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[ginneke]

Now on AO3, with minor edits:

On Hearts

for @flashfictionfridayofficial:

The Long Quiet remembers the meaning of cold a little bit early. The Long Quiet tries to do something different.

[Slay The Princess; what if you could try to keep the Shifting Mound from claiming a vessel?]

Word count: ~800

"The world. It's..."

Cold. That is what she means to say, but a shiver cuts her off from finishing the thought. The stars are winking out. The woods fall impossibly quiet. Nothing can stop the end from coming now. Congratulations. The world is ending and it's all your fault.

> There wasn't any sound before.

There was.

"He's right, there was. We made a sound. Remember?"

> This doesn't matter right now. > What do you mean this is the end of the world? > How does the Princess getting free result in this? > ... [Panic]

[[ > ...... Open your eyes Remember]]

I -- what? That's not -- What could you possibly claim to be remembering now? ... Sigh. This can't get any worse, can it? Acting on some inscruitable display of base instinct, you curl the princess inside your arms before ... the inexplicable shifting mass of reaching hands can claim her. Well, that's it. We're doomed. Your fettered wings attempt to rise to form a shield, but they are stiff and unwieldy. You cannot keep Change away forever. She's already loose.

> Resist.

"That's right. That's right! Whatever He thinks this is, whatever He thinks is happening right now, we're going to save her."

Spare me your heroics. Whatever you think you're doing, it won't work. It's already too late. It was too late the moment you decided to set her free and damned us all.

> Resist.

But there is nothing left to resist.

--

You find yourself in the Long Quiet once again. You are alone. The last dregs of memory return.

> Approach the mirror.

You shuffle towards the waiting mirror, putting aside your confusion for now. Your steps feel somehow slower than before, as if you are carrying a heavy weight, but your arms do not feel burdened. 

You reach the mirror and look into it.

Though you cannot see her in your arms, she forms a part of your reflection. She looks to be asleep. If she dreams, it is not peaceful.

-

You feel the weight of many eyes upon you. And yet, you feel nothing. A suggestion comes up against your thoughts, recently silent as they are, with such calmness that you almost listen. You stop yourself at the last moment. You do not let her go.

An idea occurrs to you, unlike anything you have tried thus far. It might not be possible, but you owe it to her to try. The Shifting Mound wants vessels, their hearts and perspectives. She might be satisfied with any.

> Take my heart instead.

You make the offer without hesitation, holding onto the slight figure with a tenacity that surprises even yourself.

The Shifting Mound smiles sadly despite lacking features with which to smile, and replies, "You, I think, would make for a malleable heart. 

"Quietness can be unmoving, but it can also be patient. He thought to make of you a weapon. He could not understand howa heart that yearns for connection will take any path available in hopes of reaching it. Though He sought to remove from the universe the capacity to change, He refused to see that it was also in your nature, just as it is in mine. One heart, now two, again as one.

"But I cannot claim it. We are no longer as we were: you are no longer me, and I am no longer you. Fleeting moments as these are the only way we can reach out to one another."

-

That makes just as little sense as it did before. You cannot comprehend her meaning, and so you can only repeat your prior offer.

> Take it. Take my heart, and let her rest.

"To let her sleep is a kindness. I promise you she is already at rest. Fresh perspective has been found and her path has reached its end. She need only return to me, so that she and I might be whole."

-

Your understanding shifts and slips out of alignment. No matter how many times these events repeat themselves, you find yourself no closer to understanding her attempts to express an ever-changing nature in a language you might both understand. You cannot explain yourself, either.

-

> I don't know who I am. And I still don't know who you are. Even after everything we've done and everything that's happened between us.

A sensation of gentle, soothing sadness washes over you, as though she expected this. You, too expected this. The lack of reply does not disturb you. It does not surprise you.

-

You pose a final question:

> Is she really at peace?

The hands reach towards you again. They do not try to take the vessel that was once the princess from you. Instead they cradle you just as you cradle the vessel, as if in this moment you could all be together as you once were. Eyes opening, she smiles up at you through the visage of the vessel in your arms. A hand climbs to cup your face. Her touch is tender. "I will be here waiting," she promises.

You choose to believe her.

-

Everything goes dark, and you die.

[ginneke]

[Un]conscionably, Tolkien's works have been severely underrepresented in the world of Tumblr sexymen. Now is[n't] the time to change that.

On a related note, did you know there is a Sexypedia Wiki? The research I do for these polls continues to surprise.

[ginneke]

negative self talk "im going to die here" vs positive self talk "im going to start killing"

[ginneke]

On Hearts

for @flashfictionfridayofficial:

The Long Quiet remembers the meaning of cold a little bit early. The Long Quiet tries to do something different.

[Slay The Princess; what if you could try to keep the Shifting Mound from claiming a vessel?]

Word count: ~800

"The world. It's..."

Cold. That is what she means to say, but a shiver cuts her off from finishing the thought. The stars are winking out. The woods fall impossibly quiet. Nothing can stop the end from coming now. Congratulations. The world is ending and it's all your fault.

> There wasn't any sound before.

There was.

"He's right, there was. We made a sound. Remember?"

> This doesn't matter right now. > What do you mean this is the end of the world? > How does the Princess getting free result in this? > ... [Panic]

[[ > ...... Open your eyes Remember]]

I -- what? That's not -- What could you possibly claim to be remembering now? ... Sigh. This can't get any worse, can it? Acting on some inscruitable display of base instinct, you curl the princess inside your arms before ... the inexplicable shifting mass of reaching hands can claim her. Well, that's it. We're doomed. Your fettered wings attempt to rise to form a shield, but they are stiff and unwieldy. You cannot keep Change away forever. She's already loose.

> Resist.

"That's right. That's right! Whatever He thinks this is, whatever He thinks is happening right now, we're going to save her."

Spare me your heroics. Whatever you think you're doing, it won't work. It's already too late. It was too late the moment you decided to set her free and damned us all.

> Resist.

But there is nothing left to resist.

--

You find yourself in the Long Quiet once again. You are alone. The last dregs of memory return.

> Approach the mirror.

You shuffle towards the waiting mirror, putting aside your confusion for now. Your steps feel somehow slower than before, as if you are carrying a heavy weight, but your arms do not feel burdened. 

You reach the mirror and look into it.

Though you cannot see her in your arms, she forms a part of your reflection. She looks to be asleep. If she dreams, it is not peaceful.

-

You feel the weight of many eyes upon you. And yet, you feel nothing. A suggestion comes up against your thoughts, recently silent as they are, with such calmness that you almost listen. You stop yourself at the last moment. You do not let her go.

An idea occurrs to you, unlike anything you have tried thus far. It might not be possible, but you owe it to her to try. The Shifting Mound wants vessels, their hearts and perspectives. She might be satisfied with any.

> Take my heart instead.

You make the offer without hesitation, holding onto the slight figure with a tenacity that surprises even yourself.

The Shifting Mound smiles sadly despite lacking features with which to smile, and replies, "You, I think, would make for a malleable heart. 

"Quietness can be unmoving, but it can also be patient. He thought to make of you a weapon. He could not understand howa heart that yearns for connection will take any path available in hopes of reaching it. Though He sought to remove from the universe the capacity to change, He refused to see that it was also in your nature, just as it is in mine. One heart, now two, again as one.

"But I cannot claim it. We are no longer as we were: you are no longer me, and I am no longer you. Fleeting moments as these are the only way we can reach out to one another."

-

That makes just as little sense as it did before. You cannot comprehend her meaning, and so you can only repeat your prior offer.

> Take it. Take my heart, and let her rest.

"To let her sleep is a kindness. I promise you she is already at rest. Fresh perspective has been found and her path has reached its end. She need only return to me, so that she and I might be whole."

-

Your understanding shifts and slips out of alignment. No matter how many times these events repeat themselves, you find yourself no closer to understanding her attempts to express an ever-changing nature in a language you might both understand. You cannot explain yourself, either.

-

> I don't know who I am. And I still don't know who you are. Even after everything we've done and everything that's happened between us.

A sensation of gentle, soothing sadness washes over you, as though she expected this. You, too expected this. The lack of reply does not disturb you. It does not surprise you.

-

You pose a final question:

> Is she really at peace?

The hands reach towards you again. They do not try to take the vessel that was once the princess from you. Instead they cradle you just as you cradle the vessel, as if in this moment you could all be together as you once were. Eyes opening, she smiles up at you through the visage of the vessel in your arms. A hand climbs to cup your face. Her touch is tender. "I will be here waiting," she promises.

You choose to believe her.

-

Everything goes dark, and you die.

[ginneke]

this may or may not be a fantasy writing exercise for me. please reblog

[ginneke]

you may think your only options are

but in fact you can

[ginneke]

you know what i'm gonna get sappy for a second bear with me

there are a lot of posts and memes for writers about how hard writing is and how annoying it can be and how dispiriting it can feel when we don't make progress the way we'd like to. and those are true, and relatable, and funny! i've been there!

but maybe it doesn't get said enough in the other direction, so I'm gonna say it: I love writing. i love the process of putting phrases together and testing them for cadence and flow; i love knowing that there is a word for exactly the thing I want to convey, even if I just can't think of it right now, and going onto a thesaurus and being like there she is, that's the one!

but more than anything, I love the ritual of constantly asking myself "okay, and then what happens?" and feeling the same sense of delighted surprise every single time when somehow, a part of me I wasn't consciously aware of knows the answer. that experience, where my brain provides me solutions I didn't know it was working on, feels like a miracle every time. and getting into a productivity groove where I keep knowing the answers is one of the best feelings on the planet.

and sure, sometimes I don't know the answer, and it's hard and unsatisfying and see above about how easy it is to joke about how writing's the pits, but... that just makes it even more special when I'm firing on all cylinders, you know?

anyway, yeah. w r i t i n g.

[ginneke]

[ginneke]

hm. random question

[ginneke]

REVALINK TIME 🗣️📣

[ginneke]

this book is so clearly designed for people who have not experienced a decade plus of high dosage uninterrupted tumblr poisoning because to me this whole section reads somewhat like “enjoyers of food and beverages may be surprised to hear about ‘bread’ and ‘water’”

[ginneke]

[ginneke]

BOOP!

revenge of the boopening

[ginneke]

Far worse, in my opinion, than the famous “he wouldn’t fucking say that” is “he WOULD fucking say that, as part of his facade, but you seem to think he would mean it genuinely”

[ginneke]

Birds, Watching

last-second @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt.

(Did a throwaway quip from Penn about 'little bird' sources need to turn into anything? Maybe it didn't, but oh well, it has.)

—

Sparrows made for terrible sentries. They spent more time squabbling with each other than they did keeping an eye on their surroundings.

Alas, sparrows were what he had to work with, since the crows had turned traitor for nothing more than the promise of food. While they still made more than enough noise to raise an alarm, befriending the target was the last thing he'd wanted them to do. (He'd parted ways with that particular flock after winter struck particularly harshly, frozen ground driving them in search of milder climes. But he stayed. He didn't have anywhere better to go.)

He'd tried others after that, but hawks were too solitary to tolerate his presence. Herons were standoffish and, frankly, rude. Doves, on the other hand, were a lot more sweet-natured -- and helplessly naive. They made for good company if he overlooked their simple natures, but half the time, they didn't even notice the Hylian climbing the cliffside. Revali usually had to scare them off before making his own hasty retreat.

It had been years. Why was that guy still trying to come after him?

The sparrows continued to bicker. The latest pointless turf war over a prime section of shrubbery—what did it matter if someone stood on the branch you'd claimed as your own? did that really warrant several minutes of shouting about it—came to an abrupt stop. One began to pipe a danger call.

Revali came alert at once, scanning the path for whatever the birds had seen as they rose in a fidgeting cloud and scattered into the trees. A threat to sparrows wasn't necessarily a threat to himself, but... Though he scanned every shape and shifting shadow that crept in the undergrowth, there didn't look to have been anything to spark such alarm.

Perhaps he should have looked up. The Hylian crashed through the treecover on a contraption of cloth and wood. Revali scarcely had time to understand what his eyes were seeing before the collision. They went over in a tangle of limbs and feathers. He yelped and kicked and struggled, but the element of surprise gave the Hylian an undue advantage.

"Caught you."

"Get off me—"

"Come home."

This again. Revali didn't have a home. Revali didn't even have a flock. He stopped struggling, and the Hylian let him up. He retreated to the other side of the glade, letting Revali scrape together the shatters of his dignity.

"...Come home, Revali."

That snagged on something he didn't care to think about. What was there to go back to? An empty shelf of rock on the cliffside which hasn't seen an inhabitant in years. At least here he had company, even if the sparrows were vapid and annoying.

"How long are you planning to keep this up?"

"Until you're ready." 

At least he didn't say 'remember' like last time.

"And then what?" Revali was tired of this. He was tired of being hounded to remember something that would never come back.

"Home can be people, too."

Link would probably be better at keeping watch than sparrows were, he thought. That, and that alone, led him to say, "...Only if you can keep up."

The Hylian—Link—smiled lopsidedly, as if taking Revali's words to heart. How foolish of him. Revali smirked, grabbed his meagre possessions, and—

The ground shrank away beneath him, and Link shrank with it to a pinprick. Something of the sight tugged on familiarity. For the first time in years, he laughed.

If Link caught up again, then this time he would. ...If not, he could always try to find another flock.

Maybe starlings, this time.

[ginneke]