two world travelers sit down on a log to rest. which is to say that one world traveler sits down and then says, with their head in their hands, "just give it a rest. let's just stop fighting for a little bit."
the other world traveler is skeptical but sits down regardless. neither traveler knows what to do with their body but the first is too busy in their slumping despair to really care about the awkwardness of the moment.
"jump sickness?" the second offers.
the first shakes their head slowly.
"do you know how to break a person?" the first asks.
"take away everything that made them them," the second answers promptly.
"destroy their story," the first corrects. "or better yet, pervert and distort it. then you will have broken a person."
"there are plenty of stories out there," the second argues.
the silence is long before the first answers: "not for everyone."
two world travelers, sitting on a log to rest. the second watches the worlds glitter past and the first can't bear to look up. time passes both of them by.
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local man gets possessed and starts calling his possessor his sibling.
“the way i see it,” local man says as the ghost that is now his sibling is half sunk into the floor, “is that if i am going to be possessed, then whoever tries to possess me is stuck with me now. i was an only child and i think i’m too young to have a kid, so free sibling it is.”
the ghost, when offered the chance to comment, only gave a screech that shattered the windows.
two world travelers sit on a mound that was once a grave in order to take a breath. which is to say that the second world traveler sits down and the other one stays standing, watching the second with a singular, discerning eye.
"the view is nice from here," the second world traveler says, but the first does not move their gaze.
"do not think that this is a truce," the first starts.
the second snorts. "if this is not a truce, then why aren't you catching me?"
the first stays still and the second, still looking off into the distance, smiles softly.
"stop that."
"i can smile at the beauty of the world, can i not?"
"if the only thing you do is keep smiling, you'll bleed out before the sun rises."
"and?"
the first lets out a slow breath and their body starts to shudder. "are you stupid? are you daft? you'd rather die and stay smiling than grit your teeth and live another day?"
"i've done what i can," the second says, and the grin is wavering. "i dropped my supplies in the run. your lot shut down communications. i have a tourniquet in place, but that's all i can do. i don't have anything else."
the second winces and then moves to tighten the makeshift tourniquet. the two of them are silent for a long time.
"when i die," the second says quietly, "i want to feel glad. whether you're my executioner or witness, i don't care. i want to smile one last time."
the first scoffs and then, with halting motions, sits down.
when the sun rises, there is only the first world traveler, sitting alone by a mound that was once a grave. and leading away from them, light, limping imprints, soon hidden by the wind tousling the grass.
yuan and dreams // the tale of the master and the demon — the demon in the well
Even Yuan, in this state, dreamt. Even they had to have some sort of release from this torturous reality, though others had sought to deprive them of anything that could be contrived as rest.
Sometimes, Yuan dreamed of their home, as it was. There had been a bakery a few buildings down and Yuan could always smell fresh bread and pastries in the mornings. The people who lived farther from the town relied on roosters to wake them, but Yuan had the smell of good food. They had always been so anxious to eat something good that they leaped from bed before their mind comprehended they were awake. They didn’t remember any of those smells now, but they could imagine feeling full, and sometimes, that was enough.
Sometimes, Yuan dreamed of other things. Nonsensical things, like waking up late to get to their exam, except they lived at the bottom of a river and had to swim up to the surface to get to school. Their classmates were calling for them to come already, and Yuan was there, somehow a fish and a person and a tree at the same time, trying to swim.
There were of course, the third kind of dreams. The one of a future that no longer belonged to them. A life where none of this had ever happened. A life where they had never been caught. A life where their plan had succeeded. A life where they crawled out of this miserable wreck and found a life for themself, far away from everyone and everything, similar to their current isolation except that they had a choice, in the dream.
Yuan used to have those dreams more often, back in the beginning. When they believed there was a way to get out of this, that there was some plan to free them that they were not privy to.
Well, if there was such a plan they were still not privy to it. Like they said, all this dreaming might be for the worse. Sometimes, it was hard to convince themself of otherwise.
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little batches of nonsense: some writing from me to you
transcript under the cut, if you’re inclined to read this nonsense i wrote a few minutes ago:
> (def (this-is-some-writing from_me to_you)
that title sounds like it's from some sort of romance
letter, doesn't? and i suppose it was going to be something
about longing or people you write to in general, but i
have no braincells, so this is not about that.
this is about a new format i'm trying, about this type-
writer font that makes me feel more productive, about the
sounds of the keys as my fingers fly across the board.
this is about exploration and discovery, and this is also
perhaps about abandonment, because everything loses its
edge over time, and everything as time goes on, reveals its
flaws.
i can't go back a line here, did you know that? i can't go
back and once i press enter, that line is set in stone,
unless i restart this application and type all over again.
that seems like too much effort to conceal simple mistakes.
it seems like too much effort and i'd rather be stuck in time
always moving forward than in a loop i cannot escape.
because one mistake leads to another
and another
and another
and if you go back to erase them all, you'll always be going
back. and in the time you're away, won't you just create new
mistakes with your abscence?
if you're always picking up after yourself, always looking
behind, you'll never see the mess you're creating right in
front of you. you only see it once it's in the past and once it
just becomes more work for you to do.
but i digress. this was not meant to be about time or our
mistakes or any sort of thing that was supposed to mean anything.
it's just some simple writing, from me, to you.)
“Can’t you do anything against this?” Alt had asked, and Motek had grasped for some sort of an answer. They had used the restriction as an excuse, and it seemed good enough for the Fae, but Alt’s eyes had narrowed as if they knew it had not been the full truth.Â
Motek could tell no one the full truth. It wasn’t as if anyone could understand. The concept of the wind as some sort of sentient being was hard enough to comprehend for most people--the idea that the air that they were breathing and using had sentience--much less comprehend correctly.Â
The wind wasn’t some sort of god that commanded that aspect of the natural world. It was not a well of magic. It was just… the wind.Â
No one seemed to be able to understand that, and that made the rest of the truth that much harder to comprehend.Â
The wind had raised them. How could an incorporeal aspect of the world raise a child? And how could Motek explain that the wind had done so much more than that? The wind had taught them how to fight, how to survive, how to be. It had taught them how to use their own magic, and it had taught Motek the most important thing, the one rule, the wind told them, that trumped all the other ones: Do not use me.Â
It was a difficult rule to follow at first, and a strange line to toe, back when Motek could use their magic. Motek and the part of them that was magic intrinsically came about from the wind; they overlapped with the wind and they drew strength from the wind. They hadn’t known where their magic had ended and the wind began. Only over time could they see past the similarities.Â
A part of you is me, the wind had explained when Motek was trying to understand it, which is how I can always reach you. That part is what you control, what you manipulate. The rest, you do not.
So I have very little power, they had responded, shoulders slumped.
And what of it? the wind had asked sharply. Why would more power be better? Why would control over others be better?
Motek had not had a response, and in that shame, they had understood. Their own magic was a bucket of water, one that would keep their thirst quenched. The wind, on the other hand, was the surrounding lake. They could not disturb the waters of the lake just as they could not tip the balance to harness the wind or command it. Â
They had understood. Others could not.Â
Motek tried talking to Jaka about it, about her connection with her fire, but it was hardly the same. Jaka didn’t speak with her fire. There wasn’t a bond between the two of them. For all she knew, all the fire she had was her own, and not from something that was existing outside of her.Â
We are spread out, the wind had told them after their conversation with their sister. Which is why magically potent beings are able to absorb and manipulate us. Because we cannot communicate most of the time, they never know what they are truly doing.Â
The wind had no eyes to look at them with, but Motek felt as if it was all the same.Â
This is why the first rule exists? Motek had asked.Â
It is why the first rule exists.Â
And Motek had respected it, even as their parents paid no attention to them, thinking that they were useless without power. Motek had respected it, even when it could have saved time and effort, even if it could boost their standing.Â
It was hard to respect the wind’s words, though, when trapped in the Rinedans. It was hard to think of the wind and all the lessons it had impressed on them when they were dying, when the others were being killed day by day. It was hard to remember the rule that trumped all the others when just a little wind, just a little power, would get them out.Â
And it was hard to only toe the line when they finally snapped.Â
They hadn’t known what they were doing. They hadn’t known that they were collapsing the air pockets in the cliffs, that they were stealing the breaths from the lungs of their captors, that they tearing apart the facility, throwing it into the air and into the sides of the mountains and down the ravine.Â
They hadn’t known what they were doing. They hadn’t known what they had done until months later, until after the restrictions were clamped on, after the wind no longer spoke to them, and after their mind was a little clearer and able to fathom what had happened to them, able to remember the experience.Â
It took decades to regain the trust of the wind, for them to speak together again. It took longer for both of them to apologize--Motek, for forgetting, and the wind for leaving.Â
And Motek wouldn’t break that trust again. They couldn’t calm down this storm in the way that Alt no doubt thought they could, in the way that others would expect them to.Â
