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It took three years to convince Impa to start training her in combat. Three years of begging and pleading and relentless pestering until Impa finally conceded to the fact that if Zelda must live in shadow while they await Link’s return, it only made sense she learn to fight in it as well.
You wanted this. Zelda reminds herself as she hits the ground— hard—for the fifth time that morning. Impa had caught her mid-spin with a stiff arm across the chest, as solid as a stone wall, and dropped her directly onto the square of her back.
All of the air immediately rushes out of her lungs. She squeezes her eyes shut against the pain and panic beginning to blossom in her chest and forces herself onto her side. She pulls deep, steady breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, like Impa instructed her to do the first time it happened. She’s had to repeat it so many times it feels as if it’s the only thing she’s really mastered in this first year of her training.
To be fair, the move she’s trying to execute—a spinning downward heel kick—is more advanced than anything she’s ever attempted before, but Impa insisted she was ready. She’d been all smiles and sunshine about it too, really keying up Zelda’s confidence, and then proceeded to serve her dirt for breakfast.
“You almost got me that time.” She feels Impa kneel down beside her.
“Don’t … lie,” Zelda gasps.
They both fall silent as she works to control her breath. They are sparring in a small clearing of the trees in the woods surrounding Kakariko Village. Without any cover, the sun quickly begins toasting the exposed skin of her arms, which means it has to be approaching midday. In another round or two, she’ll be served dirt for lunch.
She sits up slowly and wipes the beads of sweat from her brow. Impa rises and stands over her with her hands on her hips. Her broad shadow shields Zelda from the harshness of the sun. For some reason, it makes Zelda feel worse about the kick.
Zelda hunches over herself, very unbecoming of a princess (though she’d not needed to be princess-like in a long while), and glares at the top of her boots.
“Let’s go again,” Impa says.
“Oh, just leave me down here. I’ll be back in another round, anyway,” Zelda grumbles. Impa scoffs and extends her hand down, but Zelda swats it away. “I’m never going to get this right.”
“Not with that attitude, you won't.” Impa reaches again and wiggles her fingers in front of Zelda’s face.
You wanted this. The reminder echoes in a mocking, sing-songy tone throughout Zelda’s skull. She narrows her eyes and begrudgingly takes Impa’s hand, practically floating to her feet with Impa’s strong tug. The Sheikah’s strength is remarkable, and it makes her stealth all the more impressive. Impa can trick her own shadow, disappear in a flash of smoke, and scale trees without rustling a single leaf. Zelda can’t wait to use the smoke bombs … if she ever manages to advance past this dreaded kick.
Impa gives her a reassuring pat on the back and resets herself. How many times had Zelda watched her take this same stance training the Royal Guard? Never in a million years did she imagine herself on the receiving end of that sharp stare; the receiving end of Impa’s fist! Her father would be livid—
Her chest pulls so tight, so fast that she nearly doubles over. She breathes deliberately once again, eyes fixing hard and intense on a random spot in the treeline. Turns out, how someone breathes through grief is the same as how someone breathes when the wind is knocked out of them. Impa taught her that as well.
A phantom of the searing pain that exploded over the top of her right hand that fateful day vies for her attention. She holds her hand in front of her face and inspects the faint triangle-shaped scar under her knuckles. Wisdom’s mark. The scar had gleamed with golden starlight when it first appeared after they escaped on horseback to Hyrule Field. It revealed she is the Sage of Light, that she always has been, and she has an important part to play yet alongside Link in the fate of Hyrule. It glows now whenever she dreams about a new song for her harp. A song for each of the temples. For Link. It will be her job to guide him when he returns; to teach him the melodies of his destiny.
The third song had come to her just two nights ago—the Serenade of Water. Though she still has three more to learn—Light and Shadow and Spirit—the warping song of the Water Temple ignited a fresh sense of urgency inside her. Link slumbers in Sacred Realm while his body ages. Zelda doesn’t know how old he must be to wield the Master Sword, but she has a feeling the day she hears the last song will be the day he wakes up.
She needs to be ready. To fight. To lead. They will not be granted another chance to right what she so terribly, foolishly wronged. Ganondorf is too powerful now. Too hungry. The last time she dared to look, a menacing black cloud swirled about the center of Hyrule Field. There have been rumors of unspeakable ruin in Castle Town. Monsters. The undead. Should Ganondorf gain the full power of the Triforce, his darkness will spread and consume the entire world.
A shiver crawls across her skin despite the heat. If Impa notices, she doesn’t show it. She waits, arms crossed, sunlight catching the silver of her armor occasionally so it winks. Calm and collected as ever. The opposite of how Zelda feels now.
“I don’t think my reflexes are quick enough,” she tells Impa, shaking out her legs to keep her muscles from going stiff. “I wasn’t permitted to run in the castle, much less train.”
“I recall letting you run about when no one was looking,” Impa says, looking down her nose at Zelda with a smirk. “I certainly recall chasing after you.”
The memory finds her like a cool breeze. Zelda can’t help but smile. A reprieve from the harshness of change.
“That’s better.” Impa nods approvingly. “So why are you really questioning yourself?”
“I don't know.” Zelda shrugs and drops her eyes to her feet. She pushes a clod of upturned earth with her boot. “Maybe I’m just not built to be a fighter? Has there ever been a warrior princess of Hyrule?”
“Not yet.”
Zelda snaps her eyes back up to Impa. There is a hint of something more there. There always is with Impa. Zelda used to think it was an adult thing, some sixth sense she would acquire when she was grown as well, but now she thinks it’s more of a Sheikah thing—an Impa of the Sheikah thing. It can’t be a coincidence her handmaiden-turned-protector-turned-trainer just so happens to be the Sage of Shadow. A guardian of secrets. She knows something.
“Besides,” Impa continues, ”you don’t need fast reflexes to be a good fighter.”
“You don’t?” Zelda tilts her head.
“You need perseverance, which you have, and you need to be consistent, which you have been. You are building muscle memory.” Impa speaks the words so firmly, so assuredly, that Zelda feels her spine straighten a little more with each one. “That is the key to becoming who you are meant to be.”
Zelda envisions herself in armor in the shade of twilight, with piercing red eyes, and a dagger in each hand.
“A Sheikah warrior, right?” she asks eagerly.
Impa gets a far-off look, the same kind Zelda’s father used to get when he was reaching into the past for wisdom to impart upon her, or when he gazed toward the future for direction to guide his feet. But Zelda can’t tell which direction Impa is looking.
“That, too,” she finally answers.
Zelda’s entire life has been leading up to this point—to this task. It started with a song, and it's stuck on a kick, but it will end with a reckoning. Impossibly, it feels even bigger than her life, as if she stands on the precipice of a new beginning. An evolution. Impa seems to know it. And even more, Impa believes in it. In her. Almost as if she already knows the outcome. As if they’ve been here before.
The thought rejuvenates Zelda’s confidence. Nourishes it.
You wanted this, she reminds herself, adding, and you’re ready for it.
“Okay.” She resumes a fighting stance and is pleased to find it comes without her having to think about it. Not a reflex. Muscle memory. Just like Impa said.
With time, she’ll get lighter on her feet. She’ll strengthen her muscles and train them to recognize what is needed from her when she needs it. Perhaps in the future or wherever Impa was looking, during a moment of struggle or failure or insecurity, the muscle memory she is building now will remind her she is more than someone who must wait for the world to be saved. She never has been. It’s partly why they are in this mess, but she’s going to fix that. She’s a survivor, a sage, a soon-to-be warrior, and she's a princess. Who knows, maybe she could be the one to save the world and Link!
She grins and prepares. Or they could do it together, just like they started. For now, she just needs to focus. She needs to dream of new songs and get her hands on a smoke bomb and figure out how she’s going to avoid Ganondorf while she helps Link. Maybe she’ll conceal her identity …
But first, she needs to kick.