers the way Link’s father bowed his head when she looked at him, how he whispered his condolences as he helped her into the carriage that would take them back to the castle and snuck her candy once she retired to her rooms.
“What do you want yours to be like?” Link asks.
“My funeral?” Zelda scoops a handful of water and holds it over his head. “Close your eyes.”
“No,” he sputters through the water she spills over his head, “Your portrait.”
“I think you mean our portrait.”
He makes a noise of discontent, and she laughs.
“I don’t understand why it has to be a painting,” he groans, sagging against her as she massages his scalp, “We have photographs, now, why can’t I just snap a selfie of us with the Purah Pad instead of posing for eight hours?”
“Because we have no way of making physical copies of the Purah Pad photos, yet,” she reaches for the towel she placed on the small table beside the tub, passing it to him. “It’s not like it was on the Slate, and there needs to be a tangible record of our coronation for the future. Here.”
Link pushes himself to his feet, water running down his naked body in rivulets and dripping from his arms as he manipulates the towel around his hair, twisting it like she taught him to years ago. Zelda admires the muscles of his scarred back, the firm roundness of his ass, and her eyes catch on the stretch marks that engulf his right arm, where the limb grew back after Rauru and Sonia’s recall, stretching the skin he already had to recreate it.
Her throat still burns, sometimes, where her secret stone scratched it as she swallowed, but only when the seasons change or it’s about to rain. If not for the photos in the Purah Pad that she spent days studying and her occasional dreams of flying high above the clouds, weaving her way around the original Temple of Time or rushing to catch a courageous Hylian falling from the jaws of a serpentine demon, it’s like she never became the Light Dragon.
“Who’s supposed to paint us, then?” Link asks, bringing her out of her thoughts as he sits back down in the tub, leaning back into her arms. The towel around his head is soft against her cheek, and she rests against it as she holds him close, tracing her fingers up and down his chest. “The only artist I know is Pikango, but he paints landscapes. I tried asking him for a painting of myself one time and he said he didn’t know how to ‘make’ people.”
Zelda hums. “To be honest, that didn’t cross my mind.”
Before, you used to be able to find artists anywhere and everywhere. The sight of groups lugging carts of canvas and paint was a common one, and in Castle Town cartoonists would line the streets, drawing anyone that passed by for a small fee. She loved watching them work, was always fascinated how they could turn a blank page into a masterpiece.
“We still have my paint, don’t we?” she asks, remembering the time between sealing the Calamity and the Upheaval, “From Impa?”
Impa had gifted her a set of beautiful paints when she caught her interrogating Pikango about his process, telling her that it might be a way for her to express the things she might not be able to say out loud. Zelda had tried it for all of five seconds before she got frustrated at her own lack of skill and quit trying, angry that she couldn’t take the image in her head and make it appear on the canvas. She shoved all of the supplies under the stairs and, supposedly, they’ve been gathering dust all these years.
“I think so,” Link responds after a moment, sounding half-asleep. “Why?”
“What if we made the portrait ourselves?” Zelda lowers her head and kisses below his jaw, smiling at how his pulse quickens under her lips. “It can be our way of making it real.”
“You’re forgetting, dear,” he tilts his head to give her more access, practically purring under her touch as she kisses her way down to his collar, “Neither of us know how to paint.”
“We can take our time,” she whispers, kissing back up his neck before turning his head so she can lick into his mouth, “We’re not King and Queen until it’s hanging in the Great Hall.”
There’s more floorspace in the Akkala house, more room to make a mess and less people to distract them from the task at hand, so they pack up their supplies and warp to the hill overlooking Tarrey Town, clearing out the huge dining room to make it their studio.
“Okay,” Zelda sighs, her hands on her hips as she stares at the large canvas sitting on the easel, blank and tempting and all kinds of intimidating, fixing the straps of the too-big overalls she’s changed into, stolen from Paya’s closet. The bottoms of her feet are cold against the tarp they’ve draped over the floor, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up so they don’t get stained. “Where do you think we start?”
“Well, what are we even painting?” Link readies their palettes, squirting dollops of paint onto the wooden panels and selecting two brushes from the assortment they have in the black case that holds all of their supplies. He sets aside spare canvas, far from where they’re going to be painting so they stay clean. His matching overalls are already stained white from a mishap where he squeezed the bottle of white paint too hard and it exploded, his toes speckled black from when he dropped that bottle and it splattered all over the tarp. “Does it have to be us?”
“Tradition says so,” she frowns, pulling the strap of her overalls up again, “but I’m not sure if we’re going to be able to make it as professional as all the others.”
“Again,” he passes her a palette and a brush, pulling the strap of his up when it slips, also stolen from Paya, “does it have to be?”
Zelda bites her lip. This is what she finds so difficult about painting, the freedom of it, because she needs instructions to successfully complete a task. It’s why she was so dreadful at unlocking her powers over a century ago, told only to pray and hope that the Goddess would answer. “But then…what would we make?”
“We have plenty of canvas to spare,” Link stands in front of the easel, wetting his brush before dipping it into the dollop of green on his palette, “Why don’t we just do whatever comes to mind, warm up a bit? Kind of like stretching before a spar.”
She opens her mouth to say, Of course you would think of it like that, Divine Swordsman, but instead gasps like she’s been shot with an arrow when Link slaps his brush on the canvas, leaving a thick green line across the center.
“Link!” she cries, “What are you-”
“There,” he grins back at her over his shoulder, “Grass. What do you want to add?”
He’s insane. He really is.
“A, um, a sky, I suppose,” she manages, dipping her brush into the blue paint and lathering it across the canvas above the green strip he’s left, “What is this going to be?”
“Like I said,” he bumps her shoulder with his, “whatever comes to mind.”
It’s relaxing, she finds, letting her mind wander as she lets the brush guide her hand, not caring about how pretty the end product is going to look. When she first tried painting, she was so caught up in the details, in the technique she knew she didn’t have, that she never even gave it a second thought once she deemed it something she would never pick up again.
They paint a house on a hill, silhouetted by the early morning sun and so small on the horizon that it must be getting looked at by someone either running to or away from it. It’s nothing but a speck in the sprawling green of the rolling valley Link has created, and nearly swallowed by the sky that Zelda made. They work together on the clouds, swirling white through the sky and then lining it with gray for a shadow, and dot trees beside the house for what Link calls, Flavor.
“See?” he says, hands on his hips as they admire the drying portrait, “There’s no pressure for it to be perfect, and you can see how much fun we had in the brush strokes.”
Zelda squints, seeing that he’s right. They were play-fighting for room on the canvas, so where the grass meets the sky is a messy whorl of competing lines of paint. Link’s grass follows the movement of the hills, and Zelda’s sky tracks the breeze she was imagining would blow during the colder seasons, the clouds drifting in the opposite direction for more flavor.
This is what their Royal Portrait could look like, the both of them on a canvas creating an image of what they want their future to be.
“I think it should be two paintings,” Zelda says, the idea popping into her head, “One of our past and one of our present, so our descendants can understand that it took a century for us to understand our roles, so they don’t feel any pressure to rush. There will be no more princesses praying in frigid waters, and-”
“And no more lost boys wandering into the woods for a whispering sword,” Link finishes, nodding. “I like that idea.”
The vow is one they made years ago, that they’ll tell the stories of Hyrule so that they’re forever recorded, so that there will be no more mystery surrounding the origins of the kingdom or the reason for the Master Sword’s hidden location. Princess Zeldas of the future will know where their Golden Power lies, and Heroes will know how to handle the voices in their head crying for someone to hear them.
“We should do the past first,” she tells him, the memory of the ruined castle forever ingrained into her mind thanks to her century of stasis, “and the same location in the present to show how we’ve changed things for the better. I’m not sure what place to pick, though…”
Blatchery Plain is one candidate in her mind, to first see it on fire and crawling with Guardians and then at peace a century later, with a stable and travelers riding along its hidden roads. They could also paint the castle itself, with the Calamity swirling and then it being restored to its former glory.
“Why not the Sanctum?” Link suggests, chin resting on his fist in thought, “It keeps the tradition of having it connect to the throne, but shows our fight to change the monarchy for the better. No more princesses kneeling in sacred springs, right?”
Zelda nods. The Sanctum is a place she knows very well. “Let’s get to work, then.”
As they’re working on the first painting, the one of the past, destroyed by Calamity, it starts to storm, rain slamming against the house and wind howling outside.
“My mother used to write poetry about thunderstorms,” Zelda says, breaking their almost meditative silence as she paints the shattered windows of the Sanctum, doing her best to capture the sunlight that would spill in with every sunrise, illuminating her father’s broken throne and the malice that once surrounded it, “My father said it was her favorite kind of weather next to whenever it snowed.”
“What would she write about?” Link asks, filling in the Calamity’s cocoon that she was trapped inside of for a century, using the yellow to hint at her presence with the beast.
“She liked taking off her shoes and running through the courtyard,” she remembers one she found tucked between books on her father’s desk, “and shouting at the top of her lungs when it thundered, to mask the sound and make sure her guards wouldn’t come running to drag her back inside.”
“She was sneaking out, then?” he grins. “Sounds like someone I know.”
She laughs. “Her lessons were about etiquette because she had unlocked the Golden Power at a young age, and there were no signs of the Calamity. She knew everything she needed, so she got to sneak away without repercussions.”
Her father would always tell her the same thing whenever he would have to reprimand her for leaving Link behind to investigate Shrines.
You’re just like your mother, he would sigh at the end of his scolding tirade, threatening to ban her from seeing Purah or Robbie for two weeks.
Good, she would snap, readying to storm out of his study and into the safety of the Library’s hidden shelves, If she were here, she would understand.
She never stayed long enough to see her words land, thinking he would only get angrier at the already constant reminder that the Queen of Hyrule was dead. It was only when she finally mustered the courage to read through the journal he left behind that she realized he had regretted the way he treated her, that every time she brought up the loss of the Queen it was all he could do not to cry with her.
“She wrote about Urbosa, too, when it stormed,” Zelda continues, swallowing the lump that wants to form in her throat. It’s taken her years to work through her feelings about her father, about herself, but even still the memories of those years she spent desperate for any kind of approval sometimes overtake her. “She loved the lightning just as much.”
Urbosa had a poem sewn into the inside of the pillow she rested her head on every night. Zelda only discovered it a month before the Calamity struck, when she was helping Urbosa fold laundry as a distraction from the desert heat and noticed her mother’s handwriting in the pile of linens.
She slipped it into my pocket at a meeting between all of the kingdom’s political heads, Urbosa had told her, smoothing out the wrinkles on the pillowcase to make the looping script legible. King Dorephan was debating new trade routes with Elder Kaneli and she snuck it under the table before mediating and helping them to form a compromise.
“I tried writing some myself, one day,” Zelda says, chuckling, joining Link in coloring the shadow of the broken throne, “to see if I at least inherited her talent for that if not for harnessing the Goddess’s Light? But it was absolutely dreadful.”
She would try and fail to write about Link’s eyes, about the roughness of his hands whenever he helped her off her horse, or the way his voice tasted like melted honey on her tongue whenever she could sneak a kiss and take him by surprise, catching a shocked hum as their lips met before she would leave him behind, stifling a laugh when he would stumble after her. The words never looked right on the paper, feeling silly and juvenile whenever she read them back to herself, and they all ended up piles of crumpled paper in the fireplace, keeping her warm when his arms were unavailable because of his post.
“I used to write songs,” Link confesses, voice quiet, “back when I had to watch over your prayer at the springs.”
“Songs?” she stares at him, raising an eyebrow. She’s known him for almost her entire life and she didn’t know he wrote songs a hundred years ago? “About what?”
“Simple stuff,” he laughs, “Like about how green the leaves were at the Spring of Courage or how wet it was at the Spring of Power. They were awful.”
“What about Wisdom?”
“I don’t remember that one,” he nudges her shoulder with his own, “but it was probably something about how I was freezing my ass off.”
All Zelda can remember about the Spring of Wisdom is the cold. The water was so frigid she could barely think, let alone pray, too focused on her legs going numb and the loss of feeling in her clumsy, interlocking fingers as her teeth chattered.
“Do you still do it now?” she asks, curious, thinking of how she catches him humming every time he cooks a meal, “Come up with songs?”
“Not as often,” he replies, “and they never have lyrics.”
Maybe, if she ever tried picking up a pen again for the purpose of writing something other than research notes or journal entries, she could try writing lyrics to the melodies that roll off his tongue. Neither of them have ever tried playing an instrument, perhaps it can be something they can learn together, or call upon that traveling band that performs at every stable for lessons.
Zelda dips her brush into the yellow Link was using to paint the sunlight to dot the flowers that grew through the cracks in her mother’s throne. She forgets, sometimes, that they have all the time in the world to worry about something like that.
As they paint the Sanctum of the present, all Zelda can think about are her children.
Well, her future children. This painting is what they’re going to base their own coronation portrait off of, is what they’re going to associate with her after her death. Link will be around for them, she knows, his memories living on in the next vessel for the Hero’s Spirit, but when she dies the only thing their children will have to remember her by are her journals, history books, and this painting of her vision for Hyrule, the kind of Queen she wanted to become for a kingdom that hasn’t had one for a hundred years.
“We should tell our children about painting these,” Zelda says, once again breaking the silence as she smudges in the century-old, not-yet-cleaned dirt with her fingers and a dash of black, “so they know it’s not an expectation they need to fulfill. Hopefully, by the time our eldest ascends, the job will be done.”
“I think it will,” Link starts on the scaffolding that’s currently scattered around the Sanctum, “What do you want to be wearing?”
She frowns, glancing over at him. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he swallows, his ears turning pink, “I thought we should be in this painting just a little, to keep with the tradition. I was going to put us and all of our friends working to rebuild. Remember when we invited them all to help?”
Riju was the first to show, which was strange because she lived the furthest from the castle, but she had told them that she left Gerudo Town early because there was going to be a sandstorm that would have otherwise impeded her travels. Sidon was next, armed with baskets of food and an eager Tulin on his heels, with Yunobo walking in shortly after, holding Impa’s arm as she hobbled alongside a whooping, freshly twenty-two year old Purah.
They had made an event out of it, the reconstruction of the place where Zelda’s father had died, turning her sad, grieving memories into happy ones as Tulin tried teaching Yunobo how to use his bow to get rid of debris high in the ceiling, as Sidon allowed Riju to climb onto his shoulders to reach higher places with her paintbrush, as Impa and Purah bickered over whether they should change the color of the carpets. Impa, steadfast in her old ways, wanted to keep the red, but Purah insisted that Champion Blue would represent the new age they’re trying to create.
It was Link who came up with the idea for green, both to match the color of Zelda’s eyes but to represent the Wild that they both adore.
It’s where I found myself, he had explained, sheepish and small with everyone’s eyes on him, still not used to so much attention at once, It’s where Zelda is happiest. If she’s going to be spending a lot of time in here, I’d rather it look like something she enjoys.
Zelda smiles at the memory, dunking her brush into the green to outline the new carpet that Hudson is, as they paint, installing into the throne room that’s going to be hers by the end of the week. She says, “I think our expedition clothes are best. At least, that way, Purah gets her Champion Blue.”
Link laughs, “I can’t wait to see Impa’s face.”
She switches gears, then, mapping out Sidon’s height and Riju’s hair with a deep red, trying to estimate Tulin’s wingspan as she dots him in nearby. Link joins her, outlining Yunobo’s bulk and Impa’s hat, chuckling to himself as he puts Purah somewhere on the ceiling.
“Oh, she’s going to love this,” Zelda giggles, helping him get her height right.
She doesn’t know how long it takes them to finish, just that when they do the sky is dark and the rain has turned from a downpour to a typhoon. It falls in white sheets that slam against the house, something that would scare her if not for her faith in this house’s foundation being made from the rock mined in Goron City.
“What do you think?” she asks, wiping the sweat from her brow and rolling her stiff shoulder. If she knew painting would involve such a heavy arm workout, she would have trained herself for it.
“I think they need to dry,” Link flicks away a spot of white from the throne that was starting to drip down the canvas. “We should leave them alone for a bit, do something else while-”
Then his palette somehow slips from his fingers and knocks into hers, splattering both their clothes and their faces with paint as it clatters to the tarp.
Link stares at her, his mouth hanging open. Zelda stares back, her eyes wide as the paint quickly cools on her cheeks.
“Washing off would work, I guess,” he says, ripping off his ruined shirt, and she bursts into laughter at the splatter of color staining his skin.
They shower together, scrubbing the paint from their bodies as the storm rages outside.
Link’s hands are warm against her scalp as he wrings the water from her hair, and Zelda purrs under his touch, leaning back against his chest and craning her neck, dragging his face down so she can kiss him under the spray.
He sighs into her mouth, his hands lowering to rest on her hips, and she hums when he dips down to kiss her neck, closing her eyes as his teeth gently sink into the flesh of her collar before he kisses his way back up.
“Careful, Princess,” he murmurs into the space where her jaw meets her throat, dragging his lips to the curve of skin just behind her ear, his cock stirring to life against her ass as she teases him, swaying in his arms, “I might just get the wrong idea about you wanting to save water.”
“I want you,” she whispers, kissing him again, pushing out her chest and parting her thighs when his hands begin to wander, “Touch me, Link.”
He does, his expert fingers going right for her clit, rubbing in slow, methodical circles as his other hand parts her folds, grinding his cock between them. Zelda bites her lip, muffling her whine into her hand, but Link is quick to pull it back to where she was gripping the back of his head.
“Why are you stifling yourself?” he whispers, breathing heavy, pressing down on her throbbing clit and taking a handful of one of her breasts, circling her nipple with his thumb, “We don’t have to worry about neighbors up here.”
She moans, then, rolling her hips, catching on the head of his cock every time she rocks forward. He grunts and she grins, taking his rapid pulse between her teeth before she leans up and whispers, "Then what are you waiting for?" in his ear.
Link doesn't hesitate before pushing inside of her, rough in how he enters but gentle in how he leaves, pulling out in a deliciously slow drag that has Zelda's breaths stuttering. She shoves herself back against him, savoring the stretch, and only laughs when he tries to pull out again.
"Stop doing that!" she groans, frustrated.
"Fucking you?" he grins, deceptively lazy about his thrusts, hidden power in his flexing hips as they snap forward and oh, oh Goddesses- "I can do that."
"No," she's quick to change her mind, but still she reaches back and holds his hip, doing her best to keep him pushing forward, chasing the high that twists in her abdomen, "If you stop I'll have drown you in this tub."
Link chuckles, wrapping his arms around her stomach and pressing his chest to her back, fucking into her once, twice, three times- "If it's all the same to you I'd rather drown in your-"
"Link!" Zelda cries, only half-scolding as she reels from the pleasure bolting down her spine, her orgasm ripping through her like an arrow. She moans, long and loud, her head dipping back as her hips jerk of their own accord, her walls fluttering around the hot, thick weight of him between her legs.
He grunts, mouthing at her neck as he moves his hips, rocking her through it as she comes down, slowly sifting through the wonderful haze clouding her brain.
"Fuck," she manages, trying to catch her breath, "That was-"
"No," he pants, pulling out of her in one swift move that almost has her dragging him back inside, disappointed at the empty feeling she's been left with, "I'm not done with you yet."
He turns her around and hooks his hands under her knees, picking her up and wrapping her legs around his waist, shutting off the water with a swift flick of his foot against the lever for the water. Zelda gasps at the sudden reminder of his strength, grinding against his abdomen as he all but drops her on his cock, bouncing her with every rapid step he takes towards the bed, laying her on her back on the edge of it and continuing to fuck her with everything he has.
“More,” she begs, not caring about how they're both soaking wet and ruining the sheets, locking her ankles around his hips to keep him inside of her when he tries to pull out, apparently not having learned his lesson from twenty seconds ago, winding her arms around his neck to shove his head down so she can kiss him, resting her forehead against his as she requests, “Harder-”
In both of their defenses, it's been...a while since they did anything like this, anything more than quick touches between important meetings or classes at the school, or in bed when they're both fighting to keep their eyes open after a grueling day running errands. The one issue with living in Hateno is that everyone knows where they are at all times, knows their schedules and their availabilities, meaning their free time gets less and less with every passing day, now even more so because of how quickly the castle renovations are coming along.
Is it so bad that Zelda just wants five minutes for her Hero to fuck her stupid? She's only Hylian, she has needs, and it just so happens that her partner is the perfect person to attend to them, and she's the perfect person for his. They-
“I wish I could paint you like this,” Link whispers, voice soft and ragged beneath the sounds of their bodies colliding, the bed creaking from their combined weight and the force of his every thrust, “You’re so beautiful, Zelda.”
Goddesses, he really is perfect. She should get around to taking the ring out of her hiding spot in the well and asking him the question she already has the answer to. It’s going to be more of a formality than anything, something that will make Impa happy to see before she’s gone, but it’ll make what they have all the more real, more official. She can’t wait to be the first to sign their names in the marriage registry she’s going to have to create, can’t wait to have a ceremony that flaunts her love for him for the whole country to see, then enjoy a smaller, private one with just their friends. She wonders if Kass will make good on his promise once he returns from his travels and officiates.
“I love you, Link,” she whispers back, imagining the weight of a golden band on her finger as she pulls him down for another kiss.
He smiles, his silent echo of her words felt with every roll of his hips.
After, they lie together, a sweaty tangle in the soaked sheets, Link’s head pillowed on Zelda’s chest as she does her best to smooth out his hair that’s in desperate need of a cut.
He kisses her collar and asks, “Do you think the paintings are dry?”
Zelda huffs a laugh. “Probably. But I really don’t feel like getting up just yet.”
Link sighs, drawing invisible pictures on her stomach with the lazy drag of his knuckles. “Neither do I.”
There’s a contrast between the paintings, of course.
The Sanctum of the past is a silent tomb, commemorating the fallen king and the lives lost in the destruction of the castle as the Calamity raged through its halls. It’s nothing but an arena for Link to slay a beast in, a prison Zelda spent a century wanting to break free from. It’s the old ways coming undone, destroyed by the very thing they sought to wipe out, a sign of her failure to abide by the rules and paying the price for it.
The Sanctum of the present is an atonement. It’s a tiny Zelda fixing the mess that she made, climbing scaffolding to replace brick after brick, and a tiny Link sweeping the cracked seal of the Royal Family. It’s a red blob that can only be Sidon holding a yellow blob that can only be Riju on his shoulders as she repaints the walls, and a white smear of Tulin adjusting another painting as the brown streak of Yunobo helps him keep it even to line up with the cracks. It’s red and white swirls of Impa reprimanding Purah for swinging from the ornate, expensive chandelier, something she apparently wanted to do her entire life but couldn’t because of silly formalities.
“What do you think, Your Highness?” Link asks, hugging her from behind, hooking his chin over her shoulder, “Or should I be saying Your Majesty?”
Zelda smiles, covering his hands with her own and turning her head to kiss his cheek. “Yes, Your Majesty, I think you should.”