hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul
and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all :
a collaborative note on the bird, the tiger, & jinu. under cut for length.
an eternity alone is probably the worst thing jinu could imagine for himself. of course, it is, immediately, what he condemns himself to. freshly dragged to the underworld, stripped of everything he was & everything he knew, still raw with shame & half - misplaced anger, jinu falls upon the only thing he feels there is left to do.
he runs. from others, from gwi - ma's altar, from himself. god, especially from himself. he could never have brought his family with him, even if he had caught the loophole that their safety was never specified. even if he had not been so foolish as to agree without question, without condition – jinu was never going to make it out of that situation the good guy. if gwi - ma wants someone, he will find a way to get them.
it was always going to end in jinu's downfall. this does not mean he is exempt. this does not mean he is not ashamed. whatever plans he had in life no longer matter, down here. it does not matter that he planned to find a way to siphon money to his family – he did not have the time. he squandered it.
& so, petulantly, jinu falls back on the same thing he did in his last months of life; distances himself. separates, isolates himself, drives distinct mental barriers between himself and who he needs to be to survive, now. after what he's done, who he's abandoned, jinu does not deserve community. he does not deserve kindness, gentleness, the reaching of a loving hand.
the first thing to go, if you ask him, is his heart, but, if the evidence could speak for itself, there was never truly a time that one did not exist without the other. still, i digress.
and sweetest in the gale is heard, and sore must be the storm,
that could abash the little bird, that kept so many warm.
jinu would not be able to tell you, if asked, when, exactly, the tiger and the bird began to follow him. in a way, they were always there, less visible at the start – but it could have been that he was never paying attention. never looking behind him, because why, why would anything follow him, after all that he's done? why would anything still reach?
… truthfully, he was not immediately the kindest to those companions. he wasn't kind to anyone or anything at all, angry, bitter, cheated, how he tells it, out of a proper chance. he would never let anyone close enough to be used against him again, jinu said – but you cannot run from yourself. it always follows, a solemn, heavy - footed tiger in your wake. it is a great comfort, now, to have faith that the tiger will always return, but there was a time, once, that jinu detested it for this loyalty. he had done nothing to deserve it, nothing, do you hear him? he's a wicked man, and he'll hurt you, he swears he will!
– none of the shouting deters it, though. it can't, because, again, you cannot chase yourself away. you are forever tied, in life and death, to your heart, and all its unreasonable wants. you cannot ignore the regret steeping, jinu. it sits in the cup on your counter, and you may not look at it, but still, it exists.
it is as if the tiger knows all that sits in the marrow of jinu's bones. all the regret, all the sorrow, all the little ways his veins reach like ivy tendrils for something else to coil around. it manifests with all his desire for touch, for comfort, for the safety of a body leaning. it manifests with his willingness to serve, his willingness to heed, to serve any role, if it will mean that role is his to serve, if it means that he will provide, even if in the smallest way.
the tiger walks with all of jinu's love and jinu's guilt, reaching for all the things that jinu himself is too troubled to allow. it walks with a purpose to fix all the mistakes that are just simply unfixable. it protects the little things jinu gives it, over the centuries, the tiny objects he is unwilling to keep, but reluctant to lose. it always acts with jinu's best interests in mind, after all. this, he knows. it will do right by him, if nothing else in this world will.
i've heard it in the chillest land, and on the strangest sea ;
yet, never, in extremity, it asked a crumb of me.
and the bird. perhaps the more obvious, of the two, more on - the - nose about it. hope is the thing with feathers, yes, but the poem forgets to mention pride. petty standards, instilled by a dream of nobility. jinu denies the existence of his ego, of his expectations. pride isn't a virtue, and what has he, anyway, to be proud of, anymore?
still, though, the bird remembers. every standard, every wish, every child - minded idea to become something great – every item has been kept, stored away, file - like, in the bird's sharp mind. it reproaches jinu when he is being unreasonable, mirrors that pride in a blatant, infuriating way – and still, jinu fails to connect the dots. damn that bird, he'll think, as it enacts every annoyance jinu places upon others. damn that bird, and its refusal to settle. you can't have everything, you know.
it never stops. you cannot change such an undeniable part of yourself, jinu. always, always, always, it will know. it will sing, it will fly, it will steal, it will hope. it cannot be tamed, cannot be caged. doesn't it pose the smallest comfort, at least, knowing that there is one part of you that will not be forced into something? that there is one part of you still uncontrollable & free?
everything jinu makes, he makes with fondness. he makes with dedication. he hand - sews the costumes for his performances, you know, above the surface. he also mends his own hanbok, and, in time, offers the same to the saja boys. he's not very good at it, even after all this time, always stabbing his fingers and leaving little bloody pinpricks upon them.
when he finishes, each time, he grins, and holds it up to the light, inspecting his clumsy handiwork with a beam upon his face like the sun itself. how could the bird not want to partake in that joy? how could it not carry that pride upon its head, upon its wings, soaring across the world for everyone to see his achievements?
it will be proud of him. it will sing his praises, if nobody else has found the voice. when he plays that old bipa, reluctant as he is, at times, to bring it out of hiding, it will dance in the air & sing along gleefully, and the tiger will purr in time, because they love him. because they are proud of him. because no matter how much jinu tries, he cannot deny the animal in his chest, the one that just wants to be honest. the one that just wants to be.
@quillheel — “i know it’s not perfect, but i did follow the recipe this time.” — from curly to anya! perhaps last time’s communal birthday party was hers… <3 still getting used to making the cake....
🌤 — ❝ Oh , Curly . . . ❞ Anya tries to be polite in covering her mouth, hiding her amused smile as she takes in the sight of the cake. It’s not his fault, of course— the machines can be finicky, especially when it comes to making bigger things like this. But she can’t hold back the giggle that escapes her at the sight.
It’s certainly still a cake— that much he had managed. What really went wrong was the icing and the candles. It’s a mess, some spots have far too much of it and others manage to be barren. There’s even a stray candle shoved onto the side. Really, it’s entirely the machines fault. Something must be wrong with it. But he’s the one presenting it to her, claiming responsibility for it. And she has to turn away from him for a moment to reign in her giggles.
🌤 — ❝ No — it is perfect , Captain . ❞
She offers him her most genuine smile, though she still has to bite back her amusement. It’s hardly even that funny, it’s far from the most poorly decorated cake she’s ever seen, and he didn’t even do it by hand. But something about it just gives her the giggles in the worst way.
🌤 — ❝ I’ve , um . I’ve always said cakes need more dry spots . Thank you ! ❞
She looks at the cake again for a moment, biting her lips together to keep herself calm.
🌤 — ❝ We , um . We might want to have them service the kitchen when we get back to earth , though . For no particular reason . ❞
Silence. More silence. Even more silence. Forgive him, he's turning the words over in his head like some strange little Rubix Cube, before halting the rotation entirely. " Am I to receive pets for my apparently approved actions? I had not thought you were watching me with such intensity. " It delights him all the same.
transcripts, from top ("[actually answers]") to bottom ("why. what are you saying about me"):
penn: has been referred to with a BUNCH of non-rito pronouns in his travels around and beyond hyrule. finds he prefers he/him or they/them in hylian. masc-presenting
tulin: defaults to he/him, but won't explicitly say anything if assumed otherwise. masc-presenting
molli: can't be super manipulative cutesy with these pronouns :( she/her but will give you "i (hatchling)" at first if asked. fem-presenting
kido: does not care! defaults to he/him for ease of reference but really, it's any/any. masc-presenting
dineli: "what should we call you" -> "my name??? (or elder.)" labelled he/him and shrugged about it. masc-presenting
revali: he/him only (and not in a cis way). masc-presenting
Despite the beauty of the Elysium Fields, many of the days there were the same. The souls within spent much time laughing and playing, even as Calliope focused on her flute. Sometimes she accompanied the dances, joining other musicians to create lovely music, but there was part of her that wondered what it might be like to have a bit more variety in day-to-day life.
She'd just been settling in for another day when this time, there was something different. A young man, likely a godling, simply based on the power he radiated, made his way through Elysium…..only to vanish.
But he reappeared the next day, only for the same thing to happen.
By the third day, Calliope had decided that, if he appeared again, she was going to go talk to him.
And sure enough, the next day, he appeared once more. The moment she saw him, Calliope hurried over, not wanting to miss him again.
"Hello!" she greeted him, gazing up at the being before her. He was tall, with messy hair and mismatched eyes, and he seemed…..familiar, somehow, though she couldn't put her finger on it.
"What are you doing?" she asked, eyes bright and curious. After all, most people wanted to stay in Elysium when they got here, but he'd left twice, so far.
