http://mythicbeast.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
mythicbeast.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
31_days2005-11-20 10:22 pm
mythicbeast.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-11-20 10:22 pm
[Nov 20] [Original] In Defiance of Gravity
Title: In Defiance of Gravity
Day/Theme: November 20: Hope not built on blindness
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Gale, Palomir
Rating: G
Summary: The art of flying with your eyes closed is not a difficult thing to master. It's walking off the edge with your eyes wide open and believing you won't fall -- that's the tricky part.
A/N: An exercise in fluffy, soupy prose and fluffy, soupy sentimentality, while I take a break from NaNoWriMo and studying. Nothing more, nothing less. I go back to this theme a lot, sadly. I HAVE NO EXCUSES.
There are times when Gale feels as though she could throw herself from the highest peak of the tallest mountain and she will not fall, but she will fly, her frail body carried along by roiling chinooks and playful breezes, bearing her away on a course built for canary-wing and butterfly-tread.
Naturally, of course, that notion simply flies in the face of all common sense. Being nothing if not pragmatic (she is not impractical, just clumsy), Gale does not dare to make the plunge. Though she might teeter on the brink for an eternity, she does not quite have the courage enough to take that final step forward and commit herself to the mercy of the abyss.
Yet even malingering on the edge is a choice that presents its own problems, because equilibrium is not a state of being that is meant to be held forever. No rock may remain balanced on its point for an infinite amount of time, and neither can anyone remain in the half-way point without budging an inch.
The only thing that doesn't change is change. Everything else must surrender to it.
Gale proves to be an exceptionally stubborn little girl, more stubborn than most grown men; she bends with change, but she does not break, and her habits have the same kind of permanence normally only limited to the ruts of a countryside road. Yet change has a habit of sneaking up on you when you least expect it.
After all, while you may not change, the world around you certainly will.
Palomir smiles at her, these days, more easily and often, and Gale's both elated and alarmed by it, much as someone receiving roses from a secret admirer might be, should the secret admirer continue to fail to reveal themselves after some time. After all, who's to know if the rose-giver is a gentleman or a stalker, a mad thing or a prince-in-the-rough?
She tells her heart, in succint terms, that it has no business fluttering with such wild desperation when there's nothing she can hope to gain, but the traitorous organ continues to judder and shake, and if it wasn't causing her so much difficulty breathing, she would have thought it was laughing at her.
It's little things one notices, little changes in the daily routine. Gale has always clung to Palomir like a burr to a dog's fur, like a duckling to its mother. The desire to remain close to him manifests both in action and in thought. One out of every three flickers of consciousness she experiences in her ordinary waking moments is devoted to him and matters concerning him and him alone, and no other thing in her life (except perhaps food and music, and the procurations thereof) occupies nearly as much of her attention. As for what she does, it's patently obvious for anyone to see; she dogs his every footstep like the strangest sort of maid-pet-lover, and more than one onlooker has directed silent disapproval in their direction at the sight.
Curiously, the elf has never objected to being treated like a glorified security blanket, nor has he ever seemed to care about what anyone watching might have to say, and he tolerates Gale's touch with a minimum of protest, voicing concern only on the occasion her grip threatens to choke him. Yet he has never, to the girl's knowledge, initiated the contact himself.
Yet now it is Palomir who is reaching back out, and even something as mundane as the passing of salt becomes curiously electrified, when his fingers seem (or is it just her overly active imagination, perhaps?) to linger on hers a little longer than strictly necessary. Palomir's cousins may tease, and they may catcall, but Palomir seems to have absolutely no shame in curling himself around Gale like the most curious kind of bear-skin, arm to arm and back-to-chest as he teaches her, curling her stiff fingers intol the correct position around the supple wood, how to properly fire a bow.
Gale's shots are still lousy, but she can draw and shoot almost as fast as the elves can. It's just a matter of figuring out how to aim.
This string of matters continues over the months, though, too often and too coincidental to be by mere chance. Gale can make neither head nor tail of it, and she has since given up trying. Her heart, poor thing that it is, is still thudding away insistently, trying to beat out a message in morse code against the walls of her ribcage, but she ignores it resolutely. She's grown used to doing so, after all. Instead, she turns her attention towards seeking out a more likely, logical explanation for all of this peculiar behavior.
One does not travel into unchartered territory ill-prepared, and one does not come to conclusions based on the bias of one's most secret dreams, either, and Gale has ever been a warier traveller than most would credit her for.
It is when Palomir presses a kiss lightly on top of her head -- quickly and gently, when no one is looking -- that Gale first begins to realize that perhaps, should she decide to step off the edge now, she will not just fly, but she will soar.
Day/Theme: November 20: Hope not built on blindness
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Gale, Palomir
Rating: G
Summary: The art of flying with your eyes closed is not a difficult thing to master. It's walking off the edge with your eyes wide open and believing you won't fall -- that's the tricky part.
A/N: An exercise in fluffy, soupy prose and fluffy, soupy sentimentality, while I take a break from NaNoWriMo and studying. Nothing more, nothing less. I go back to this theme a lot, sadly. I HAVE NO EXCUSES.
There are times when Gale feels as though she could throw herself from the highest peak of the tallest mountain and she will not fall, but she will fly, her frail body carried along by roiling chinooks and playful breezes, bearing her away on a course built for canary-wing and butterfly-tread.
Naturally, of course, that notion simply flies in the face of all common sense. Being nothing if not pragmatic (she is not impractical, just clumsy), Gale does not dare to make the plunge. Though she might teeter on the brink for an eternity, she does not quite have the courage enough to take that final step forward and commit herself to the mercy of the abyss.
Yet even malingering on the edge is a choice that presents its own problems, because equilibrium is not a state of being that is meant to be held forever. No rock may remain balanced on its point for an infinite amount of time, and neither can anyone remain in the half-way point without budging an inch.
The only thing that doesn't change is change. Everything else must surrender to it.
Gale proves to be an exceptionally stubborn little girl, more stubborn than most grown men; she bends with change, but she does not break, and her habits have the same kind of permanence normally only limited to the ruts of a countryside road. Yet change has a habit of sneaking up on you when you least expect it.
After all, while you may not change, the world around you certainly will.
Palomir smiles at her, these days, more easily and often, and Gale's both elated and alarmed by it, much as someone receiving roses from a secret admirer might be, should the secret admirer continue to fail to reveal themselves after some time. After all, who's to know if the rose-giver is a gentleman or a stalker, a mad thing or a prince-in-the-rough?
She tells her heart, in succint terms, that it has no business fluttering with such wild desperation when there's nothing she can hope to gain, but the traitorous organ continues to judder and shake, and if it wasn't causing her so much difficulty breathing, she would have thought it was laughing at her.
It's little things one notices, little changes in the daily routine. Gale has always clung to Palomir like a burr to a dog's fur, like a duckling to its mother. The desire to remain close to him manifests both in action and in thought. One out of every three flickers of consciousness she experiences in her ordinary waking moments is devoted to him and matters concerning him and him alone, and no other thing in her life (except perhaps food and music, and the procurations thereof) occupies nearly as much of her attention. As for what she does, it's patently obvious for anyone to see; she dogs his every footstep like the strangest sort of maid-pet-lover, and more than one onlooker has directed silent disapproval in their direction at the sight.
Curiously, the elf has never objected to being treated like a glorified security blanket, nor has he ever seemed to care about what anyone watching might have to say, and he tolerates Gale's touch with a minimum of protest, voicing concern only on the occasion her grip threatens to choke him. Yet he has never, to the girl's knowledge, initiated the contact himself.
Yet now it is Palomir who is reaching back out, and even something as mundane as the passing of salt becomes curiously electrified, when his fingers seem (or is it just her overly active imagination, perhaps?) to linger on hers a little longer than strictly necessary. Palomir's cousins may tease, and they may catcall, but Palomir seems to have absolutely no shame in curling himself around Gale like the most curious kind of bear-skin, arm to arm and back-to-chest as he teaches her, curling her stiff fingers intol the correct position around the supple wood, how to properly fire a bow.
Gale's shots are still lousy, but she can draw and shoot almost as fast as the elves can. It's just a matter of figuring out how to aim.
This string of matters continues over the months, though, too often and too coincidental to be by mere chance. Gale can make neither head nor tail of it, and she has since given up trying. Her heart, poor thing that it is, is still thudding away insistently, trying to beat out a message in morse code against the walls of her ribcage, but she ignores it resolutely. She's grown used to doing so, after all. Instead, she turns her attention towards seeking out a more likely, logical explanation for all of this peculiar behavior.
One does not travel into unchartered territory ill-prepared, and one does not come to conclusions based on the bias of one's most secret dreams, either, and Gale has ever been a warier traveller than most would credit her for.
It is when Palomir presses a kiss lightly on top of her head -- quickly and gently, when no one is looking -- that Gale first begins to realize that perhaps, should she decide to step off the edge now, she will not just fly, but she will soar.