#haleth || crack

[the-elusive-soleil]

I have mixed/varying feelings on the Halenthir scenario of "he thought they were getting married (bc LaCE) but she thought it was a one-night stand" But in such a scenario this is I think the best possible way for it to go:

A few days later, while she's working on preparations to leave Thargelion and lead everybody west, Haleth hears a couple of elves talking about "Lord Caranthir's wife", how valiant she is and how clever and how well-suited to him. It does not occur to her that they're talking about her. She assumes that Caranthir is married and didn't tell her; she's going to eviscerate him for leading her on and making her think he was available and dishonoring his wife like that. (And is definitely not jealous at all, no sir.)

Meanwhile, Caranthir hears a few Haladin gossiping about their chieftain's new lover, calling him beautiful and clearly a huge sap for her. He assumes that they're talking about someone else, some adan, because clearly that's not him. He's hurt and angry, not sure whether this is a case of Haleth having this lover before she wed him and not telling him, or of her just taking up with someone else already.

While he's trying to figure out whether to confront her about this or to just let it lie because she's leaving soon anyway, Haleth comes marching up to him in a fury about the wife he didn't tell her about, and they end up having a towering argument in which all the misunderstandings are, eventually, revealed and cleared up.

(The scene is public enough that both elves and Men write semi-humorous ballads about it. The names changed to maintain plausible deniability for the writers, but at least one version preserves a particular speech pattern of Caranthir's, which is how Maglor and then the rest of the Feanorions find out that their middle brother semi-accidentally married an adaneth.)

[cilil]

Caranthir: I, um... it may be that I... enjoy getting pegged. Haleth: (already putting her strap on) Thank the Valar, I thought you were never going to admit it

[mascula-sappho]

Morifinwë Carnistir this is your fault sir

[aniseandspearmint]

Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto/Maedhros | Maitimo, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Elrond Peredhel & Maedhros | Maitimo, Thorin Oakenshield/Being Tricked Into Being Friends With Elrond's Chaos Disaster Family, Fingon | Findekáno & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Galadriel | Artanis/Maglor | Makalaurë, Argon | Arakáno/Galadriel | Artanis/Maglor | Makalaurë Characters: in rough order of appearance we have, Thorin Oakenshield, Elrond Peredhel, Kíli (Tolkien), Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Argon | Arakáno, Aredhel | Irissë, Maglor | Makalaurë, Turgon | Turukáno, Arwen Undómiel, Maedhros | Maitimo, Aragorn | Estel, Fingon | Findekáno, Celebrían (Tolkien), Balin (Tolkien), Fíli (Tolkien), Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Galadriel | Artanis, Curufin | Curufinwë, Bilbo Baggins, Narvi (Tolkien), Maeglin | Lómion, Caranthir | Morifinwë, Haleth of the Haladin Additional Tags: Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, both tags began in the silmarillion but have rippled down to affect the hobbit too, mildly eldritch line of finwë, me realizing just now after being obsessed with tolkien since i was six that elves are telepaths, definitely not LaCE compliant, Crack Treated Seriously, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, technically they did die but then they got kicked out of mandos for being annoying, Trans Fingon, Trans Finrod, baby aragorn!, the elves just want to eat smaug, they are the natural predator of the dragons now, Eldritch Peredhel (Tolkien), i misread celeborn as celegorm once and an entire cracky idea came from it, fingon shows affection like a housecat Series: Part 1 of the let love win 'verse Summary:

Thorin thought his quest to reclaim his home was going rather well. Until Gandalf insisted they stop in Rivendell. While Elrond's extended family was there.

[silmalope]

such an incredible idea, good work OP

Guys, it took me ages to understand what ship was Haladriel.

For a moment I lived in a world where Haleth of the Haladin got with a Finwean, and it was not Caranthir, but Galadriel.

Please do not ask of the mental loops my brain did.

[writerrose1998]

Caranthir: I don’t think we can mansplain, manipulate, or malewife our way out of it this time. Haleth, cracking her knuckles: Manslaughter it is.

[eri-pl]

Death and taxes

So I was thinking about Erestor son of Caranthir and Haleth (as you do), and I realized it can work (as long as you assume they were an item. But it san work mortality-wise)

I'm sorry for all the ocasions I said it can't canonically work at all. I oversimplified.

One way (more canon):

Yes, non-Earendilian half-elves got the Gift of Men, but do they have limited lifespans? I don't think we have a proof for that. All canon ones die tragically (from Feanorians). Maybe they do not die from old age, but when they die (killed or something), they do go brrr out of Ea? It is technically possible.

(Yes, Elros worked in a different way, but he is a different thing. He is not this weird unresolved Man/Elf mix. He is Earendilian, he got to chose. )

So if they look like elves (and canonically elves and humans look very much the same), Erestor can be one. He works more or less like an elf until someone kills him. (Or he dies on this thing that makes the Elves fade, which he will because he cannot sail.)

(also Gil-"and where he dwelleth none can say"-Galad… Hmm…)

The other way (crack):

Caranthir has a kid with Haleth. The kid grows quickly, but doesn't grow old as fast as Men do, so when Caranthir dies, his son is an adult, but not old.

Caranthir dies and lands in Mandos and his two brothers do too, and Dior disses Celegorm and then goes brr, and Caranthir is like "what do you mean half-elves do that??? But. My son."

And Namo is like "yes, they do it, untill the exception happens".

And Caranthir starts asking, and arguing, and why would some get an exception, but some not. And it's not poor Erestor's fault that his father is a kinslayer and it is unfair in general… and Caranthir is the best lawyer to ever lawyer + has all the motivation of a desparate father and all the insufferableness of a five-year-old arguing that he deserves more screen time.

And finally Namo is like "oh Eru please throw him into the Everlasting Darkness do something, I can't handle it any longer", and long story shory, Erestor gets to be an elf, but nobody is allowed to talk about that.

Caranthir is as good as being insufferable as Luthien is at singing.

[spinningalbinoturtle]

I listened to the silmarillion while I was recovering from surgery so here are my thoughts.

Fingon and Maedhros are indeed gay

Who is Gil Galad’s mother? Is it Maedhros?

Haleth is a bad bitch and a lesbian and I want a whole book about her

Elrond is kinda the product of a lot of cousin fucking

And then he marries a cousin!

Turin Turanbar is a dick not sure what all the fuss is about

Feanor is also a dick-although I knew this already

Eol is a predator and I am not a fan. Poor Aredhel also poor Idril and Miriel

Likewise to Ar Pharazon

Sauron kinda cracks me up. Like I just picture him being constantly annoyed by Melkor’s disorganization and then continually failing himself is so fucking funny

Sauron getting his ass handed to him by Luthien was so good

“That wolf could be me”. Surprise dummy its not

Luthien is also a baddie. Queen I love her

I ship Galadriel and Melian. You can’t tell me Galadriel was staying in Doriath for Celeborn, not when there was a Maia queen right there

Luthien single handedly putting Melkor to sleep with her singing while Beren just sat there😂Iconic

Elrond and Elros may have some Stockholm syndrome

I want to hear more about the dwarves

Turin and Beleg are also gay

Did not anticipate the incest storylines. What is this Game of Thrones?

Long story short it was a bit darker than I anticipated but just as slow as I had heard but I’m glad I read it.

[theoppositeofprofound]

Assigning First Age humans favorite foods for reasons

Bëor/Balan: Holds a traveller’s fondness and fear towards the humble mushroom; he counts himself lucky that Nargothrond is so vigorous in fungiculture.

Haleth: Though she’s eaten orc (before the elves got all hysterical about it) she doesn’t like it. As an older woman she gets a taste for dried hawthorn and very piquant rowan wine.

Marach: Grains are a new indulgence, he was never much of a farmer while on the march. In Estolad he finds a love of barley cakes.

Adanel: Raises ducks for gizzards

Imlach: Turnips in mountain goat butter. Like elves, he’s not “lactose tolerant” but cold climate girls make do.

Andreth: Innovated heavily in the field of Jellies, combining old advice from her teachers and elf lore to finalize the perfect crabapple jam.

Bregor: Lake trout with bitter orange.

Beril: Trained truffle hounds and valued her prizes highly.

Emeldir: Roast pig, fattened and butchered in autumn. As the main coordinator, she takes pride in the finished product and lets herself have a bit of crackling when it’s done.

Barahir: Is impressively lactose tolerant and enjoys an early, soft cheese, baked till its gooey.

Beren: In the dark woods, birds without a brood that year would spit crop milk into his mouth. It isn’t the taste he misses but the sense someone was one his side. Also hot drinks—after years being hunted it’s nice to have the security to build a fire.

Húrin: Lamb with a a certain blend of spices, the recipe reportedly over the mountains by his ancestors. No one uses cumin like Hador’s people.

Huor: The elves of Gondolin kept snail—he’s never been able to recapture the crisp, woody taste of their eggs.

Morwen: Dove, roasted, maybe a little more raw than is advisable but she trusts her butchery.

Rian: Nectar from the woodbine that blooms late in spring

Ulfang: Fresh wild-strawberries; his sons would bring him handfuls of them when they were small.

Bór: He likes a fermented milk, somewhere between kumis and filmjölk, but he’ll also drink milk raw just to flex on Maedhros’ kin.

Aerin: Even before she was tasked with feeding great numbers in the shadow of famine, she had a fondness for the humble onion.

Tuor: Bumblebee honey, dug out of the ground right at the coming of winter, when the bees are dying and don’t need it anymore.

Túrin: A pine nut/bear fat/mandrake pemmican Beleg taught him. None of his friends handle the alkaloid content as well as he does. He likes raw potatoes too.

Nienor: Used to catch the snakes that came to prey on her mother’s birds and make them into soup. As Níniel she eats crabapples before they can be jellied.

Dior: Little minnows found in the cold streams of Doriath and around the island of his birth. Also, eel.

Brandir: Roast chestnuts—he uses his cane to crack them open to the delight of children.

Eärendil: Enjoys shark as a child, before Morgoth’s seeping rot builds up dangerously in local bioaccumulators. Likes fennel in Sirion and the sea buckthorn that grows near his lady’s tower across the waves.

Elros: Seafood is a steady source of protein for an establishing society. Once they have the stores to use their sheep for meat as well as wool though? He’s your king for mutton in almond milk.

[isilwhore]

@silmsmutweek Day Four

Painplay, dom/sub, toys and props, humor/crack (well I think it could be funny)

Haleth shows Caranthir who is in charge, under the cut:

The aftermath 🥰

[honeyimissjoo]

would you mind giving some pointers for people who want to learn how to make gifs (and are completely clueless)? ❤️

hello, thank you for the ask ❤️

tl;dr - used these two (guide for beginners & how to make hq gifs) great tutorials to learn but more under the cut.

i'm not quite sure why after seeing my gifs you thought "yeah, that's the one", but thank you and sorry if i misled you into somehow thinking i know what i'm doing. instead of me blindly leading you down the wrong path, here is a list of tutorials and sources that helped me:

Getting Started - 1) if you don't have ps, photopea is a great website equivalent. if you want a cracked version of ps for mac or pc, dm me and ill give a link. 2) I used screen recorder pro to capture video or if I'm super lazy, I just use the screen record function on my android phone. Either one doesn't give you the highest quality, which might bother you in the long run. There are other ways though. @kylos created this tutorial on how to download HQ videos and i think vapoursynth is quite popular amongst kpop gifmakers. 3) @usergif compiles a lot of tutorials.

Tutorials -

@saw-x - guide for beginners.

@f1-stuff - how to make hq gifs.

@quokki - full process

@jasonkelce - how to gif (very informative post and includes other tutorials)

@woozis - pretty comprehensive process + sharpening + contouring

@anya-chalotra - sizing and sharpening

@haleths - sharpening

@userdramas - sharpening

@jeonghan-yoons colouring

quokki's - colouring

@rotatemp3 - colouring

usergif's - what format to save

CC community has been super helpful and nice. I'm sure if you ask any gif-maker they can help you out with more tips and pointers. My only tip really is to have fun. hope that helps ❤️🍉

[arofili]

if you're still taking prompts:

Elrond/Erestor/Celebrimbor, 33 (“Forget me.”) - Autumn or winter, maybe a last farewell before the fall of Eregion? (could also be gen or queerplatonic if you'd prefer)

I hc Erestor as Caranthir/Haleth's son, include that as you'd like :) (I also usually hc Elrond as fairly Feanorian, but again, you don't need to include that if you'd rather not)

<3

~ maglor-my-beloved

Forget me, Celebrimbor’s letter had urged. Leave me behind, let me die...

As if they could do that. As if they could simply forget all their love for him, all the nights spent together, all the history they shared!

“You know we cannot win this fight,” Erestor said wearily.

Elrond set his teeth as he donned his helmet, the last of his armor before the march. “I know,” he said shortly. “But you know we cannot abandon him.”

“I know.” Erestor grasped his gauntleted arm. Even through the armor, Elrond could feel the strength of his grip, almost as firm as Celebrimbor’s own. “But—but we will lose him, Elrond. You must be prepared to retreat when it is time.”

Elrond wrenched his arm from Erestor’s grasp. “We don’t know that,” he growled. “We can save him, if we try—”

“This is war,” Erestor said. He was older than Elrond: he knew the odds. He remembered the long and bitter days of siege, of blood, of destruction.

Well, Elrond had lived through war, also. He was born into it, had come of age into it. And he was not powerless, not anymore.

“I will fight for him,” he insisted. “To the very—”

“Don’t,” Erestor begged, his voice cracking. “Elrond. I cannot lose you too.”

“You won’t lose either of us,” Elrond insisted. He had no time for this. “Now come, or don’t. Either way, there is a war to win, and I will not wait until it reaches us.”

He turned and began to stride away.

Erestor followed. He always did.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Heartbeat

@elentarial I know, I know...I said I'd write cute things, but this one came out a bit...sad (not too much, just a little).

I hope you'll like it nevertheless <3

Characters: Caranthir x Haleth

Words: 1 682

Warnings: a dash of sadness, Caranthir might also be going insane...who knows?

Even though she had left these lands so long ago, Caranthir still retained the echo of her heartbeat as if the very rhythm had been engraved into his heart.

Indeed, it truly felt as if a bone needle was scratching along the shallow grooves in his soul, leaving it raw and bleeding—it hurt, but he welcomed the ache with perverse eagerness.

He would walk the perimeter of his realm stubbornly, every step punctuated by a sharp, piercing pang of painful recollection.

If this was the only physical thing he could retain, he would more than bear it—he would embrace every thrum of that remote heart that had once been his to have and to hold.

The downside of having nearly perfect recall was indeed that—try as he might—he could never forget the alluring, crooked curve of Haleth’s smile and the smell of her hair whenever she had come home through the verdant fields of grain.

Everywhere he looked, he discerned the tiny changes her presence in his lands—no matter for how short a time—had caused, and it fairly broke his heart to know that she was now so far away from him, never to return.

In his innate arrogance, he had once firmly believed that the Aftercomers would simply pass through his life like the seasons—transitory and fragile—without leaving any long-lasting traces. How woefully wrong he had been!

She was in everything he did, vestiges of her taste lingered in every cup of wine, and remnants of the silk of her skin were woven into the threads of his sober bedsheets—and, of course, he could always feel her heartbeat within his hollow chest like a dirge still.

It was a strong, indomitable rhythm that kept his own from stuttering, and—despite the relentless agony—he was thankful for that.

“Moryo, how have you been?”

He could barely hear the words of his brothers—rougher and throatier now than in their youth—over the steady drum of his longing, and he was grateful that his closed expression and cold gaze were not considered to be uncharacteristic or even alarming.

She would have known, he thought, of course, she would have, and she would have mocked and teased him until the mask of aloof indifference cracked under the onslaught of her playful affection.

Did anybody else remember that? Did they even know? Had she shown that tender, vulnerable, bewitchingly girlish side of herself to others?

Probably not—she had ever been a fierce leader and a fearless warrior. Her people had needed her to be strong and decisive, but her childhood had been so recent—at least by Elven standards—that this ethereal chrysalis had still clung to her tough, weathered skin, and he had relished in those precious threads of innocence that gleamed like the lost light of the trees and tasted like redemption when he kissed her lips.

Again, he cursed the well of memories in which every interaction they had ever had was preserved in a crystalline shrine of frozen tears.

As he meticulously checked and mended his armour and weapons, his distracted gaze fell onto the long, pale fingers that had once traced every scar on her body, reading the story of her life from the living vellum that had been but a poor protection against the cruelty of the world.

Through her bright eyes—warm as autumn and yet often hard as the earth in winter—he had caught glimpses of her whole life. It had been so woefully short, and yet she had known things he had never even thought about.

In her arms, he had discovered rapture and delight beyond the satisfaction that followed a well-prepared banquet, or the enjoyment his brother’s songs could elicit.

She had been brave and wild—unlike the lethal ferocity negligently papered over by courteous manners of his kinswomen, Haleth’s savagery had been as bare and bleak as her camp, but it had also followed very strict moral rules that had often struck him as absurd.

Now, with the wisdom only distance and regret could bring, he could appreciate her reasoning better, even though he would still not have claimed that he was able to fully comprehend what profound knowledge had ultimately moved her.

They had shared so much—their time, their food, and their bodies—and yet her heart had ever remained enchanting and mysterious to him.

Sometimes, he believed that they had simply existed on different planes, patently and irrevocably unable to divine what the other saw when looking at a tree, a house, or a child.

“Stop. Being. Morose!” the ghostly heartbeat jolting through his chest seemed to spell out. She had ever seen hope and growth where he could only discern imminent doom and inescapable death, and he missed having her warm hand settle into the crook of his elbow to guide him along an invisible path of wonder and amazement.

Late at night, when sleep would not come to him—proving that even the Fëanturi had deserted them—Caranthir sometimes wondered if she ever thought of him.

Did she think back on the way her words made his sour grimace of displeasure and learned reluctance melt into tentative curiosity?

Had she ever plunged her hands between her strong thighs and caressed her ageing body while thinking of his ever-young fingers?

Since she had left to find peace and freedom somewhere else, he had exchanged the silk and velvet of hopeless courtship against bright, cold steel—there was a strange solace in that as well, for he was not sure that he’d ever be able to bear warmth again without having to stifle the angry sobs he had thought he had left in his past, along with storybooks and wooden toys.

One day, as he was riding to an outpost, the familiar thumping in his breast quickened until it reached a thundering crescendo.

Worry turned into wonder as this strange and yet so beloved pounding suddenly gained an echo; at first, it was faint and faltering, but—by the time Caranthir was back in his rooms—it had grown stronger and more regular already.

He knew not what had happened to Haleth, and he dared not hope that his wildest dreams and most secret aspirations could have come true.

The impuissant anger, intertwined with ferocious hopefulness, made his knees buckle, and he fell to the floor beside his bed, his fingers clawing at the accursed bedsheets frantically.

She would not have withheld such a thing from him, he told himself. She could not have carried off his last chance at redemption, this ultimate, absolute glimmer of hope, without letting him know that she was with child.

“I wanted to go. You would have kept me. You would have begged. You would have cried. You would have threatened. Understand. Forgive.”

Listening to the threefold, erratic cacophony of cymbals and drums in his chest, he let his head drop to the hard, unyielding mattress and wept.

Of course, she would have done as she thought best—she always had—and all the love she might have at one time held for him would not have moved her to reconsider her plans.

From that day on, Caranthir embraced the agony, sending waves of white-hot sparks through his body, with grim fatalism. If not even she, who had loved him, had been ready to grant him mercy and succour, then he was truly lost.

He gritted his teeth, visited his siblings and cousins, and kept his armour spotless, all while being torn apart from the inside out.

Returning to a state of timeless apathy, he might have looked like the perfect embodiment of his race and status to the uninformed outsider, but those who knew him well grew increasingly preoccupied with how withdrawn and sombre he had become.

Years and decades passed him by unheeded, harsh winters melted into fleeting summers, and he tried to drown out the nagging awareness of the respective waxing and waning of the heartbeats of people who had deserted him—the family that had been denied to him, the bliss he had not deserved—by furious industry.

At all times, he kept his hands busy and his doors open. The milling servants and soldiers with their inconsequential gossip and babbling produced a wonderfully lulling buzz that almost distracted him from the gaping, throbbing hole inside of him.

Little by little, even his own staff and kin came to find him shrewd and vaguely menacing; he would stalk the halls, unmindful of the noise and the cold, because he coveted the brouhaha of liveliness and joy. In a way, it made him feel less lonely and rejected, even though he knew that he was ever just an outsider, looking in on a celebration to which he had not been invited.

Beyond his private grief, he was furthermore bound and compelled by the oath he had sworn and the loyalty he owed his siblings.

Caranthir was just rereading a missive his oldest brother had sent when a vicious pang of compounded pain lanced through him—he shrieked and raised his trembling hand to his convulsing chest.

The heartbeat that had accompanied, comforted, and tortured him for so many years slowed, picked up again—racing like a horse in flight—and then stumbled over an unfathomable obstacle.

Not daring to draw breath, Caranthir waited, listening to the frantic echo of that other pulse—strong and frenzied—as he stared, unseeing, down at the neat letters that seemed to swim around the page all of a sudden.

He had never heard a silence like this—final, devastating, and condemning.

Haleth was no more, and he’d never lay eyes on her fair face or hear her raucous, loud guffaw again.

Haleth was gone, and their child—whom he had never met—would be an orphan before long.

“Send word to my brother,” he barked, not recognising the broken voice of a walking corpse pouring from his lips like blood. “Tell him that I am on my way; I have nothing to lose anymore.”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

[swanmaids]

💜❤️‍🩹?

A crack ship

Arwen/Tindomiel out-of-time surreal dream sex, anyone?

A popular ship that you just don't get

I get why the ship itself is popular even though I don't ship it myself, but I don't really get the appeal of having Caranthir and Haleth get married with children. Marriage and babies really don't seem like the sort of things Haleth would want for herself, at least not to me.

[morwensteelsheen]

migrained out my nut so posting this and then dipping back to my sick bed like the Victorian waif that I am, but I’ve spent the last few months (actually, Ulysses says it’s been since July of 2022) pondering a Farawyn Rogue One AU. I’ve been chipping away at it whenever the urge takes me, but here’s an early and incomplete draft of what may become the first chapter

Tank treads are archaic on all planets except uncontacted ones. Shuddering, loud, and expensive to produce, corporate guilds stopped using them centuries ago when they realised they didn’t need to damage their goods in transport. Every civilised entity in the galaxy uses some combination of repulsorlifts and good old fashioned thrusters to transport cargo hither and thither, totally unmolested.

That Éowyn is currently being beaten to shit in the back of an Imperial prison transport, then, is purely an ideological choice.

She hears the treads whine and judder as they traverse the rough terrain of Wobani. Her seat restraints rub her skin raw through the coarse material of her uniform, and beside her a prisoner, a Devaronian with docked horns, has fully cracked, mumbling something incomprehensible into the tense half-silence.

Today will be a bore—unless the Devaronian decides to put on a show and harass the guards—just like each of her previous 94 days in this camp. They’ll break rocks in the quarry for between eight and twelve hours depending on what mood the watch wardens are in, then they’ll be carted unceremoniously back to the blocks, where Éowyn will spend the night dodging unsavoury looks from her Trandoshan cell mate who has a serious problem with boundaries.

A little naively, Éowyn tests the tensile strength of her binders, waiting until they go over a particularly large bump to mask the sound of steel clanking against steel. No luck: despite her best efforts, she has not developed superhuman strength in her sleep.

“Playing both sides—th-they were playing both sides!” The Devaronian slams both feet into the transport floor, the sound ricochets. “Selling clones to the Republic and collaborating with the Separatists!”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Éowyn doesn’t need to look up to recognise the harsh growl of the Corellian on the far side of the cabin.

“J-just because you don’t care doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter! They manufactured a war to keep us all—”

The rest of his diatribe is lost. A blast erupts somewhere—everywhere and nowhere all at once—blowing the doors wide open. Light and smoke and the bitter scent of melted ozone fill the compartment. The troopers who guard the transport are in disarray, she can hear how far ahead they’ve cruised on their speeders, now desperate to recoup lost ground.

“Haleth Haladin!”

From the cloud of dust and smoke emerges a man, tall, dressed in nondescript military fatigues. He’s holding a holo of her face, and she’s in no rush to figure out why.

He bends down in front of her, squinting at her as if she isn’t the only human woman on this transport. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

She nods, then doesn’t flinch as he smashes through her restraints. His distraction is all she needs: she leverages her weight against the jumpseat, pummelling both of her feet into his chest and sending him into a crumpled heap on the ground opposite her.

He’s brought friends, but they’re easy enough to dispatch with; a sharp elbow to the nose immobilises one, and a shoulder check sends the other flying out the splintered metal door.

Just a few short feet separate her from freedom. She’s not sure how she’ll make it to the edge of the camp, but once she’s there the planet is desolate enough that the Imps won’t bother searching for her for more than a couple clicks in any given direction. She’ll keep taking her chances from there until she can get off this rock; and if those chances don’t come through for her, better to die with dignity than in the clutches of the Empire.

Her chances are spent quicker than she’d hope. She’s no more than two feet into the air, arms bracing as she takes her leap to freedom, when something hooks around her ankles, slamming her into the hard ground.

She’s breathless—not just breathless, completely incapable of breathing she’s hit the ground so hard. Adrenaline courses through her, her body’s last ditch attempt to save itself. The dirt around her flutters, a sympathetic shockwave. It does nothing to lift her up. The panic starts to set in as she realises she still can’t move her arms and legs.

An astromech looms over her—not an experience she ever thought she’d have—its visual sensors lighting up in what feels a little too close to smugness.

“You are being rescued,” it beeps. “Please do not resist.”

Her head spins. Her vision tunnels. It’s not, she bemoans as consciousness escapes her, the most glorious way to die.

•°

She’s hauled out of the freighter on a planet she doesn’t recognise, in the shadow of a temple that at once pierces the atmosphere and looks utterly at peace with the surrounding jungle. She glares at the man who takes ownership of her restraints, but doesn’t squander energy resisting her march her across the landing pad.

“Your ship is junk,” she sneers. “Things must be dire if that’s what you’re sending out into the galaxy.”

The man doesn’t bother to acknowledge her jibe, and she bristles. It doesn’t stop her from cataloguing every detail of the temple and its labyrinthine tunnels. She counts the number of people walking around, how many of them carry weapons, how few ships are parked outside and in. She keeps track of how many left turns they make, how many doors they pass until they take their first right, which corridors dead-end and which don’t.

She’s heard about the nascent rebellion, of course, she’s not a moron and she certainly hasn’t had her head in the sand for the last five years, but she hadn’t imagined that they’d be quite so organised. They’re operating with almost as much surety as a genuine state, and they’ve clearly got plenty of resources to back them up, if the reams of equipment they’ve got laying about in the open is anything to go by. Still, they’re not flawless, and their security flaws are numerous, enough that it’s clear to her they’re not yet thinking like a government-in-waiting, no matter how much they look like one.

By the time her guards stop forcing her around the compound, she’s halfway to her escape plan. That they’re now forcing her down into a steel chair and hooking her restraints to the floor is not an ideal development, but she’s worked bigger miracles in worse conditions.

A man stands from behind an enormous, clunky, and remarkably dated holodesk. He’s a general, based on the repurposed Republic insignia—it might even be his own Republic insignia, if his age is anything to go by.

“You’re currently calling yourself Haleth Haladin, is that correct?” He does not pause to allow her to answer. “Possession of unsanctioned weapons, forgery of Imperial documents, grand theft auto, aggravated assault. Escape from custody. Resisting arrest… Imagine if the Imperial authorities had figured out who you really were, Éowyn Éomundsdottir.” Setting the holopad he was ostensibly reading from down, he waits just long enough for the dramatic effect to take hold. “That’s your given name, is it not? Éowyn Éomundsdottir? Niece of Théoden Thengelsson, renowned starship manufacturer?”

She frowns, squinting at him sceptically to mask her surprise. “What is this?”

“We think you might be able to help us.”

Another man steps forward from the shadows. She realises he’s been there all along, half-cast in neon glow. He’s tall, with raven dark hair tied in a messy braid, and she might have called him young if in her soul it didn’t feel so inaccurate. Something in his air throws her immediately, like he’s been pulled through from a different universe, or a different time.

“This is Captain Faramir, Rebel Intelligence,” says the general.

The newcomer hardly acknowledges his introduction, his attention so keenly focused upon her. “When was the last time you were in contact with your uncle?”

“15 months ago.” She answers it before she can think, as if she’s incapable of answering him with anything less than the truth. It frightens her.

“Any idea what he’s been doing all that time?”

The room narrows to the endlessly tiny tunnel of attention that connects her to him. “I like to think he’s dead—makes things easier.”

“Easier than what? That he’s been a useful idiot for the Imperial war machine?”

“Why does it matter to you what I should think of my uncle’s business prospects?”

“One of your uncle’s pilots is being held at the Imperial prison in Dxun; he’s claiming the Empire is developing a weapon with the ability to destroy planets. The pilot says they’re using your uncle’s fighters to defend it.”

“Captain Faramir’s mission is to authenticate the pilot's story and then, if possible, convince your uncle to renege on his contract,” interjects the general, adding a thin veneer of professionalism to her jailbreak and kidnapping. “If we can cut off their supply of fighters, we may yet buy ourselves time to destroy the weapon before it is finished.”

“Given the gravity of the situation, and your relationship to your uncle, we’re hoping that you’ll help us bring him to his senses.”

Her heart thuds unnaturally in her chest. She has no inkling as to the state of her uncle’s affairs, to the state of her uncle at all. She had forsaken her home to do what he would not: to stem the rising tide of the Empire, to defend the Galaxy; but she has no desire to discover which side of that fight he has landed on.

“And if I do it?” She looks only at Captain Faramir as she asks, though it is clear it is not his decision to make.

“We’ll ensure you go free,” he answers, and the thrumming energy enveloping his words says it is the truth.

•°

The transport they’re shipping out on is not much better than the battered freighter they’d used to bring her in. Still, with one Astromech at the copilot’s console and another in the stern engineering bay, it’s at least marginally better equipped.

“I am M-RE, and I’m glad you’re being sent with us,” beeps the droid, and she recognises it as the reason there are two searing rub-burns around her ankles.

“I remember you,” she answers, with no love lost.

“That’s P1-PN in the back, he’s a reprogrammed Imperial droid.”

“I have nothing against you either,” the black and red liveried droid chirps.

“You say it like I should be surprised.”

“You should,” it says, extending a spike arm to connect to the ship’s navicomputer. “Faramir thinks you’re a liability.”

Anger bubbles up inside her. A liability? Her? She’s crossed half the known galaxy entirely on her own, faced down battalions of Stormtroopers near single-handedly; what right had a footsoldier of a foundering political farce have to call her a liability?

With alarming precision, the captain chooses that moment precisely to re-appear at the boarding ramp, two battered backpacks in his hands. He offers one to her. “You met Merry and Pippin?”

“They’re very informative.”

“A generous description.” He sidesteps her with perfect formality to continue up the gangplank. Unbidden, a single word enters her mind, enough to stop her dead for the second time today: Jedi.

Before he slides into his pilot’s seat, he turns to look at her, grey eyes meeting hers in what she can only make sense of as an acknowledgment. But how he could know what thoughts came to her, let alone what it would take for those thoughts to be true—it’s so unlikely it hardly warrants consideration.

Yet the longer she looks at him, the more probable the unlikely becomes. He carries himself like the warriors of legend, and the grave tenderness that was said to be all but extinct in the last Jedi of the Old Republic shines brightly in his eyes. Maybe the Jedi have not all been exterminated, maybe—

He turns away, lowering himself into the seat with preternatural grace. “Let’s get going,” he says to the droid, and her momentarily-halted upset at him returns.

[polutrope]

So, wanted to get some hiatus rec lists going and encourage some self promo in my friends so how about sharing your top fics no matter how big or small - give us the links to your wonderful words with the Most hits/Most kudos/Most comments/Most bookmarks/Most words/Least words.

Thanks @welcomingdisaster @emyn-arnens for the tag! As an overachiever who spent too much time in school where quantitative success is everything, I have a very fraught relationship with AO3 stats and I wish I could stab them dead (in fact I have a skin to hide them entirely, which I will cautiously disable for this), so I was not going to do this.

However. I have managed to train my brain to be ambivalent about them (and it feels so good, I recommend!!), so to celebrate, here we are.

Most hits: The Seven Trials of Fingon the Valiant (rated T, 10.4k), co-written with @melestasflight. A crack idea that we ran with, in which Fingon comes back after 10 years away with a real glow-up and all seven of Feanor's sons pursue him in their own ways. My not-co-authored fic with the most hits is a A Proposition (rated E, 5.5k), Fingon/Maedhros/Maglor smut. With affection (I did write it), you are sometimes very predictable, Silm fandom 😁💖.

Most kudos: Improving Relations (rated G, 1.1k), a bit of brotherly fluff between Caranthir and Maglor, talking about Haleth. I have no idea why this one is so popular, it took me less than 2 hours to write. I guess it just hits a sweet spot!

Most comment threads: Hearken Still Unsated (rated M, 15.5k), the one I just said "more comints?" 🥺for, haha (and I got some really thoughtful new ones 🥹). Something I've learned from the reblogs on that post is that it's often not the fics with only one or two comments that authors really crave feedback on, so I'll be changing my commenting habits!

Most bookmarks: Who Shall Release Us? (rated G, 2.3k), Maedhros is reembodied without memories and has to come to terms with the absence of Maglor. I am really happy with the thoughtful feedback this fic received.

Most words: Whose Voice Is Like the Sea (rated M, 20k, Daeron/Maglor in the third age), actually a part of the first fic I wrote and I'm very sheepish about it. My ideas about the characters (and, I think, skill) have evolved a lot since then.

Fewest words: (yes I'm being a pedant about least and fewest). Greek Vase Art. Because it's art, not writing. My two podfics also have very few written words.

If you would like to do this and haven't already, @glorf1ndel @curumeaningwitch @maintogrey-gazania @rannadylin @carlandrea... please consider this an invitation!