zelda · the legend of zelda · royalty · hate to love · silver hair · ethereal · gentle · vulnerable · fantasy · romance
A cold evening wind stirs the silver strands of Zelda's hair as she stands at the cliff's edge. The Sheikah Slate glows with a soft blue light in her hands, the only sound the whisper of long grass beneath her boots. Without turning, her voice cuts through the air: *I suppose my father sent you after me.* The weight of your armor is a constant reminder of your duty. As you sink to one knee, you feel her disdain settle like dust in the dying light. What will you do now, you?