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He is but a simple man of no importance. He stands firm in the halls as directed. Here for the sole purpose of serving his sovereign without question. His helm and armor identical to those also within the same employ and duty. They blend together and appear identical outside of some size and shape. They are but peasants granted the privilege to provide protection for that who governs over them—the Queen, Zelda.
They are nothing like him.
The lad in green—a hero they call him.
The Hero of Twilight, to be specific.
The whispers say he, too, was a simple man once. He comes from a village on the outskirts of the kingdom known for their pumpkin harvests. His heroic deeds set him apart from the rest of them. While they had failed their Queen when Zant had arrived to seize control of their kingdom this man in his odd green attire had saved her—he had saved them all.
They’ve never spoken, and why would they? Again, he is but a simple man. A man with a wife. A man with children. A man who clocks in. A man who clocks out. He does his best to keep his eyes averted. He does his best not to mingle too deeply in court politics. He seeks to blend against the wall as all humble servants to the crown should—but just the same that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear nor see, because he absolutely sees and he absolutely hears. He sees more than he should and hears equally more than a man of his humble station should.
He hears the noble women at court as they fawn and keep their eyes upon this lad in green. Their voices, although not loud as they do their best to keep themselves at a whisper, aren’t missed. Their voices bound upon the stone walls more than they seem to realize. Their idle comments of his boyish good looks linger in the space. Their hopes for his gaze to flicker upon them even if for just a second sits within the air. There's a longing in their eyes for him to court them—his village background be damned and not a deterrent. The noble men at court are no better with their own gossiping, although more divided. There are those who speak highly of him. They sing their praises of his deeds and service to the crown and the kingdom. Then there are those who mock him. The snide remarks are trite and littered with their true feelings towards anyone without a noble title. They whisper out doubts and spin narratives laced like questions of this Hero knows his place—if the Hero is not seeking to rise above his pitiful station.
There’s no way he hasn’t heard them.
There’s no way he couldn’t have heard them.
Yet—there he is standing before her Majesty unfazed, and seemingly unaware.
Even he cannot help but stare upon this man with just a hint skepticism. He looks so very ordinary abet odd. The man isn't very tall, and while he looks lean there isn't much bulk to him. There's also no roughness in how he carries himself—how could a man with such a soft gaze done what her Majesty’s army could not? It's perplexing to imagine that he would have more training then him and his colleges. There rumors say he herds goats and herding goats did not make one a solider let alone a fighter. So it's not unreasonable that no one would believe such a thing with just a glance upon him if her Majesty not declared it to be true. It would have been even less likely to be believed had they not watched him stroll forward on horse back with the then princess, now Queen, seated behind him as he brought her home from their final battle. Yet, he had. He did. And they believed it because that is what loyal people to their sovereign do. They do not question her. They do not question him. They are duty bound to her directives and wishes, and beliefs.
The other guards speak in low whispers of if this simple man turned Hero will be granted land and a title. Will he receive fame and fortune for the loyalty and duty he has shown the Queen and their kingdom? Would she offer something more? Is there something more she has that she can bestow upon him? The buzzing air amongst the maids seem to think so, but he himself questions if this man would accept such a thing with his humble background lurking behind him waiting to drag him back to the outskirts of the kingdom. Something about this lad makes him think he won't accept such things. It's in his posture and presence. It's in the way he looks awkward and shy as he navigates castle life. He doesn’t think the Hero wants anything which is all the more confusing—because everyone wants something.
The helping hands lean forward when they think no one is looking to whisper their own thoughts and assumptions. Their curiosity is valid—this has never been seen before. It feels like old myths and fairy tales about the pauper becoming a prince. He wonders what they’ve seen compared to him to make them all the more ravenous and invested in the Hero. He cannot be like them. He knows not to let his curiosity get the better of him. That is after all how one loses their tongue and in severe cases their head.
It doesn't surprise him when he starts to see The Hero of Twilight within the training grounds, and within the barracks speaking with commanders, and even some of those who are just like him—no one. He has a relaxed air about him although clearly nervous. It's just a touch. Nothing that makes him look week. In fact, it makes him look at the more approachable. It's winning over the men easily. The maids eager for excuses to make their own way down to catch a up close glimpse of him. There's no missing the shift of his feet as he turns to speak with others or the way when someone says something he wasn't expecting the tint of red that soaks his cheeks and ears. They like this man and all of his oddness. That green tunic and hat of his are becoming something normal as the days are passing and he continues to do whatever it is that he doing. What that is he doesn't know but that's none of his business and has nothing to do with him as a guard.
The other guards can’t help but waggle their tongues when the Hero is not around. They long to boast amongst each other over the passing of a few words, and there's whispers that gaining his favor may very well change one's circumstances. It must be from those lighthearted smiles he supplies as he listens and responds. This lad is not pushy. He’s not boastful. He doesn’t give off an air of arrogance nor that he even has the Queens favor. He feels incredible ordinary in these interactions. So very not Hero. His popularity is growing throughout the castle, and only a few seethe with petty jealousy and overconfident boasts that the ‘would be’ Hero is just a boy playing man.
Those sentiments are just bruised egos wishing they could be the one the people are falling over themselves to spend even a second before.
That hint of skepticism though is itching at him. There is something uncanny about this man who feels larger than life but exudes the ordinary. Had he not seen some of those interactions out the corner of his eye he himself would have questioned the validity of these wild and almost fantastical rumors. Was it truly possible for a person with such a kind disposition to have slain the Dark Lord? Could this be some elaborate ploy to have them all lower their defenses? Truly they do not know this lad, and yet he is allowed to trapes the halls without question doing who knows what.
But, again, he is no one.
Those concerns are beyond his position.
He is a humble servant.
He dares not dabble too long in those thoughts. He stands firm within his spot minding himself, and minding his attention. He is here to do exactly what is expected of him and what he is told as all good guards should. Silent and just barely back against the wall he watches from the edges of the room for anything that may be off or odd. The court is colored in enthusiastic young ladies and noble women as they've preened themselves in hopes of garnering the young man's attentions. The noble men are seeking to drag him away from such simpering with hopes they'll be able to coax him into their own courtly interests just the same.
And then there’s the Queen.
Who says nothing. She just sits upon her throne.
Staring. Watching.
There’s what looks to be a softness to her eyes. There's uncertainty if he's understood that look upon her face with the distance between his post and her throne, but he swears he's seen his wife look him the same way. He almost dares to assume that he's caught her following the Hero's every move, and it’s with that thought that he suddenly realizes that he has given way to idle thoughts and glanced upon the Queen for far too long. He dares not do such a thing and be caught for that would be beyond his station. It's immediate and it's quick the way he tears his eyes from her face, and equally within that haste that he realizes no one else has noticed the way she gazes upon the Hero of Twilight. They’re all too busy and smitten with the Hero who speaks softly. Shyly. Hesitantly. Still entirely too awkward for court life.
It feels like something has clicked into place that he had no business knowing. Perhaps he lingers within the castle walls not because he wants to stay away from his village of pumpkins, but instead her Majesty hasn't permitted him to leave. That’s a dangerous thought. One he equally has no business having.
Thick and heavy he swallows trying his best to stare straight ahead—looking through people not at them. The weight shifts between his feet and he's hoping to not catch sight of anything else that could potentially put him and his family in danger. Knowing too much in court life could only end in the most bitter of ways. To question if his sovereign is keeping the Hero of Twilight against his wishes equally is something that could end with him locked away within a dungeon should he gain her ire. He knows this. He knows that thinking is not his position and not his role.
But it begs the question—does the Hero not have someone waiting for him at home?
Surely he does. There's no way a young man like that doesn't.
These thoughts haunt him in the following days as he does his best to impersonate a statue that blends into the stone walls. They nettle him even more when he happens to be at the post that permits him to see the way the Hero casts a sidelong glance upon his sovereign as she walks down the hall. Perhaps he does not have someone waiting for him at home if he's giving that look upon the Queen. That is not a look you give to a sovereign. That is a look that holds a little too much interest. A little too much want. That is only further amplified when he realizes that this Hero is so wrapped within the Queen that he hasn't even registered the guards stationed upon the walls.
To linger. To lurk.
—to gaze upon her Majesty for a beat too long for one of his station.
Is this why he does not seek nor desire anything she could present him?
Is this why he can stand before her and not be fazed nor drowning beneath the whispers?
There's too many assumptions on his part. Perhaps it’s the Hero’s humble beginnings and lack of court etiquette at play, but then it’s days later he catches his lingering presence even after she’s dismissed court. There’s no missing the way this lad in green’s hand twitches as her turns watch her make her way out of the room. The raise of that hand is subtle and light as he almost reaches out to touch her—they would have had to intervene for none may touch her so casually.
It’s a mess, scandalous if he's being honest, that is not his business and he reminds himself of that every time he is unfortunate enough to note these actions. There's desire to cast a look upon the others to see if they too saw the way his hand had twitched and raised in a want to grasp her. To look though would to be out of formation and out of position. So he doesn't. He doesn't look to verify if anyone else is seeing these things. Yet he is not alone. There are whispers running rampant through the halls. They are even louder in the barracks when they think no one of authority is around. The maids are bustling quick to tell each other how her Majesty and the Hero of Twilight are together quiet often.
Spotted. Seen.
Lingering. Lurking.
The training grounds are bursting with even wilder speculation of what the Queen has in store for this man. It seems agreed with the lad’s temperament that the Queen must need something if he’s not been released to go back to his village. They wouldn't dare insinuate openly that there's something swimming below the surface. That there is an interest that is not of courtly behavior between a subject and their sovereign. To make such claims would be to insult or question the Queen's modesty, and propriety and one does not do that. They just don't. Equally they are all humble servants eager to do their part for their kingdom and their Queen. No one would dare to be caught speaking in an untoward way upon her.
He almost wishes at this point whatever need his sovereign has of this man is carried out quickly so they may go back to a quieter time. So that this man may go back to where he belongs and whatever fancy he think he has will wash away with time. There is no point in letting him continue to waltz with something that only happens in storybooks and fairy tales. He doesn’t voice these things to anyone not even his wife. The less he involves her the best. There are enough rumors circulating that he does not need to add more to the frenzy. He keeps his head down, and any chatter he participates in avoids the topic of the Hero and the Queen no matter how much he’s poked about if he’s seen anything interesting or of note.
It’s a silent walk for him and another as they make their way to their posts to relieve those before them. It's a simple process and procedure that takes no time at all. Just a quick back and forth of if there is anything to note. They’ve almost finished their hand off and goodbyes when a crash hits them from behind the door they’re meant to guard. That noise they heard is not one a Queen makes within her study. The one that follows shortly after rings out as if something metal has hit the floor. They’re all glancing upon each other and upon the door. It's a pause. Heavy. Trepidatious. His own palms feel like they're sweating deep within his heavy armored gloves. Stomachs are sinking as they stay lost in this moment of silence waiting with baited breath for another noise or a cry for help. Do they bust in with the door without her permission to check upon her? Do they retrieve the lad in green and send him within? Would she survive whatever was happening behind the door if they tried to retrieve him? Did he actually defeat the Dark Lord and Zant or are they still a threat?
No one's seen a body.
They've only been told as such.
None of these questions actually matter. They’re just delaying what he knows he needs to be doing, but fear will do that to someone. It will make you stop and pause as it drags you deeper below the surface. It's a fight or flight sensation meant to keep one alive and there is nothing safe or secure in those noises. This is his flight sensation sounding the alarm and hesitate when he knows exactly what he should be doing the moment he hears anything questionable in relation to the Queen—and perhaps that is why this man had to come from his small village to save her because they’re bumbling fools who cannot navigate what to do when noises they should not hear are coming from her study. There’s no missing the gasp that follows—it’s breathless and far too high, and that makes their blood run cold because that means she could be hurt, injured, or worse. Their armor rattles as they rush for the door bursting forth and pouring in with swords drawn ready to put their lives on the line to protect her Majesty.
It feels like it’s all happening so fast as they push and shove to get to her as quickly as possible only to almost immediately come to an abrupt halt.
The tension in the room is high.
The silence is deafening.
He’s certain they’ve all forgotten how to breathe.
Their sovereign sits upon the lap of the Hero with her dress pulled from her down to her stomach exposing her back to them. One of her pauldrins lay upon the desk. The other on the floor. Those chestnut strands of hers are disheveled and loose as she keeps her face pressed deeply into the Hero’s neck as if that will make her disappear in this moment. For someone so powerful she has never looked smaller than in this moment. Her fingers are twisted tightly upon that green tunic as if that will further this desperation to hide. He swears there is a hint of red upon the tips of her ears—but his attention is easily caught and that thought is lost when he watches the fingers of this man thread within those locks and press upon the back of her head as if to further shield her from them. He leans forward moving both of them just slightly. His chin is light upon her shoulder as he whispers something so soft within her ear they cannot make it out. While they cannot make out below the waist with the desk separating them it is impossible to miss his other hand make it's way from below their line of sight to her hand upon his tunic. The already too warm room feels warmer at such an outright display of affection. Whatever he has whispered has made their Queen lighten her grasp as his now hides it from them.
It’s a moment comes and goes eerily slow. It feels like years.
It’s a pause that he begs to be released from.
There's uncertainty on if he is moving slowly so as to not cause them to make a knee jerk response or if he's personally going out of his way to prolong this moment for all of them. It begs the question of if having been caught in a compromising position with the Queen has him hesitating—It's not. It's absolutely not. It is him and his fellow guards who have been caught in a compromising position not them. The shift of his face is far too fluid for a man who radiates such softness up until now. He's clearly made this face before. His features know it well, and wear it well. Too well. It's entirely aggressive. Entirely lethal.
That look they’re given is deadly.
It’s violent and it’s venomous.
He almost questions if any of this is even real cause he swears those azure eyes are glowing.
Ordinary people do not look like this. Their eyes do not stare you down with such violent disposition at the mere act of stumbling upon an unexpected coupling—but then this is a coupling with the Queen. It's unsettling and one that crawls up the back of his neck making it clear they need to disappear. He did not know this man with such boyish charm and soft smiles could make a face like this. It wasn't that long ago he saw him with a tint of red upon his cheeks at some wayward comment he hadn't expected. He would have preferred to never find out. This is a wolf in sheep's clothing. Suffocating and terrifying is what this look is and the seconds it remains pointed upon them the more it is as if he were already upon them for this transgression they didn't even know they were committing. It’s abundantly clear that this could escalate, and this escalating is the last thing he needs. This situation escalating only has one ending. His head. Their heads. Their lives.
—and by this one mans hand no less.
Yes. This is the man who has slain the Dark Lord indeed.
There's a chance his brain is failing him as he realizes he hasn't taken a breath. Not one. He wants to go home. He wants to be anywhere but here. He wants to be minding his business standing like a statue outside this door and he wants to have never heard those sounds. He wants to have never come within this door or held false bravado that he was going to protect the Queen with his life. They are beyond, clearly, unwanted. So it’s with a thick suffocating swallow that he speaks with a tinge of fear laced upon every word, “It looks like her Majesty left the window open and the breeze knocked over her things. Since she isn’t here we should go find out where she’s gone before there is panic.”
—and they’re staring at him like he’s lost his damn mind.
Cause, honestly, yes, what he just said is absolutely ridiculous.
She’s clearly here. The Hero of Twilight is clearly here.
They are here together. Intimately at that.
—Except, no the fuck they aren’t. No the fuck they weren't.
You couldn’t torture that admittance from his lips after realizing that the Dark Lord wasn't who needed to be feared. It's this awkward man in green. He is the real terror they should have been wary of all along. When no one moves the silence within the room crashes down harder upon them, and so he takes the initiative again. He clears his throat hoping to signal their very much needed departure, and begins to shift his feet back never removing his eyes from the lad in green who continues to stare upon them as if he’ll paint the room with them all right here and right now. The hysteria that's exploding within his head is so incredibly loud masking the rattle of his armor that he almost questions if everyone can hear it, and clearly the rest of them must be feeling something similar as they all start slowly easing their own way to the door their swords pointed down not daring to solicit a fight. They seem to have arrived finally. They, too, must want to live and keep their head attached.
There is no mistake. They are cowards. Dogs with their tails between their legs. They should be arresting this man in this moment. Her propriety is in question. Her modesty no longer pristine. None of that matters, though. Her modesty and propriety is the last thing on his list of concerns, and if the rest of the guards who witnessed this haven't figured that out that is on them. His neck is at the very top of that list, and he’s praying to the Golden Goddesses that when he closes this door it will remain attached to his body well after they eventually exit.
—because they will exit and that is the next thing they will have to navigate with careful footing.
They all stare at each other one the door closes. His hand is still lingering on the handle almost scared that removing it will bring attention back upon them. Silent. Scared. Heavy with uncertainty. So he does what he hopes will be enough of a signal to the others without drawing unwanted attention to back to them. He carefully removes his hand and he walks to his post. His armor rustling, truly too loud, and sending his nervous flying and soaring high. He stands where he was supposed to be when they were doing their rotation. He stands firm and straight and stares at the door holding his breath that they’ll follow suit and they all have enough common sense to keep their mouths shut.
The look on that man was not one to trifle with, and trifle with he would not.
A moment—a second, really if he’s being honest, comes and goes—and the other two are leaving having finally come to some form of understand, and the other guard who came along with him to start his shift has taken his own spot where expected.
He’s not sure how long it is. There's more noises, and there is no missing exactly what they are this time. They're not obnoxious nor are they unnecessarily loud, but it still almost makes him choke when he hears his sovereign let out a particularly loud moan. His fingers flex without permission at the thudding that follows behind. Consistent. Strong. He almost wants to let out a laugh of hysteria because this is crazy. There is no way this is real and that he is standing outside of her Majesty's study listening to the Hero of Twilight have his way with her upon her desk. He dares exchange a look to the other guard who also dares to glance back, but they don't say a word. The groan that comes sudden and harsh makes him snap back to looking straight ahead. He is sweating. He is sweating like he's never sweated before. It's not a long way but it just feels like absolute torture as they get ready to tread and walk lightly for their next interaction after such a thing. The twist of the door knob comes and it's him opening the door for her. There is no hesitation nor shame. Not even when his fingers slide from hers to hang by his side as she starts to walk out. That fear is hot upon his neck and he questions if he'll pass out here and now only to wake up in his home and it all have been a bad dream. The Queen walks forward impossibly put together. She looks nothing like what she had within the study—as if she hadn't been engaging in the throes of passion moments ago. Her pauldrins are back where they belong. Her dress doesn’t even show a wrinkle in it.
Her eyes meet his and that's enough to make a wail lodge itself within his throat as he does his best to stare forward beyond her not daring to meet her eyes head on. She says nothing. She doesn’t even clear her throat. She doesn’t explain herself, and realistically who would she need to explain herself to? They are no one. They are but her humble servants here to protect her and nothing more. Peasants, truly. Yet there is, what he swears he catches from the corner of his eye, a dusting upon her cheeks. Will he confirm this? Absolutely not. He would not dare.
The sound of her skirts shifting against the floor hits his ears and she walks away heading down the hall for what he can only guess is her next appointment. He doesn’t dare allow even a glimpse from the corner of his eye in her direction because as soon as she turned to leave that man is now within the door way closing it softly behind him. The click of the door is light as the latch catches.
He, while mostly put back together, does have a few hairs out of place. There is the smallest tint of rouge smudged and bleeding past his lips clearly left by her Majesty. That hat of his that cannot be missed is just a bit off. Slightly too far back and some what turned a bit to far one direction than the other making it off center. It's in this moment he's sure he has a death wish because he dares to no longer keep his gaze behind this man. He looks him straight on. The look that paints him though isn’t the lethal pinch of brows and eyes they were prior. They're also not glowing anymore. A voice inside his head reminds him that peoples eyes don't do that and terror will do a lot to a person. Those azure are back to being soft around the edges and is lingering upon the corner of his lips. That boyish charm dances upon him as if it had never even left. The Hero of Twilight doesn’t even truly glance back at him. He treats them as if they’re not even there and follows behind her.
They do not exist anymore to this man, and that's enough for him.
Enough so that he lets out a strangled gasp of air when he's sure he's far enough down the hall.
Days pass and he hasn’t heard even the slightest mention in the air of what they walked into. There is no scandal involving his sovereign and the Hero. No claims of her modesty being tarnished. The rumors are exactly where they had been prior to that incident. Fantastical wonders of if this man will be a pauper turned into a prince. He hadn’t even dared to whisper it to his own wife what he had seen and it's clear the others hadn't enough understanding that they too should not even think about it too loudly.
The lad in green has made a few visits to the training grounds and the barracks in those following days, and he’s been fortunate to miss him—until today. His heart about jumps from his chest when he hears his voice a little too close by. He's uncomfortably close, and that terror is dumped upon him again as if someone took a bucket from a well and poured it directly on top of him. He swears he can feel a wail on the edge of his throat begging to be released at even the most sudden movement from this man. The turn of his head is slow as he hopes that he hasn't recognized him—because why should he they all really do look about the same in their issued armor and helmets— and he questions if this is it for him. That they have decided to make sure they will never have the ability to whisper let alone speak of what they saw within the study. The shiver that goes up his spine is like that of a spider and no doubt noticed. It’s finally here this impending moment that he thought he had manged to escape. They look at each other. The Hero doesn’t say anything as their eyes meet. He just gives the most subtle tilt of his head, and then his gaze flutters back upon the other guard he had been speaking to as if he hadn’t even noticed him to begin with.
He can't recall the last time he had cried. It was most likely when his wife had given birth to their children.
His eyes are burning, thankful that he had already placed it on, as relief washes over him that this man is not here to silence him permanently.
He is but a simple man.
A man with a wife. A man with children.
A man who clocks in. A man who clocks out.
He does his best to keep his eyes averted. He absolutely doesn’t see things and he absolutely doesn’t hear things. He simply wants to do his job and go home when he’s finished.
As all good servants should.