There are only two ways to be woken up by someone: in a good way, or in a bad way. There are no other possibilities. Also, the way you’re woken up determines how the rest of your day is likely to go.

Obviously, ideally we’d all wake up in the good way, for evident reasons.

It’s day ten of my stay in Marcastle. Today, I’m supposed to do a press conference to explain to the world that I’m the best choice as a future ruler of the country. If I do well during this thing, I’ll win a couple of points in the public opinion.

The basic idea is to succeed and catch up to Ganondorf Dragmire, my only other rival, and the politician who got elected for suggesting a return to monarchy, obviously thinking that this plan would make him the supreme king. That plan was foiled when my dead father ―the previous president of Hyrule― suggested in his testament that I, his unknowing daughter, be considered instead for the position. He’d predicted Ganondorf Dragmire’s greed and wished to stop it at any cost.

That, in combination with the coaxing of a very determined ―and drop-dead handsome― publicist from Marcastle, is why I’m currently in a popularity contest against Ganondorf, and far behind in the rankings because I popped out of nowhere.

My only hope lies in fair timing, public appearances, and my relationship to Daphne Nohansen. In fact, if it hadn’t been for that, I’d have long been shot out.

As I said, there are only two ways to be woken up.

On the crucial day of my conference, I was woken up the bad way.

At first glance, it may seem like a blessing. Link is nudging me awake gently, whispering about how I have to take an early breakfast and about how I have some physical training to do today before my five o’clock conference.

Women everywhere would kill to be woken up by Super Stud Link Forester. But not me.

Because now that I’m awake, I remember about my duties, and I remember about Ganondorf, and, obviously, this makes me hyperventilate. Also, I’m wondering what the heck Link is doing in my room.

I don’t handle stress very well, you see.

In my half-awake panic, my elbow flies out and smacks Link solidly, sending him sprawling backward with an ‘oof!’ that makes me snap into complete consciousness.

A low groan of discomfort comes from my floor.

Bugger, I think. I just elbow-punched my publicist.

I sit up, eyes wide, and stare at Link as he lies on my bedside carpet, and trip over my apologies. My voice is extremely high-pitched. Not sexy and hoarse as it would have been any other day.

“Oh Farore, I am so sorry,” I exclaim. “I didn’t mean to―”

Link holds up a hand, using his other hand to massage his chin, which I have apparently elbowed painfully. He looks stunned and hardly enthusiastic. I don’t blame him: Prince Charming didn’t exactly get sucker-punched when he tried to wake Sleeping Beauty, after all. I can sort of see how he’s bummed out.

“As I was saying,” he eventually says as he stands and dusts himself off, “you have some physical training with Sheik before your conference.”

“Link,” I say, crawling on my bed, trying to look as apologetic as I feel, “I am so sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to do that.”

Link, who had done two steps in the direction of the door, turns back to look at me. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I’m on my knees on the unmade bed, in my flannel pyjamas, with my hair in a chaotic mess ―quite possibly looking like the biggest freak in Hyrule. There is no way to guess what he thinks of my unkempt appearance, though.

“It’s alright,” he finally says, eyes on me. “I’m not mad at you.”

I don’t know what to say. I expected to have to plead my case even more, but now I’m short of words.

“You hate me,” I say, cringing a bit.

All Link does is shake his head slowly. I can see he’s red under the chin, where I hit him. He’s probably going to have a small bruise there. I am mortified beyond words.

“It takes more than that to make me hate people,” he says, softly. Then, his eyes light up a bit and he says, teasingly, “I get this feeling like Kotake trained you.”

Now that I see he’s really all right, I cross my arms and huff. “Well, men really shouldn’t be allowed into women’s rooms.”

“Because they might get sucker-punched,” Link chuckles. “I get it.”

“I said I’m sorry!” I exclaim.

“And I said I’m not mad,” Link replies, a bit calmer. “Anyway, get dressed. We have breakfast ready for you and Sheik is waiting. I know he’s supposed to teach you horseback riding, but we figured some physical ed. might also be beneficial for you, so…” He trails off, and I expect him to leave. Still, he doesn’t move. I wait for him to add something. He sighs and says, “I… Well…”

How strange. Link is hesitating! This never happened before.

“I… also wanted to wish you good luck for today,” he finally says.

I think I’m going to faint from the sheer sweetness of him. Seriously. I’m starting to think that all this strictly business thing might become a heavy burden, especially if he’s going around making girls fall in love with him.

Not that I’m in love with him. But at this rate it might happen faster than that twelve-wheeler Talon Ranch keeps warning Malon and I about.

“Thank you, Link,” I say, shooting him a big, hopefully not-so-dopey smile.

He smiles, and, of course, he looks way more handsome than a guy ought to be allowed to. “I was thinking that you should wear a knee-length skirt. With sandals,” he adds, winking.

I feel my stomach flip-flop at that. I’ve had people wink at me before, obviously, but Link’s private little look has the power to make a girl weak at the knees.

“You want people to see my tattoo?” I ask, a bit sceptically, miraculously dissimulating his impact on me.

Link shrugs. “It’s cute. It’ll appeal to the masses. Phoenixes are respected symbols, after all.”

“Right,” I say. I’m beginning to suspect he might actually have a foot fetish after all. “Well, if you think so…”

Link smiles ―and looks fantastically handsome as he does so, of course, ― then turns on his heel to leave my room.

As he reaches the door, he turns back to grin at me and says, “Before you ever consider it, I do not have a foot fetish. But today’s a warm day, and the tattoo might sell well.”

With that, he exits my room, and I’m left to curse to myself and wonder how he manages to guess my every thought. Am I that easy to read? Is it just a coincidence? Please make it be just a coincidence.

I ponder this all morning, even as Sheik forces my body to stretch painfully during training. I think he’s trying to make me into a ballerina or something. There is no way my body is made to flex that much. That’s just unnatural. I’m sure we weren’t made to know how to do the vertical splits. That’s just a circus thing. Right?

And yet he makes me stretch every last muscle in my body, to Darunia’s ever-lasting amusement. He’s a good guy, really, but it’d be nice to have some sympathy.

When finally my torture ends, Sheik says, as coolly as usual, “We’ll have to work on that again.”

Well, Nayru be damned. I cuss, which I technically am not allowed to do, and Darunia erupts in a bark of laughter.

I hate physical work.

I decide this as I eat my lunch, alone. It’s delicious. Koume really is a delightful cook. Darunia left for a moment, to catch up with Tetra’s assistants, whom he seems to be familiar with. I still ponder how to dissimulate my thoughts better, because clearly, I’m too easy to read. And that’s not a good thing for a politician.

It’s hard to think of myself as a politician, actually. And yet, I’m doing all these press related things, which I know nothing about and which terrify me beyond reason.

I catch myself wishing for home.

The thought surprises me. I’m comfortable here, and the people are nice enough.

But, at least, back home I felt safe. Because everything was familiar and I could do whatever I wanted, and plan my own day, and be nasty if I wanted to.

Here, I have to be nice all the time. I have to smile, and look great, and know what I’m doing. I have to be followed twenty-four seven by either different assistants of varying degrees of intelligence or a bodyguard who finds my life extremely amusing. I can’t make any mistakes. I can’t be weak. I can’t freak out.

By the time I’m done with you, Link had said, you’ll be the queen everyone wants you to be. I hadn’t realised what that meant back then, but now I do. I’m being moulded into a shape that isn’t for me. I’m being transformed into a sell-by product, and being put on the shelves, as Ganondorf had so cruelly said.

I’m beginning to think he’s right. There’s more to being queenly than just looking great and having the blood relation. You need the guts. You need the nerves to handle that power.

You can’t, for instance, just be a wisecrack.

Koume walks by me and looks over my shoulder. I’ve stopped eating for the past ten minutes. She looks concerned. “Something wrong with the food?” She asks, in that scratchy voice of hers.

I’m startled out of my thoughts. “Huh? Oh, no. No, the food is great.” I force a laugh. “I was just thinking. But it’s great. The food, I mean. And everything else too.” I can see she’s raising her brow. “Everything is just… you know. Great.” I finish off with a last, pretty smile.

Koume contemplates my face for a moment, but then she nods sceptically and returns to her usual activities. I watch her go with a rapidly increasing depression.

I am so full of it.

I can’t believe I’m here, going along with this, pretending that nothing is wrong. What happened to my blunt honesty? I’m thinking that all these lessons to become a good queen are beginning to affect me. I’m losing track of myself.

What happened to me?

The question rolls around in my head all afternoon, until four.

By that time, I’m busy digging for a decent outfit for the conference. As per Link’s suggestion, I choose a nice, light green skirt and elegant black sandals. I finally choose a black, adjusted work shirt. I put up my hair exactly as Tetra taught me to, so that it looks flawless. And then I look at myself in the mirror, and I feel like I’m an impostor.

I also feel like I might vomit at any moment, which, for a woman who is supposed to be doing press conferences for the rest of her life, isn’t exactly a good prospect.

There’s a knock on my door, and Tetra comes in, looking very cold and fidgety. I realise that she’s just about as nervous as me. “Come on, the journalists are all packed in front of the palace. You’re on in fifteen minutes.”

“Why am I doing this again?” I ask.

Tetra strides up to me, giving me a once over, and says, “You’re doing this because if you don’t, we’re all screwed. Nice skirt.”

“Thanks,” I say automatically, because in spite of extreme nervousness, women can always manage to talk about clothes, “I thought it’d be nice with black.”

“Good choice,” she nods, but this time fashion talk hasn’t managed to alleviate the tension we feel. “Now,” she breathes, “either we sink or we swim. Please,” she implores, with a touch of humour, “doggy paddle, but do not drown.”

I force a laugh, but she’s hit something right. I’m doggy paddling. This isn’t my place, since, if it were, I’d be doing lengthy backstrokes instead of desperate attempts at keeping my head above the surface.

In spite of that, she pushes me out of the room, all the while adjusting her own clothes. They’re a sober, dark grey. She looks fantastic in them, to my dismay.

I also wonder where Link is. Tetra doesn’t seem to realise my publicist is absent. She pushes me down the hallway, down the stairs, down more hallways, up to the lobby, where the doors are open. She drags me to a corner where sneaky journalists can’t see us, and says, “Now, remember. Whatever happens, keep your cool.”

“And my head clear,” I finish.

“Yes. Focus on their questions, answer as well as possible. Remember, you’re the perfect queen for them. They will want to have you at their head after this.”

I realise my nausea is back with a vengeance. I close my eyes to quell the urge to just roll up into a human ball and rock back and forth, whimpering. I manage to push my nausea away, but my stomach is still knotted uncomfortably.

There’s a hand on my shoulder. I turn, and look at Link, who, contrary to Tetra, is doing his best to look encouraging.

Why? Why am I doing this?

“You’ll be fine,” he assures me, and that just makes me doubt myself more.

I don’t answer him, because, alarmingly, I don’t trust myself to open my mouth.

And then, they walk me to the front doors. Already, the journalists are taking pictures excitedly through the doorway. Now is my time to start smiling. That’s what Tetra said. Smile before you go on stage. Smile so that it seems as though you can smile off-scene without any trouble.

I do that. I smile. Come to think of it, so far, my smiles are the only things that seem to work.

Then, I try to walk straight and confidently. Link and Tetra follow me, but I have to walk to the podium without their help, and I have to look great as I do so.

By some miracle, I don’t trip on my own feet. I almost did, unsurprisingly, though. My ankles brushed a bit too close to one another, but I have high hopes that no one will have noticed.

I reach the podium, and I thank its presence mentally. I can grip something now, and I’m half-hidden. Now they’ll be judging my face, not my skirt or my gait.

I keep smiling, but I feel strained. Today is not exactly the most relaxed day of my life.

The light flashes go on for what seems like forever. I keep smiling, and, because Link warned me to, I scan the crowd blindly. I say blindly because though my eyes are open, I only see a moving throng that shines intermittently. The butterflies in my stomach have tied it up into a mass of braided innards, and my mouth feels dry.

I clear my throat, and the sound echoes all over. The flashes stop, mostly, but a couple still go on, every few seconds. I hear a hum and some whispers.

I am petrified.

“Greetings,” I start, my voice a bit squeaky, staring at my speech unseeingly, starting off because I know the first line by heart, “I am… delighted to welcome you to Marcastle palace. This is a… a grand day for me.” My last words echo in the air.

I blink to try and read the next line of my speech, because there’s a heavy blank in my mind and because my view is all hazy. The flashes stop, and there are a couple of whispers that begin to make their way in the assembly. To me, they sound mocking.

Resisting the onslaught of humiliation, I clear my throat again, and the sound echoes around me, tauntingly, teasing my racing brain with the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing.

“This… occasion will most likely bring answers to many of your questions,” I say, feeling relieved that I managed that next sentence. “In fact, I have resolved to give you and the nation the answers to their current greatest concerns, mostly regarding environmental protection, economical stability, and hopefully give you a clear outline of what I intend to do for the future of Hyrule.”

I’m speaking too fast. I have to slow down. “I wish also… to inform you all… of my decision to…” Oh Din. “To… officially run as a candidate to the throne. It is my firm belief,” I can’t believe I’m saying this bull, “that I can be an apt ruler, one who will lead Hyrule farther than my adversary.”

My blood is rushing to my brain. I can’t help but feel like something is really wrong with what I’m saying. This must be a horrible sign that I’m not meant to be here. This isn’t my place.

I’m just a wisecrack. I don’t have this strength. I’m not made for this.

I open my mouth to continue, but no sound comes out. There it is again, that uncontrollable urge to just run away and disappear and never endure this again. I try to force a sound out, but it’s like air won’t even go in or out.

Breathe, Zelda, breathe.

But breathing feels like it might hurt. I’m feeling strangled.

My eyes are growing moist, and I close my eyes, and shut my mouth, and just focus on breathing.

I can hear everything around me. I hear Link and Tetra shifting uncomfortably, and the journalists clicking away in frenzy, taking pictures of this future ruler who can’t even speak in public. I hear my heart rate beating wildly in my ears, and the wind in the microphone and speakers, and the steadily increasing level of whispers that are a bit amused at my impossible silence.

With sudden clarity, I open my eyes again, and see their faces in detail. With a small smile, I say, “Do forgive me. I’m new at giving press conferences.”

This isn’t in the rules, but guess what, Link? Fuck the rules.

Link has just shifted rather suddenly. I can guess his and Tetra’s gazes on my back, boring into it, without understanding. There’s a bit of nervous laughter in the audience. I keep smiling. “Actually,” I declare factually, “most of the time, I get so nervous that I lose track of everything and it mostly comes out in a meaningless jumble.”

I almost feel Link’s tension as though it were mine.

“But…” I say, unsure of what I’m saying or where I’m headed, “You’ll have to credit that to my lack of experience dealing with the press. I’m… not experienced,” I say, and this causes many people in the audience to raise their brows and look at each other uncertainly. I can’t help a small laugh. “I know that’s not what I’m supposed to say. I know I should be saying stuff like, ‘I know what you people want’ and ‘I know I’m the best’. The fact is, I don’t.”

I can hear Tetra walking off the stage. I know it’s her because her shoes make a sound. I also can guess that she’s given up on me, and that makes me feel even worse. I can’t decide from the sound if Link also left with her.

But I’m on this road. There’s no going back.

“I don’t know if I’m the best out there,” I continue. “And I don’t want to claim the title without having deserved it. That’s why…” I’m digging my own grave, I realise. I’m also saying stuff that is contrary to what I want to say, which is driving me nuts. This is lame, and very uncool. “That’s why I don’t want to assume your desires. I want to become what you, as a nation, want me to be.” I take a deep breath and feel a bit light-headed. My brain is racing: what am I talking about? I do not want to be queen; I do not want to be queen! “I can’t tell you what I’m going to become, but I can tell you what you’re working with.”

I smile, but I feel like screaming my head off. Why am I saying this? “I’m eager, I’m smart, and I’m real. I’ve been in your shoes. Riches and power constantly astonish me because they’re something I hardly ever knew anything about. You know my story. By now it’s all over the place, told by every angle imaginable.”

I shake my head a bit slowly, unable to determine why I’m not backing out, as I should. It’s like I’m making my own apology. “I paid my taxes and had to save up for flip-flops, and I worked in a café and I was looking at a very bleak future.” I don’t mention the Laundromat.

My eyes scan the crowd. They stopped taking pictures, and some are staring at me, as though they can’t believe that I’m up here saying stuff like this.

Oh Nayru, what am I doing?

“And then, I was offered a place here, to become someone useful and I was offered a new life, and a chance to make a difference.” I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m doing. “And I wanted to take that chance.”

Oh Din. What am I saying? It’s like I’m possessed or something.

But there’s a part of me that’s nagging my mind and telling me that I’m the one saying all this, and that no one is forcing me to, and that tiny part of me is fighting against the shaky, terrified waitress who seemed to make me want to vomit in the very beginning.

Right now, I’m nervous, but I don’t feel like puking. Not anymore.

“So,” I say, uncertainly, “I’m not good at speeches. I need serious stress management.” I force a laugh, and then it turns to a giggle. “Seriously,” I add, imitating Malon’s tone.

Then, something really weird happens. I’m sure I hear someone chuckle along with me. But I don’t know which of the reporters did.

“And I haven’t learned everything there is to learn yet. But I’m learning fast. I think I can become a good queen. No,” I shake my head with a smile, “Not a good queen, a great queen. All I’m asking is that you give me the chance to surpass even Ganondorf.” I don’t mean to sound smart, but I do. “And now, I’ll be answering your questions to the very best of my ability.”

A reporter raises his hand, and I smile at him.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for that… eloquent speech, Miss Harkinian,” he says, and his introduction earns him a couple of chuckles from his colleagues. I feel something twisting inside of me, but bite it down. If I’m going to break down, it’s going to be back home in Lakeside, on Anju’s couch, with chocolate ice cream. “We were wondering what your thoughts on Hyrule’s economical development were.”

I smile at him. The answer I give him tumbles out of my mouth, sounding extremely controlled, and I have no clue how it came to me.

“That’s a rather open-ended question. It’s important to realise that the direction Hyrule is taking versus other countries, and I mean by this that protectionism is being implemented, as you surely already know, is merely reflective of the world’s current development. Many new technologies and industrial booms are happening and have been happening for the past two years.” I say this because I read it from Anju’s newspaper clippings. “The obvious speed of this development is enough to cause economical instability. In order to protect themselves, countries on a worldwide scale are currently employing trade barriers, so to speak, and will do so until each of their individual systems become stable enough to open up to international markets again. That is merely a turn in Hyrule’s own history, and nothing to be concerned about.”

I hesitate, suddenly, shocked by my incredible answer. I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth. I’m supposed to be pulling out, not diving in!

And… uh, am I the only one who thinks what I just said was amazingly cool?

“Any other questions?” I ask, when I notice that the crowd looks stunned, and feeling a bit stunned myself.

“What do you think of your adversary, Ganondorf Dragmire?”

Oh. Whoops and goody.

“Ganondorf Dragmire is…” I try to bite down my hatred for the man. “He’s a very thorough sort of person. He won’t accept competition, and really believes the throne is his rightful place. In fact, it is likely that if I hadn’t shown up, we all wouldn’t have had any choice but to take him. Somehow, it seems that being able to choose our favourite ruler is a safe way to be happy. At least, if I were still living down south, I’d love to have a choice, and not be imposed with a man whose image of Hyrule is rotten.”

There are a couple of excited, teasingly scandalized gasps. I ignore them. “Frankly, if you wish to know what Ganondorf Dragmire truly thinks, you ought to ask him what he thinks of me.” I laugh lightly. “I don’t blame him. I’d be upset if a waitress came and became the number one obstacle on the route to absolute power, too.”

“Do you think of yourself as a queen or as a waitress?” A woman asks, holding up her recorder higher to capture my response.

I think about it for a long moment. Then, I say, in what I think is going to become my key quote and tomorrow’s front page, judging by the journalists’ bright faces, “What’s the difference? I think a queen is a waitress, only instead of giving you soft drinks and biscuits I’d give you peace and prosperity. I want to work for the people. It’s just another kind of waitress.”

“So you think you’d be good for this role?”

There’s a long silence, and flashes keep going. Then, I sigh, and I smile, and feel a bit unhappy, because I’ve never really resolved this myself, and I say, “I think I’d be the best queen Hyrule has ever had.”

The way the words echo on the speakers and into my gut makes me feel as though it can only be true. So, why do I still feel inadequate? It’s like I’m lying to these people. I sound honest, and I sound true, and eager, and sincere, but I don’t feel it.

Do I think I can be good as a queen? I know Link does, I know Rauru does, I know Tetra does, and now, the whole country does too. But I’m not so sure about it.

What, I wonder as I examine the crowd and ask for another question, am I doing? What sort of joke is this? Why does my heart feel sick but my mind continue on this one way track? Why am I going along with this when it makes me unbearably uncomfortable?

Why is it that when they ask for my opinion on the environment, I can answer them without hesitation, and feel genuine, and feel wrong at the same time?

Oh, heck. It seems I need as much guts to back out as I need to keep going. What am I going to do?