A/N: A series of 31 oneshots based on the prompts for Whumptober 2019. Read them as they're released on my Tumblr (embyrinitalics), or tune in here as I archive them!

Prompt No. 1
Word count: ~2060
Universe: Breath of the Wild
Pairings: Zelink
Rating: K
Themes: Memory loss, trauma, panic attacks

Shaky Hands

The first time Zelda noticed, he was drawing back the bowstring.

One eye was pinched shut as he took aim, his posture so practiced and familiar it was soothing to look at. But the bowstring trembled, ever so slightly, where his knuckles held the fletching. The bow wasn't heavier than he was used to, and he certainly wasn't lacking the muscle or technique necessary to fire it two dozen times in quick succession before it wore on him. Still, the string was tremoring.

He loosed the arrow and they had venison for supper.

Sometimes his hands shook on the reins when they were riding. Sometimes she would start awake at night, and watch his hands tremble, as he fed the fire, through bleary eyes. Sometimes they would be steady for days.

She asked him once if something was wrong. He smiled and promised he was fine.

But it kept happening. And then, usually a few days later, he would mention something—small things, things he shouldn't have known, things he definitely hadn't known—and it wasn't long before she started connecting the dots.

They had set up camp beside the wind-swept roads winding through Akkala near sunset, having left Tarrey Town and its colorful residents in the distance some time ago, when she saw it again—the telltale tremor of hands as they skewered a fresh catch on a rudimentary spit. Her fingers closed over his before she could think better of it, and her pulse was instantly in her ears. She hadn't meant to confront him, or comfort him, or whatever this was—it was just a reaction. Still, her grip only tightened, and she hesitantly met his probing eyes.

He tried to retreat gently, and when she didn't let go, he murmured, "My hands are dirty."

They were, covered in scales and grime and who knew what else. She didn't mind. Her whole body had been stained with much worse before. It still was, in her dreams.

"Did you—" She took a soft breath, not exactly sure what she meant to ask. "Have you remembered something?"

His eyes widened imperceptibly, the silence pouring out of him draining light from the world and the feeling from her lips. Then he drew back, more firmly this time, and placed the spit over the fire with unwavering, completely unnecessary attention.

She wet her throat, trying again. "Do you… want to talk about it?"

"No."

And that effectively ground her advance to a halt. He never denied her anything. The finality of his response was absolutely jarring. She whispered, "Oh."

Zelda didn't bring it up again after that.

When his hands shook the next morning as he fastened his saddle leathers, she took the buckles from him, quietly working them into submission without meeting his eyes. When they shook two days later when he was trying to uncap his jar of Goron spice over the cooking pot she took that from him, too. Before our supper turns volcanic, she had teased, though neither of them had smiled.

There were three days of perfect steadiness after that—or perhaps he was just talking care to hide it well.

On the fourth day, as they set up camp again—they were deep in the shadow of the Gerudo Canyon, which was blistering during the day and borderline frigid at night—the flints trembled as he moved to start the fire, and when she tried to take them from him he finally snapped.

"Din, Zelda, I'm not an invalid," he growled. She yanked her hands back as quickly as if they had been burned, and he sighed, dragging a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to shout."

"You didn't shout."

For a moment neither of them moved, or spoke, and for Zelda's part she didn't breathe—but then the wind rustled the sparse underbrush, urging him to light the fire, and in two expert strikes the tinder had caught. He fed it gently, building a tent shape with the scavenged wood, and soon it was roaring so brightly she had to back away from the heat.

"They're just little things," he whispered, suddenly, but when she turned to meet his eyes they were still fixed on the fire. "Glimpses. Not all bad, either. Sometimes they're of you."

She grimaced. "Am I behaving myself?"

The side of his mouth tugged into a smirk. "Sometimes."

He went silent, and she, afraid to pry and afraid to wait idly, said, "I'll get the cooking pot."

His hands were steady as he helped her prop it over the flames and toss in the ingredients for their stew, and as he ladled a spoonful a broth to his lips and subsequently sprinkled in another pinch of seasoning. When it was finished, he handed her a bowl, and her fingers brushed along his as she accepted it. She opened her mouth once, closed it, and then took the bowl.

She took an eager taste and opened her mouth to tell him it was delicious, and was properly mortified when what came out was, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It seemed trivial," he muttered before she could backpedal, and as she was burning to know the answer, she didn't stop him when he seemed agreeable to telling her more. "I never remember anything substantial. Just images, moments. A feeling. And the side effects were tolerable. Barely noticeable," he added, glancing at her wryly, "or so I thought."

She smiled down at her stew, just happy he wasn't angry. "I can be very observant."

"Yes," he laughed softly. "I know."

He fell into another spell of silence, and, assuming he had shared all he was inclined to share, she brought another spoonful to her mouth to mask a disappointed twist of her lips. He finished off his stew, and then a second helping. He looked like he was contemplating a third when he suddenly put his bowl aside and moved back to be closer to her. His eyes were evasive, darting across her throat as he tried to formulate the words. She held her breath.

"I thought as long as it didn't interfere, as long as I never missed a mark…" he trailed off, eyes glued to where his fingers, splayed on the ground near hers, had begun to drift closer, moving steadily until they brushed each other in silent, simultaneous invitation, and then interweaved, feather-soft.

So much of their relationship had progressed this way: all hesitance and delicacy, never spoken, barely touching, afraid of holding on too tight. Afraid of having something precious ripped out of their grasp again.

He sidled closer, letting his jaw touch her cheek, soft as breath—inviting her to take comfort in him, or perhaps asking for comfort. It was hard to be sure. But she was more than happy to do either.

"I didn't want anyone to know—to see it as a weakness."

"Link," she whispered, swallowing, melting into that invitation, pressing so tentatively into the side of his neck, "we're in the wilds. There's no one else here. Just me."

"Especially you," he hissed, so bold as to take her shoulders in his hands, and buried his face in her hair. "You let yourself be swallowed whole by the Calamity itself and kept him confined for a century. You've seen things—felt things—that would have broken the most courageous of men, and even when you wake up screaming because of them, you still—"

He stopped, taking a shuddering breath. And then, gently, penitently, he drew her away so he could look her in the eyes.

"When a memory comes my heart pounds until I want to be sick. I see faces and I don't know who they are. I feel pain but don't remember getting the wounds. Sometimes I remember holding you in my arms—and when I come back to myself I don't know how anymore. How could I tell you how badly it makes me want to run? How could I face you then?"

All at once his hands were gone from her shoulders, his eyes were back on the dirt, and there was a foot of space between them, their near-embrace shattering so quickly she wasn't sure it had existed in the first place. He rocked back, propping his elbow on one knee, and ran a hand tautly through his hair.

He whispered, bitterly, "How do I face you now?"

His face was turned down, splashed by undulating shadow and hidden from view. She choked out his name. He didn't move. Hot tears spilled out of her eyes, and she moved, bringing herself close enough that it startled him. His eyes snapped to hers—red, glistening, burning with crippling shame—and she took his face in her hands.

She whispered, her voice broken and adamant, "You're allowed to hurt, too."

For a moment he only stared, quiet, solitary tears spilling numbly down his face. And then his hands closed over her wrists, his pupils blowing out and his lips parting to draw a choked breath, and she knew it was happening to him again.

"It's all right," she promised, feeling frantic, her own heart racing as she watched him recede into a veiled past—as she watched him struggle to push it down, smother it, before she could see the symptoms. "You don't have to hide it. Not from me."

His eyes flickered with indecision, holding her wrists like a lifeline while he grappled with the choice—wanting the solace she offered so badly but afraid of the inevitable consequences.

Then the memory crashed on him and he gave in, and all at once he was gasping, eyes wide with horror and hands clawing at the earth and at her as he searched for an anchor, as the temporary blindness that followed remembering took him someplace breathless, and she pressed her face into his, whispering soft reassurances into his ear through the storm. The adrenaline was tearing through him like a knife, and there was little she could do but hold him.

So she held him. She held him until his thrashing quieted to tremors, until the broken sobs turned to softer breaths, until the tension holding his spine taut suddenly gave and he collapsed into her neck. Her fingers knotted and splayed numbly in his hair. It was all very familiar.

"It was you," he choked out miserably, voice muffled in her skin. "It was you and I just—how could I have forgotten this?"

His hands slipped around her waist, warm and firm through the fabric of her tunic, and he pressed an unrepentant kiss to her collarbone. She flushed at his sudden brazenness, leaning closer before he could remember himself and pull away. At least it had been a good memory. But she could still feel him riding the last dregs of panic. The telltale flying pulse. The shaky hands.

Long after the tears had dried and his breathing had calmed, his hands still tremored occasionally where they had come to rest on her hips, like the quiet aftershocks of an earthquake. His forehead was still on her shoulder, though they had shifted around somewhat, tangling in each other to make sitting still for so long more comfortable. He was either unwilling to move or too exhausted, and whatever the reason she wasn't complaining.

He finally murmured, "It's terrifying, realizing you're missing so much of yourself."

And not knowing what part of it you would suddenly be confronted with, no doubt. She could understand that. She stroked his head absently, reliving a memory of her own, and dipped her mouth close to his ear, eager for the distraction of his smooth skin, of his worn voice.

"Well?" she asked, so softly. "Can you face me?"

He drew back slowly, exhaling, and though his eyes were tired and his face tear-stained, his expression was serene. He brought a hand to her face, and in lieu of answering he kissed her.

It seemed fitting that fear should bring them so much closer together now; it had once before, in an era all but forgotten. If only every bout of fear could end this way. If only every spike of adrenaline and panic could resolve in the languid, heady rhythm in which they were reveling now, lips parting and breaths catching in all the right ways.

He brought his hands to her neck, deepening the kiss, and when they shook neither of them minded.