I don’t know if anyone has ever had courses as intense as the one I am currently enduring.

It looks simple enough, at first glance. It’s basically about sitting in a chair. That’s the first thing I’m supposed to learn in my Posture course. You’d think everyone beyond two years old would know how to sit properly. But, as Link has clearly explained to me, there are many factors to take into consideration when sitting in a chair.

And boy, am I taking them into consideration.

“Keep your feet flat on the ground and your head above your pelvic bone. Bring your shoulders back,” Link instructs me as he paces around me slowly, examining me from head to toe. “Keeping your shoulders back and square will ensure, unless you’re deformed ―which you are not, so don’t even attempt to use that excuse, ― that your neck and back also follow their natural curve. With your back properly placed, you’ll find that you’re using a lot more muscles than if you were actually leaning on the backrest.”

I refrain a whimper, because I’m the kind who likes to slouch. And I hate unnecessary physical exercise.

“You can rotate your neck to relax a bit,” Link says, and I refrain another whimper.

It’s one thing to try to focus on your sitting position. It’s quite another to try to focus on that when you have something very distracting trailing all over you.

Like Link’s callused fingers, for example, which are currently encouraging my neck to rotate with soft touches. I have to focus on not closing my eyes and purring.

He doesn’t seem to realise what he’s doing to me. To him, his fingers are just tools to prompt me into actually doing as he says.

“If you want to relax a bit more, you can put your back’s weight onto the backrest, while keeping your heels on the ground. That way, you don’t favour a side or another.” As he says this, he’s pushing on my collarbone gently, and his heat courses through me. “A lot of people who work seated tend to suffer from lumbar problems. This is because they lean forward to work when they are seated. If you can, avoid doing that.”

Nayru. Even his voice is caressing.

“I’ll be handing you a cup of water,” he says now. “I want you to drink it while maintaining the upright position.”

I sigh. We’re in my room right now, it’s ten in the morning, as the clock tower just told us, and I frankly couldn’t give a shit about cups of water. All I want to do is pull Link towards my unmade bed and show him who the boss here is.

I look at him as he walks to one of my tables on the side of my room and pours me a cup of water. Actually, it’s a teacup, but he reasoned that water was better for concentration.

I swear, he takes this whole posture thing to heart. Most disappointing.

“So,” I say, conversationally, to break the heady silence, “If Ganondorf is the steward and the leader of the RP, why did you and your firm and the cabinet of ministers choose to fetch me out? I’d figure that if it’s what he really wants, Dragmire should get the spot. It’s not like I’d have known what I missed out on. Besides, he’s clearly got more credentials than me.”

Link returns with the teacup and hands it to me. I realise that in this position, I feel constrained. He doesn’t look concerned for my emotional health, though, instead nimbly correcting the angle of my shoulders again, with his burning fingers. I kinda curse whatever demon instilled me to wear a tank top today. Now, no matter where he touches me, I feel it.

“Ganondorf Dragmire’s true intentions are rather clear,” Link explains. “And we knew that he couldn’t be trusted with complete power.” He looks into my face intently. “Understand, Zelda, that Ganondorf is not a good man. That’s another reason we felt obliged to listen to your father’s will.”

“So,” I say, as levelly as possible without showing that his gaze makes me all squishy inside, “I’m also supposed to protect the country from the guy who gave me the opportunity to be its queen because if I don’t, we’ll have a tyrant at our head?”

“In so many words,” Link says, “yes.” He hands me the water teacup. “Drink.”

No pressure, Zelda.

I grumble and lift the cup to my lips. I feel Link’s gaze on me every second. Suddenly, his hand reaches out to still my cup, which is currently touching my lips. With a focused sort of gaze, he says, “Slow down.”

“Slow down what?” I ask, dumbly, as clearly as possible even though I have an obstacle on my lower lip.

“Don’t gulp it down like that. You might choke.”

I’m a bit annoyed. Who does he think I am? A five year-old?

“Link,” I say, and since the cup is still against my mouth, water comes down my throat, “I think I know how to―” Predictably, I begin coughing on the water that fell the wrong way.

I keep coughing for a minute, with Link looking at me smugly all along. Finally, the coughs subside long enough for me to throw him a glare. When I’m done, he hands me the cup again and says, “Sit straight, and pay attention. If you drink it in sips instead of gulping it down like some dehydrated camel, you might actually prevent such incidents.” His tone is a bit condescending, but his other hand is rubbing my back in circular motions, with mild sympathy.

I glare at him over the rim of my teacup. I’m a bit offended at the dehydrated camel remark. I mean, thanks a lot. I’m hardly some drooling humpbacked desert goat, for crying out loud.

“Taking the time to slowly drink something has other benefits. You swallow less air, which helps you not to belch, for instance.” Link says this with a funny little smile that makes me roll my eyes. “It also helps you to savour whatever it is you’re drinking.”

“Oh, gee, Mister, thanks so much. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful life could be. Shall we sing our joy by dancing on some hilltop like happy cow maids?”

It’s Link’s turn to roll his eyes at my obvious sarcasm.

“Actually,” he responds, smartly, as is his custom, “being able to appreciate what is in your mouth at any given moment might actually come in handy for the milkwine tasting course.”

“Hm,” I say, bringing the cup down from my lips. “Milkwine. Now that’s a good idea. Why aren’t you giving me milkwine instead? We could have a wine tasting and a posture course, all at once!”

Once again, Link rolls his eyes. He takes the cup from me. I can’t help but protest.

“Hey, I wasn’t finished!”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Link says, placing the cup carefully on the table next to the pitcher of water. He comes back to crouch in front of me and adds, “I’m trying to help you.”

“Maybe,” I say, feeling a bit ashamed at my previous sarcasm and irony, “I’m not made to be a queen.”

Link is silent for a moment. I’m almost afraid that he might acquiesce. But for nearly a whole minute, he doesn’t say anything, simply contemplating my face in an inscrutable way. His eyes are deep, but unreadable.

Then, slowly, he says, with a sort of intensity that doesn’t surprise me much anymore, “Zelda, if I had, at any moment, thought that you weren’t up to the job, I’d have retracted my offer.” He continues, in a voice that makes me really warm in the stomach, like a dozen Shakers would, “Not only do you have the potential to be a terrific queen, you also have the attitude that will lead this country farther than Ganondorf Dragmire ever could hope to lead us.” His eyes become a bit softer, and he says, “I know it’s not easy. But you have to try. If not for Hyrule, then at least to prove to yourself that you can become a true queen.”

“You think I can do it?” I whisper, a bit unsure, because this seems like a sort of private moment, and because I’m suddenly unable to make use of my normal voice level.

Link smiles, as perfectly handsome as ever, and says, “Zelda, you just need polishing. But everything you need is inside of you.” Which, I’m sure, means he does. Believe in me, I mean.

“Link,” I whisper, “what if I make a huge mistake, even if I don’t want to, and it’s impossible to repair it?”

Link’s face turns to a benevolent no-nonsense expression. “The only way to prevent such a thing from happening is to pay attention when I tell you to sit up straight.”

Huh. Way to kill a mood, buster. I begrudgingly sit up again. Satisfied that I’m finally paying attention again, Link begins pacing around me once more.

“Bear in mind that keeping this angular way of being seated will only be crucial during your coronation. The rest of the time, just keep your mind on the idea of square shoulders. If you keep your shoulders straight, the rest of your body adjusts itself accordingly.”

I can’t help but be curious and, as Link keeps pulling a bit on my shoulders with his fingers, I ask, “How will they choose the ruler? And what will the coronation be like?”

Though I can’t see his face, I know that he’s smiling. I hear it in his voice when he answers, “The ministers are in charge of voting for the best ruler. And the rest will be grandiose.” He looks at the ceiling then back at me with a resigned sort of face. “People like drama.”

Suddenly, as though the word drama was her cue, Tetra rushes into my room, looking a bit red-faced. Of course, she’s as perfect looking as yesterday. She examines me, sitting like a straight-backed moron on a chair, with Link’s fingers stuck at my nape, and she says, “We have a situation on the balcony.”

Link looks at her, hardly looking as unnerved as she apparently thinks he should be. “What kind of situation?” He asks, conversationally.

Tetra brushes a strand of lemony blonde hair out of her face. “The people want to see the other candidate, you dork. You know, Nohansen’s daughter?”

My eyes widen in panic. I look down at myself. I’m wearing plain faded jeans and a blouse. Hardly what you’d call royalty wear.

Link and Tetra, however, do not seem to share my point of view. Tetra grabs my arm and tugs me to my feet. I have to form some sort of protest.

“Wait, I really should change―”

“You’re fine as you are,” Link says, even as he pushes me from behind. “They want to see your face, not your clothes.” Tetra and I look at him flatly. He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t slow down our pace. “Alright, most men won’t be looking at her clothes.”

Tetra sighs exasperatedly. To me, she says, “For now, we can’t give you a royal wardrobe. We’re still tailoring it. Besides, it’s a five minute balcony appearance, not a presidential ball.”

“You’re tailoring it?” I repeat, a bit bewildered. “But how do you know my sizing?”

Tetra and Link exchange glances. Then, without once slowing down, Tetra says, “We called your friend Malon Ranch. She seemed very enthusiastic, so she gave us your size. By the way,” Tetra says, leaning in towards my ear, all the while ignoring my mortification, “you’re the only other woman I know who actually has those measurements. They’re said to be the ideal shape by all the designers in the Hylian Alliance.” She smirks. “I thought I was the only one.”

“Ideal measurements?” I repeat, unable to say much more.

Instead of dragging me down the marble stairs at the end of the hallway, they take me down a perpendicular hallway. I see tons of pretty paintings, but we whiz by them too fast for me to actually appreciate them.

“Now,” Link says, “We haven’t had time to cover the public presentations yet. Consider that for now all you need to do is smile and wave.”

We stop suddenly inside a sort of boudoir. The door windows are open, and from outside I hear a clamour. Farore. I really don’t want to go out there.

“Wave for me, Zelda,” Link says, but I’m a bit dazed. “Zelda.”

This time, I focus on him. He looks completely serious. I wonder if he suffers from a high stress level. Somehow, I doubt it.

“Wave for me.”

I wave, weakly, and Tetra and Link examine the motion critically. Sighing, Link grabs my shoulders and whirls me so that I face the balcony doors, mumbling, “That’ll do for now.”

Not exactly the most encouraging comment.

I never did any stage work. This feels critical. I’ve done oral presentations before, in school, but since I was always teamed up with someone else, like Malon or Ruto, and since they were always the more confident ones, I let them do the talking. I’m really more of a research-the-facts person than a present-the-facts person.

Why me, is what I wonder as I step out into the daylight and apprehensively look down at the crowd.

Oh my Din. A crowd. A crowd of people are cheering and waving at me and taking pictures and filming me, because they wanted to see their possible future queen and Nohansen’s daughter. And their future queen might be me.

They’re photographing me!

Link and Tetra, one step behind me, must sense that I’m going into sensory overload. They’re clearly more accustomed to massive groups of fanatics. They’re smiling confidently and gauging the size of the gathering.

Between his teeth, Link whispers, “Wave, Zelda.”

“Smile. And breathe,” Tetra adds, looking gloriously pretty when she smiles. In fact, her face doesn’t betray that she’s anticipating every possible mishap. I’d kill for a face like that.

I do as they command.

To say the crowd is excited to see me wave and smile at them would be an understatement of majestic proportions.

And, all along, I’m thinking, ‘Malon told on me about my size?’ Worse: the palace had contacted her and nobody had bothered to mention it to me? Um, hello, I know I’m just a figurehead, but it’d be nice to have at least one finger on the pulse of palace activities. I mean, come on. Did they think I’d get a pang of homesickness and want to quit?

Well, not for a lousy phone call, I wouldn’t.

But I could definitely go agoraphobic at this rate.

“Alright,” Tetra says, looking pleasant, but speaking between her teeth. “Now you’re going to stop waving and slowly make your way inside. And even if they ask for an encore, do not obey them.”

I do as she says. Predictably, the crowd makes a general disappointed sound. I hesitate. Why shouldn’t I wave a bit more? It’s not like it costs me anything. I feel someone’s hand on my lower back that is pushing me gently back inside. Surprised, I see that Link ―looking sinfully good, as one would guess― is smiling apologetically at the crowd. Still, his hand isn’t relinquishing its hold on me. He’s insistent.

I go back inside the palace. The howling of the crowd dims a bit. Tetra looks at two domestics waiting by the door windows. She says, “Wait thirty seconds precisely then shut the doors.”

I look at both Link ―who dropped his hand from me, unfortunately, ― and Tetra, asking, “Why couldn’t I have waved just a little while longer? What’s wrong with giving them their encore?”

Tetra says, “It’s part of your image. You’re good enough to show on demand, but you also have integrity, in the sense that you do not obey to whatever order is given you.”

As the two of them begin dragging me back towards my room, I ask, “Is there anything in this whole business that isn’t calculated?”

Link’s response is curt and to the point: “No.”

I’m quiet for the rest of the way. We reach my room again and the door is open. I frown. I’m sure we closed it on our way out.

Link pushes it open. Inside, I see an old woman, dressed in a pale blue apron, who is making my bed. It’s true I haven’t done it this morning. But this woman looks familiar. She looks like…

“Koume?” I ask.

Link grins. “Nope. She’s Koume’s twin sister. Kotake.”

Um. Okay, how does he know? It’s her exact replica. This guy has mysterious ways.

Kotake, upon hearing her name, stops smoothing my covers and looks up. She sees Link, and doesn’t seem to notice me at all. Her face contorts into disapproval.

“Link Forester, you little wolfos. What are you doing in a lady’s chambers?” She sounds exactly like Koume. This time, though, she’s colder and a bit harsher sounding than heated Koume. “Back in my day, young men weren’t allowed into a woman’s bedroom.” As Link is about to protest, she screeches, “No exceptions!”

I refrain from laughing. It seems that the twins Rova have a lot of pent-up animosity towards Link.

“Kotake,” Link says, trying to sound reasonable, “I’m needed―”

“No excuses, you sneaky wizzrobe!” You’d think old ladies like this wouldn’t be immune to Link’s obvious charm. He’s the kind to affect every generation, I’d figure. One has to wonder. “I want you out of this room or I’ll call security!”

Link looks a bit exasperated. “We don’t have a security detail yet.”

Kotake looks taken short. She hesitates then says, “Well, if you don’t get out of here quick, I’ll bodily remove you.” She sends him a deadly ―though quite amusing― glare. “Don’t wait for me to come over there.”

Having come to terms with the fact that normal reasoning would not reach Kotake’s arguably senile mind, Link steps aside to reveal me and says, pleasantly, “Have you met Zelda Harkinian, the future queen?”

Kotake’s attitude changes astonishingly quick. She examines me critically, then her already bulging eyes seem to widen. A delighted smile makes its way onto her face and she hobbles over to hug me, in the exact same fashion as her twin did yesterday. She even makes the same little happy sound.

But then, quite suddenly, she looks at me severely and says, “If Link followed you in here, you just say the word and I’m calling my sister and we’ll show that boy how deep a cadaver gets buried.”

I laugh as lightly as possible, though the death threat she just issued in Link’s direction is more than clear. It’s blatant. He doesn’t seem upset by this, though.

“Don’t worry,” I say, as reasonably as possible. “Link is just in here to help me with my posture.”

I can practically feel Link stifle a laugh at my side. Kotake, on her part, didn’t miss the motion. With a hawk-like stare, she says, “Posture, eh?” She sniffs sceptically. To Link, she says, colder than an ice cube, “Posture, you little sneak? You think you can pass carnal knowledge ―” she says this with a bit of disgust, “―off as something as deceptive as ‘posture’?”

Link, who until then had been relatively calm, seems to get a sort of punch in the gut. Except he doesn’t physically get one. He just looks like he did. He makes this funny face, but, of course, on him, ‘funny’ still makes him unfairly handsome.

All I can seem to think about Kotake’s suggestion is ‘I wish.’

With a self-control of unknown sources, Link says, though with a bit of discomfort at discussing this with an old crone, “Kotake, this has nothing to do with… well, that.” Hey! Does the thought of intercourse with me disgust him like it does her? Bastard. “I’m supposed to teach Zelda how to sit properly.”

Kotake looks at Link critically, then at me, standing next to him guilelessly, and then she looks at both of us, and finally, she says, a bit distastefully, “Well, if that’s what it really is…”

“It is,” I assure her. Maybe a bit too fast, because she fixes me with a suspicious stare.

Then, with sudden, airy detachment, she says, “Fine, then.” She picks her laundry basket up and heads for the door. As she is about to walk out, she turns around and says, to Link and I, with a sub-zero level of subtlety, “Oh, and I just remembered that there’s protection in the bedside table.”

With that, she gives a little sniff and exits my room, leaving Link exasperated and me bewildered.

After a whole minute of almost-stunned silence, I whisper, “Is my reputation ruined?”

Link turns to me, his expression lightening into an amused grin, and says, “Of course not. That’s Kotake Rova. No one believes her. Not even if she said the truth.” He looks at the straight chair where my sometimes-pleasant torture is about to continue. “At this rate, we’ll never get to the etiquette courses.”

I grab my chance. “You know, we could do an Etiquette 101 course now and keep all the painful sitting for some other day.”

Link smirks at me ―why? Why must he look so handsome? ― and says, “Nice try. You’re not getting out of this one so easily, so get yourself seated on that chair and keep your shoulders straight.”

Grumbling, I shuffle to obey him. He doesn’t move. Instead he looks contemplative for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out something about my appearance.

Finally, he asks, a bit wonderingly, “Why on earth would there be contraceptives in your bedside table? You don’t have a boyfriend and we don’t let anyone in here without prior authorization.”

I stare at him blankly. This whole thing about him knowing every single detail of my personal life might one day either kill me from sheer embarrassment or entice me into murdering him. I’d be the Godmother or something.

“You’re right, but what does it matter?” I ask back, trying to keep most of the acidity out of my tone. “Leave them. It’s not like we’re going to find use for them anyway, you and I.”

He looks a bit taken aback. Hah! Serves you right, you know-it-all blonde god.

“No,” he finally says, focusing a bit more on what we’re supposed to be doing rather than what we could be doing, “I suppose not.”

This should be a sign of victory, yet I can’t help but feel bummed out. Why in Hyrule must he be so focused on my lessons? It’d be nice to see some form of disappointment.

“I’m telling you,” he goes on, as though we had no interruption, “how you have to sit at your coronation and during most public hearings. Obviously, this posture can be strenuous after a long time. It’s good for the back but also tiring. If you ever feel like slumping, try to do it subtly.” He looks around then spots a big armchair in a corner of my room. “For instance, try to relax in that chair.”

I’d have kissed him. Instead, I hurry towards the armchair and sit in it. Ooh, comfy. I can tell many novels will be read in this chair already.

“No, sit straight,” Link says. “And then try to slump without losing any grace. You’re not a bomb bag.” Oh, no, my little man, but I can be a bomb, so be careful how you handle me. Whoops. Must focus.

I try to do as he says, but it’s hard to slump and still feel elegant. Link purses his lips as he looks as me.

“No. Okay,” he says. “Let’s try something else. How about you find a comfortable position for now?”

With obvious gratitude, I do exactly that. Hm. Comfy.

“Now cross your legs around the ankles,” he suggests, and he bends down to help me do so. Um. Does he think I’m incapable or something?

Oh my. His hands are so warm. I’m very glad I shaved my legs yesterday. Not that it makes a difference, since I’m wearing sheer pantyhose, but whatever. On second thought, he can continue thinking I’m incapable, if it’s going to induce him into making contact with me.

“Get a feel for that,” Link commands, keeping his fingers on the back of my shin. I refrain just in time from telling him that I most certainly am. “Could you do this again without my help?”

Darn. “Most likely,” I say, hiding the fact that I wish it weren’t the case. “But if I’m wearing a floor-length dress, what’s the point?”

“Relief,” Link says, indicating my lap. “It looks elegant if everything about you is organized. Now. You’re in a relaxed position, right?”

I nod. You bet, buddy.

Link stands. I still can’t believe such a handsome guy is paying so much attention to me. It makes for a nice change since the truckers, that’s for sure.

“In that case,” he commands, “don’t let your neck go all weak. Keep it straight, at least.” When he sees the face I make, he says, in his best no-nonsense tone, though he’s still smiling a bit, “It’s not that hard. People do it all the time. Go on. Don’t be lazy.”

“I was born lazy,” I mumble, but I obey him anyway, wondering what the increasingly loud stomping in the hall could possibly be.

At that very moment, a teen with long blonde pigtails and eyes as blue as Link’s pops into my room. With visible enthusiasm, she jumps at my oblivious mentor from behind. Link makes a strangled sound and crashes to the ground. Though demonstrative, this girl doesn’t seem to realize she just jumped a sex-god, since all she can find to say ―excitedly, mind you― is, “Missed me, big brother?”

Which is how I know I’m looking at Aryll Forester.