To the Silent One

A Reflection by Zelda

I. You never spoke. Or if you did, the wind took your words before they reached me.

But still— you stayed.

When the others turned, when the shadow stretched across even the high towers of Hyrule, you stood.

Like a blade that forgets how to rest.

II. I was born to carry a light I did not understand. They told me I was chosen, but they never asked if I was ready.

You were never chosen. You were needed. And you became what they feared to hope for.

I hated that. And I needed it. Both.

III. There were moments— small as dew on silent mornings— where I saw you not as sword, but as soul.

When you looked not at me, but into me. And in that gaze was no judgment. Only… understanding.

And that, more than protection, undid me.

IV. A hundred years passed. You slept. And still I spoke to you. Not aloud. But in the way hearts speak when memory is all that remains.

The world forgot. But I remembered. You— the quiet courage. The silence that did not break even as the kingdom did.

V. Now you return to me as if you never left. Still wordless. Still there.

I do not ask for words. I ask only for one more moment beneath this sky, where ruin and rebirth breathe side by side.

Where I can stand beside you not as princess, not as prophecy, but simply— as one who remembers what was lost and still believes in what may yet be.

I. They told me I was chosen. As if that made it easier. As if destiny was comfort.

It wasn’t. It never was. It was a cloak that did not fit, woven of expectation and silence.

II. I demanded perfection. Not from others— from myself. And when I failed, I did not cry. I hid.

Even when I smiled, I was always hiding— behind the title, behind the fire I could not summon.

III. They saw me as strong. But I was never proud of that. I was proud of nothing. Only afraid— that what I gave would never be enough. That even if I offered all of myself, the world would still want what I did not have.

And he— the silent one— he never asked for anything. And still I felt as though I had failed him most of all.

IV. Why is it that when we carry greatness, we forget how to carry kindness for ourselves?

I bled for this kingdom. I buried my childhood in stone. And yet— in the stillness, it is my own voice that haunts me most.

The one that whispers: You were not enough. You should have been more.

V. But I am tired of that voice. Of that endless throne built from comparison.

Let the world want gods. Let legends speak in absolutes. I was not perfect. But I remained.

And that is enough for today.

Even if tomorrow, I must learn that lesson all over again.