#no i've not forgotten about any of my fs projects there's just a lot more plot in them and i need the brain space

[vagueandominousvibes]

Been a while since I wrote anything for myself (work atm has me typing 4-6h straight, and it’s ... yeah), but I’ve had a small idea for Minish Cap rattling around for some weeks now. Some of you may know that MC is one of my favourite LoZ games, and that’s mostly because it feels like a children’s story: Link is suggested to still be a child; the setting is part-Spirited Away and part-Arrietty; I keep imagining Ezlo as some sort of Coraline-ish stuffed thing with button-eyes (I’m going to draw that at some point, mark my words). 

I guess what I’m saying is that Neil Gaiman and Hayao Miyazaki (Studio Ghibli) teaming up to make an animated movie based on it would make me really happy.

Until that happens, however, here’s an untitled drabble based on it:

“Kid?” Ezlo curled forward. Firelight flickered over Link’s grubby cheeks. He was studiously scrubbing at his hands and arms with a worn rag. His tunic lay on the rocks nearby, still soaked, and the Fire Element dangled next to the Earth Element, like two common charms, from the woven twine he had wrapped around the hilt of the sword. They glowed faintly in the night.

“Hey.” Ezlo leaned down to look at Link’s face. (Upside-down. The day this spell broke would be one of great joy.) “It’s late.”

Link blinked at him. Eyes that old shouldn’t belong to an eight-year-old. “I know.” Link resumed scrubbing.

If Ezlo could, he would have narrowed his eyes. Unfortunately, button-eyes couldn’t be narrowed. He scrunched up the fabric around them instead, and hoped the stitching would do the rest. “I’d rather not be stuck to a whining  —”

“Go to sleep.”

“I’m not going to sleep while you —”

Link peered up. “Who’s whining now?”

“YOU —” Ezlo puffed his cheeks out. (Or rather, the fabric.) The nerve of this child!

Link smiled. “Grandad says a good tradesman’s —” he paused, mouth opening and closing a few times, before — “destingished? Desting  —”

“Distinguished.”

“Distinguished. Dis-tin-guished.” Link repeated it to himself a few more times, then nodded. “A good tradesman’s distinguished by how well he cleans up before bed. See?” He showed his left hand. The skin was red and raw, but the mud, blood, and soot that had accumulated in the lines of his palm, on the joints in his fingers, and under his nails was gone. Callouses and nicks aside, he could have been anyone’s son. 

“It’s important to have clean hands,” Link continued. “It means I’m good at being a hero.” His eyes shone with pride. 

Ezlo’s stuffed heart clenched. What a simple and innocent logic. Still, he couldn’t make himself be sardonic about it. He sighed. “It sure does, kid. Are you going to sleep soon?”

Link shook his head. “I have to finish the other hand first.”

“Alright. Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t.”