#watchfires things

[oh-a-very-toxic-octopus]

Egil old Egil young

Plus some bird in a tree I guess

[theaveragedoe]

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:

And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,

The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes

To look once more into each other's face;

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;

Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour

They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks

Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.

The brows of men by the despairing light

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

The flashes fell upon them; some lay down

And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;

And others hurried to and fro, and fed

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up

With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

The pall of a past world; and then again

With curses cast them down upon the dust,

And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,

And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes

Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd

And twin'd themselves among the multitude,

Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.

And War, which for a moment was no more,

Did glut himself again: a meal was bought

With blood, and each sate sullenly apart

Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;

All earth was but one thought—and that was death

Immediate and inglorious; and the pang

Of famine fed upon all entrails—men

Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;

The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,

Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,

And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,

Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead

Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,

But with a piteous and perpetual moan,

And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand

Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.

The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two

Of an enormous city did survive,

And they were enemies: they met beside

The dying embers of an altar-place

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things

For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,

And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

Blew for a little life, and made a flame

Which was a mockery; then they lifted up

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld

Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—

Even of their mutual hideousness they died,

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow

Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,

The populous and the powerful was a lump,

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—

A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.

The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,

And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd

They slept on the abyss without a surge—

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,

The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,

And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need

Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

[picnokinesis]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Got tagged by the fantastic @wykart ahh thank you for the tag!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

32, most of which are Doctor Who!

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

859,228!! (but it's gonna keep climbing until I finish posting part 6 of campervan sksk)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Pretty much just Doctor Who right now, but I have posted fics for Stargate Universe, Marvel and The Greatest Showman. And then I have written for other fandoms - most notably Venom, which I never posted anything for but I did get 40k into a multichapter one time.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

In this order: Liminality, Tropospheric Disturbance, campervan part 1, watchfires and Renegades in the Ring (my TGS fic that I never finished, rip in pieces)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I always try and respond to comments!! Mostly because I love talking about my fics and also don't know when to shut up hahaha - but I also have some absolutely fantastic commenters who have such interesting things to say! And also like, idk I really appreciate people taking the time to comment, so I reckon it's polite to say thank you at least. The only time I don't reply to comments, mostly, is if it's a REALLY long comment and I just don't have the energy rip (but when that happens I definitely read and cherish the comment dearly haha)

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh. MOST OF THEM RIP. I'm genuinely not sure because I always try and end my fics on a vaguely uplifting note. Maybe Campervan Part 4, simply because of all the uni-era angst? But tbh the ending of Part 6 is definitely a contender, now I think about it. Canon-fic wise, though.......hmm I think it's got to be notches in your spine, since that ends with the Doctor just straight up leaving the Master without warning sksksk

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hm. I think I'm gonna go with In the Wind for this one, which is hilarious since I wrote it THREE YEARS AGO, but it's a multi-chapter mid-series adventure that rounds itself off in a satisfying way, with everything being resolved nicely, so I think that's a decent contender!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Hm, no, other than people complaining about the show in an attempt to compliment my writing, but that's stopped for the most part since I got annoyed about it in my author's notes one time ksksks. I did get a weird comment recently that started out very complimentary but then turned really weird in a pretty upsetting way (and, frankly, it would have been very triggering if that sort of topic had been something that was something that affected me a lot? Luckily it wasn't, but the commenter did NOT know that). So I just deleted the comment because I didn't want that sort of thing in my comment section, especially when I know other readers comment lurk.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

No I'm sex-repulsed lol

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I wrote a crossover that was The Greatest Showman crossed with the X-Men Comics one time SKSKSKSKSK (and it was specifically the comics not the films, I did so much research on historical terminology for mutants HAHA) which was actually SO much fun - I never finished it, but I do think back on it very fondly. But I'd class that as more of an 'x-men au' rather than a crossover tbh, bc it was wholly focused on the TGS characters.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don't believe so

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! We never finished it LOL

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

Currently spydoc, but this will probably change. I have a MASSIVE soft spot for rush/young from sgu, clintasha from the MCU, newt/hermann from PacRim, and symbrock from Venom.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Hmmmm there's a bunch, but probably The Grandfather Paradox? I genuinely love that one so much. But who knows, maybe one day. I feel like it would make a great pitch for a Big Finish audio sksk. Oh, and Deathless will probably never happen. I'm not going to put Trestle on this list because I am SO DETERMINED to finish it some day HAHAH. Oh - and I don't think I'll ever finished Trouble With Entropy, which was my unfinished Venom fic, or Renegades (aforementioned TGS fic) even though I love them a lot, it's just....very unlikely at this point rip.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Going off what other people have said to me, I'm good at creative immersive worlds! Which is mostly because I really want my stories to feel 'lived in', so to speak, and broader than what you actually see in the immediate plot. I think I'm also pretty good at pacing, and also writing narrative prose with a character voice! The latter one I definitely pushed myself with when writing part 6 of campervan, as well as my recent doctormaster oneshot, where I had to weave together both the doctor AND the master's characterisation into one seamless pov

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I definitely worry too much about making sure the reader DEFINITELY gets what I'm trying to say, and so sometimes I'm repetitive and I hammer things home a bit that can be more subtle. I also think that sometimes I can be a bit repetitive in my longer fics where I know a gap needs to be filled but I'm not sure with what sksksks. There are other things too. I definitely struggle writing shorter things and getting to the point and TRUSTING that the reader will come with me. I often feel this urge to make sure all the steps are there for the reader to follow where I want them to go.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Oooh so I actually did this in campervan part 5 with Gabriela and Jamila speaking a bit of Portuguese! And I think there's like, obviously nuance to it, but when I had the pov characters who understood portuguese (namely Jamila in the prologue), I had the dialogue in portuguese, but the translation in the prose, either literally just next to the dialogue or explained in the narration by Jamila. But then in later chapters, when Yaz is trying to talk to Gabriela, because Gabriela is upset she's occasionally saying things in Portuguese....but Yaz doesn't understand them. So they don't get translated. And so I think that works for the story in that context, bc what Gabriela actually SAYS is less important and it's more showing the emotion of it. Another case I can think of was in Force Over Distance by cleanwhiteroom who wrote a LOT of ancient into the fic (which is basically latin) and when it was on ao3 there was this sort of 'hover to translate' thing which worked REALLY WELL, bc the translation was there but it didn't disrupt the flow of the fic.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Okay so I wanna know what counts here - if it's like, the first fic i POSTED, then that's Marvel (specifically the Avengers). If it's the first fic I wrote when I actually understood what 'fandom' was, then...I think that was also Avengers....or maybe BBC Sherlock. If it's the first thing I actually WROTE DOWN properly, then it was Doctor Who (specifically Ten and Rose and my oc companion sksk). If it was the first thing I played with creatively for media that wasn't my own...then that was probably me coming up with elaborate ocs out of two unicorns on the credits for the My Little Pony vhs tape we had SKSKSKSK SO. I don't know. One or all of those.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

Oh this is hard because I'm proud of a lot of what I've written. My gut reaction at the moment is actually Trestle, even though it's unfinished and no one has read it HAHAH but I'm just so proud of some of the writing in that so far. And I'm extremely proud of Campervan AU as a whole entity. However I do really really love see me bare my teeth for you - which I actually forget about a LOT because it's not one of my thoschei fics sksksk. But I'm super proud of how that one turned out. And then also and they did live by watchfires��because that one just has such a special place in my heart.

THANKS FOR THE TAG LIV!!! I'm gonna tag hmmmmmmm @sunshinedaysforever @taardisblue @novantinuum @emptyofdust @strikingtwelves @walker-lister aaaaah basically anyone else that wants to do this! :D

[swanmaids]

Ruindis/Luthien for 9 or 26? 👀

26. As an apology

In fitful sleep under the whispering branches, Ruindis dreams of the princess.

She has thought that if she were to dream of her again, Lúthien would be as she remembers her - caged, angry, determined. Thoughts full of her entrapment and her Beren. But it is not to be. Lúthien in her dreams - and there are many dreams - meets her where she is.

Where she is is not where she should be. But that is fitting for these times where nothing is how it once was or ought still to be.

Once, Ruindis was a Lady. Once, she lived in a great keep, and had jewels and her pick of maids and companions. Once, she had a son.

Now...

The terrible battle has left everyone all apart. Curufin's brothers can barely look at one another in the aftermath; and one by one they have scattered, pulled apart like branches in a gale. She and Curufin cleave to one another as something that feels familiar, but even him she can no longer count on. Not when he is so often drunk, or folorn, or ruminating on how so much could have gone wrong. He was my son too, she sometimes wants to shout when Curufin gets into such a state, when do I get to mourn?

She does not dream of her husband.

But in her dreams, Lúthien meets her where she is. Fussing with the tent, prodding at a watchfire, curled up with her on the bedroll - Ruindis is struck by how mundane it all is. The witch-princess who fled from her father's cage in Doriath was the furthest thing from ordinary.

The whispers of the Laegrim say she is a Woman now. They say that she is a mother. Ruindis' dreams claim it true. There are creases around her eyes and the occasional strand of silver in her hair. When she takes off her dress and lies down beside her, the pale marks on their breasts and bodies are the same.

A child will not leave you unchanged, she had told Lúthien back in Celegorm's short-lived kingdom, and in this at least it seems she was right.

She wonders if her strange mortal life is all that Lúthien hoped it would be. She wonders why she cares about such a thing.

Sometimes when they lie down together they kiss. Ruindis remembers wanting to kiss Lúthien in Nargothrond - remembers her shouting, pink mouth wide in anger, you can't keep me here, I'll never marry any of you, and wanting to cover her mouth with her own just to silence her. When they kiss now, it is slower, softer. Mouths and mouths and flesh on flesh, until she almost feels that they share one body.

Why? She asks Lúthien once afterwards, her lips still tingling.

Because I feel sorry for you, the other woman says, and Ruindis awakens with a start.

[enigmaticdrblockhead]

9 people you want to get to know better

Thanks so much for the tag @randomfoggytiger

Currently reading: recently picked up Before the Coffee Gets Cold by Toshikazu Kawaguchi (coffee + time travel, what’s not to love)

Last song: Coming Up by Paul McCartney (just a really fun song, goofy music video)

Currently watching: not a TV series but I’ve been watching The Casual Criminalist on YouTube (not super in to true crime, so not sure why)

Next on my watchlist: the new season of What We Do In The Shadows, also kinda wanna see that new Agatha Christie movie with Tina Fey

Current fic: nothing current as of yet, but just recently finished In The Watchfires of a Hundred Circling Camps by @cthene (really love the writing and characterizations!) Also alien!Mulder is easily one of my favorite tags/topics/thing

Current obsession: hmmm TXF aside, nothing really sticks out - I do really enjoy music (who doesn’t) and games, but nothing specific comes to mind that occupies a huge chunk of my time (such a blah answer, I know!)

Soooo many people I’d like to know, I’m definitely more of a silent observer, but greatly enjoy and always look forward to meeting fellow Philes (and of course just people in general) ☺️

[crshelidon]

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd And twin'd themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer'd not with a caress—he died. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak'd up, And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

"Darkness", Lord Byron

[psicxpaticx]

I had a dream, 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space, rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, and men forgot their passions in the dread of this their desolation; and all hearts were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: and they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, the palaces of crowned kings—the huts, the habitations of all things which dwell, were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, and men were gather'd round their blazing homes to look once more into each other's face; happy were those who dwelt within the eye of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour they fell and faded—and the crackling trunks extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.

[delirismos]

As Trevas de Lord Byron.

Autor de diversos poemas extensos e únicos, Lord Byron é figura central na literatura inglesa e mundial devido a sua grande influência em dois movimentos estéticos basilares na construção de sua obra literária: o romantismo e o movimento gótico.

Em um de seus poemas principais, As Trevas de 1816, o escritor explora um cenário hipotético em que o sol se extingue e a humanidade é invadida pelo desespero e pela escuridão. Byron explora as amarguras e angústias humanas a partir desse cenário apocalíptico colocando em prova crenças e princípios diante de uma situação assustadora.

Devido a semana assombrada graças a comemoração do Halloween na quinta-feira, decidi fazer as honras da semana selecionando para vocês esse poema soturno desse poeta fascinante. Espero que curtam bastante!

Tradução pelo poeta brasileiro Castro Alves.

As Trevas

Eu tive um sonho que não era em todo um sonho

O sol esplêndido extinguira-se, e as estrelas

Vagueavam escuras pelo espaço eterno,

Sem raios nem roteiro, e a enregelada terra

Pendia cega e negra no ar sem lua.

A manhã não voltava mais; cada noite era

Uma noite sem fim; os homens se esqueciam

De seus passados claros; não havia outra aurora

Senão a da esperança vã; o alimento era

O pão amargo do desespero.

E os homens se reuniam em grupos à cidade,

Para falar duma esperança já perdida;

E sorriam com amargura uns para os outros,

E tremiam com frio inútil junto ao fogo;

E as donzelas olhavam para os seus amantes,

Como quem diz adeus; e os olhos dos rapazes

Brilhavam como loucos; e as mães apertavam

Os filhos ao peito – mas nada disto os salva.

Nem eles nem seus filhos – de coisa alguma.

E os animais morriam; – até mesmo o cão fiel

Deixava o seu dono (que lhe dera o último pão)

Para rastejar ao canto escuro e ali morrer.

Os pássaros caíam dos ramos semimortos,

E ficavam calados em sua agonia.

Os vivos eram poucos – muito poucos na terra:

Uma mulher velha trêmula e um servil escravo

Eram talvez os últimos – então eles também morreram.

E as trevas foram densas sobre a face do abismo.

E os homens diziam uns aos outros:

“Vamos acender

Uma luz com a madeira verde”.

E eles acenderam.

Mas era uma luz triste; e o coração dos homens

Encheu-se de fantasmas enquanto ela ardia.

E quando ela se apagou eles pensaram ouvir

Uma voz alta clamar:

“A Terra está morta!”

E eles gemeram:

“Não temos mais irmãos!”

E eles erravam pela floresta onde outrora

Brilhara a beleza das flores; mas não achavam

Senão a cinza das folhas mortas que pisavam.

E eles paravam junto aos rios, mas bebiam

Apenas um licor amargo – não era água.

E o tumulto dos mares furiosos subia

Até o céu sem lua, e as vagas se quebravam

Umas nas outras, e sacudiam a espuma

Sobre a terra sem vida, como se quisessem

Lavá-la de sua culpa.

E os homens olhavam para o céu, e alguns enlouqueciam;

E outros sorriam com um sorriso convulso;

E outros maldiziam

Deus e morriam;

E os que ainda viviam não se amavam mais.

Mas dois deles morreram abraçados, pois tinham

Um amor tão sublime que os tornava imortais:

E em seu túmulo nasceu uma flor, que foi a última

De todas as que existiram na terra.

E os outros dois que restaram eram dois inimigos,

Que tinham sido amigos no tempo da abundância,

E lutado até a morte; mas agora queriam

Morrer abraçados, como os amantes ditosos;

Mas a inimizade era mais forte do que o amor,

E eles morreram de ódio sem se perdoarem.

E as trevas foram densas sobre a face do abismo.

Texto original.

Darkness

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:

And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,

The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes

To look once more into each other's face;

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;

Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour

They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks

Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.

The brows of men by the despairing light

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

The flashes fell upon them; some lay down

And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;

And others hurried to and fro, and fed

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up

With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

The pall of a past world; and then again

With curses cast them down upon the dust,

And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,

And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes

Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd

And twin'd themselves among the multitude,

Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.

And War, which for a moment was no more,

Did glut himself again: a meal was bought

With blood, and each sate sullenly apart

Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;

All earth was but one thought—and that was death

Immediate and inglorious; and the pang

Of famine fed upon all entrails—men

Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;

The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,

Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,

And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,

Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead

Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,

But with a piteous and perpetual moan,

And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand

Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.

The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two

Of an enormous city did survive,

And they were enemies: they met beside

The dying embers of an altar-place

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things

For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,

And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

Blew for a little life, and made a flame

Which was a mockery; then they lifted up

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld

Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—

Even of their mutual hideousness they died,

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow

Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,

The populous and the powerful was a lump,

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—

A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.

The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,

And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd

They slept on the abyss without a surge—

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,

The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,

And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need

Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

[oh-a-very-toxic-octopus]

More practice. Keep defaulting to cute things instead of plot out of COWARDICE, but hey, at least they're cute.

Pose reference: @jookpubstock (this post!)

[wakamotogarou]

Darkness

By Lord Byron

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light; And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed, And men were gathered round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those which dwelt within the eye Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch; A fearful hope was all the world contained; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks Extinguished with a crash—and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them: some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnashed their teeth and howled; the wild birds shrieked, And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawled And twined themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food; And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again;—a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death, Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devoured, Even dogs assailed their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famished men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the drooping dead Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answered not with a caress—he died. The crowd was famished by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heaped a mass of holy things For an unholy usage: they raked up, And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects—saw, and shrieked, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirred within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropped They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The Moon, their mistress, had expired before; The winds were withered in the stagnant air, And the clouds perished! Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe!

[toadeyes-miqote]

Out in the snow

(Backdated to any timespot after Keeping the Flame Alive and In Search of Iceheart)

He woke with a start, drenched in sweat as his eyes adjust to dim firelight, he took in the empty crumpled bedsheets before him. So, he was alone with his dreams after all. It was that ungodly hour that was too early for one to be awake but he was unwilling to go back to bed alone.

Plodding to the window with the blankets over his shoulders, he noted that it was snowing lightly outside, he ignored the blanket when it slid off his shoulders as he cracked open the window a bit. Braving the cold air that assaulted his skin.

The watchfires dotted the courtyard, giving him a decent view beyond. He almost called out her name when he spotted her, leading her chocobo with a few packages strapped to its back. She was taking the road that would lead pass the Gates of Judgement and Whitebrim further down.

He knew full well she travels this early to avoid that godsdammed overgrown one-eyed thing that hunts travellers on the route to Whitebrim.

He heard tales from his men. Of how she fended off that creature as part of a large band of adventurers that was out to make decent coin from well-paying traveling merchant caravans that intend to visit Whitebrim. He smiled, remembering how he had seen her fight on occasions.

Looking no taller than a half grown Elezen maid, fighting with bow or with blades, calling lightning and flame to her aid. Weaving in and out of a hungry gooblue’s reach or the talons of Dravanian raiders. Her courage and ferocity in battle would put a full gown Ishgardian knight to shame if he could not rouse himself to fight by her side

And here he stands like a pining maid for not daring to go out after to her now, wishing helplessly that she would just look back and see him and what he could offer her. But all he could do was watch her trudged out into the night. He made a prayer to Halone to keep his Green Huntress’ aim true and her blades sharp so that she would come back to him safely.

----------

Note – Full height Miqo’te is about a head taller than the resident half grown Elezen maid and lad. My headcannon was that because of how young Miqo’te WoL(+ natural Miqo’te charms, she’s 22 at start of game) tend to look to the taller races, certain folks felt a need to fight by her side or defend her. You can actually blame Estinien treatment of Alphinuad for cementing this notion.

And she kinda fits in a certain folklore way about young maidens following their lovers into battle or seeking someone trapped in the battlefield etc. Ishgard loves their tragic literature(thrown in Monstrous Regiment if you like). Ishgard Weaver quest~~~~

Half grown Elezen maid may be very annoyed with folks using her as a stereotypical comparison by now. And Haurcherfant gave me plenty of these little shots to work with. He has a compilation of his own, would be transcribing a few.

Dude spent a good chunk of his time watching over her and made it his business after the Vault that certain folks on the other side had to throw the rules at him. Mostly Ysayle if not Moenbryda getting him in a headlock.

Headcannon had it that the six of them are hanging out in their private little corner of the Aetherial Sea courtesy of Hydaelyn. And that they're the team from the other side. Just in case.

Am not changing my Chocobo back to yellow just for this.

[cast-you-dxwn]

”If there is to be a next time.”

How different they seemed once more, father and daughter, a polar reflection of the usual differences in their appearance, here where no one could bear witness.

Lute, pristine and presentable and light-touched, such the pretty picture of a religious icon devoid of her gnashing teeth and narrowed eyes. How she may have been, had things been different.

Michael, so often the proper picture of a Seraphs station, ever clean and prim with his armor polished and his hands folded. Now as he pushes from the railing and stands straight, his hands hanging loosely at his side, the falling ash settling upon his robes and in his hair. The firelight gutters against his pale skin, catching in his irises, turning them the color of a watchfire reflected in the blade of a longsword. He looks like a man meant to stand amongst the fire, looks like what he truly is.

“And what is that?” His head cants to the side, his voice nothing but a murmur as his gaze bores into hers. “Something broken? Unworthy of saving?”

He remembers the last time smoke rose into the Golden Cities skyline.

He remembers the taste of angelic blood. The squelching of divine organ meats beneath his boot.

He remembers how young flesh split open beneath his blade. How juvenile fat had hissed and smoked against his armor.

Oh, what a monster she thinks she is.

”You are ever so certain of what I want. What I feel. What I think.” A hand raises, a thumb brushing away the beaded tear that had yet to fall. Pure instinct, the most natural thing in the world to despise the sight of her tears. Ah, but it is not natural, is it? The gentleness, the worry. All that came to him naturally was blood, and steel, and the ash that wreathed his halo like rancid snow. “Do you truly think me blind? That I look upon you desperately hoping to find that little fledgling who smiled up at me and called me ‘father’? That I do not know how you have changed, how you have hardened, how you have been moulded into something else? Do you think I keep you around because I am a foolish old man set upon by delusion?”

The fingers that had brushed away the incipient tears trail down her cheek, the pads cutting channels through the soot that clung to her porcelain skin, coming to cup her cheek, her chin, the enormity of his palm such that it was as though he cradled the flank of her head in it entirely.

“My love is not conditional. I do not love you because I sometimes catch glimpses of my daughter within you. You, Lute, Lyriel Morningstar, are my child. Precious to me in ways that I was never created to experience. You cannot drive me away. I will not be swayed to leave you. I will not allow you to fall, and if you are so determined to do so, know that I will follow at your heels.”

“ You know I will always love you. “

"I don't think i know much of anything."

In a certain light, the celestial kingdom does not look all that different from it's infernal counterpart. The light of lashing, red-hot tongues, namely. Her perch atop the ornamental, spiraling lookout tower, stationed in the verdant regional park across the street from where she used to live, it serves as a solid vantage point. Here she can ponder the skittering shadows, moving through the surrounding asphalt channels like imps fleeing the mayhem of the once annual purge. Disgusting, vicious animals, crawling all over each other in order to save their measly hides.

Not so perfect now.

"I always hated this place. The noise. The fake smiles. The way they look at you and talk to you, like you're friends, or something. Like they give a shit. It's all so fucking artificial. I could never stand it."

The apartment building yowls in the voice of glass panes bursting and concrete cracking, a beast in it's own right. She decided she had suffered inside it's rancid bowels long enough, though, this level of destruction wasn't on the agenda per se. Should've accounted for the barrel of formaldehyde tucked away in the broom closet beforehand, perhaps. Oh, but what a show. Heaven hasn't seen action like this in centuries. And it feels good, to do the things she was made to do. Who's to say that hell is the only place that needs a solid purging every now and again, anyway?

Casting a pointed glance over at her father, beyond the slope of a skinny shoulder, tucked in close to veil most of her soot speckled visage from his gaze.

Not so lovely now.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Ally: Old Ibrihim, Master of the Sunspan Caravan

“You youngsters worry about saving the world, let me worry about getting you to you across it in one piece.” 

Setup: Travel is dangerous, even aside from active threats like brigands and monsters, any jaunt beyond the bounds of civilization will see the traveler contending with with weather, hunger, and the land itself. There’s a skill to a well planned journey, a careful arithmetic of encumbrance and supply, a wisdom of shortcuts and the hidden omens of the road. Learning this skill is the undertaking of a lifetime, sometimes several, as knowledge is handed down from master to apprentice the same as any vital art. 

Master Ibrihim is just such a learned sort, heir to a dynasty of travelers, caravaneers and explorers, a living repository of lifesaving knowledge that’s crossed the world seven times over in his sojourns. Soft hearted and grandfatherly but with an exterior tanned to course leather, Ibrihim is liable to curse out any failings or laziness he spots the way a lesser driver might lash his draft animals. 

Leading a band of merchants, guards, and carters just as storied as he is, Master Ibrihim plays patriarch to the Sunspan Caravan, an enduring merchant venture that’s become almost a loose clan in the decades of the old man’s leadership. Enduring hardship and disaster, the Sunspan Caravan crosses the world’s breath to transport riches and pilgrims to their chosen destination, showing up in any number of markets to offload goods and passengers before setting out on the road again. 

Adventure Hooks: 

Along with Camels and other hardy beasts of burden, the Sunspan Caravan uses Striders, a sort of mechanical cart that moves about on massive insectoid legs. Hardy enough to survive the rigors of the road and the clash with hostile wildlife, these constructs have proved a great boon to to the caravan’s operation when it comes to hauling heavier and heavier goods, at least until one of them goes rogue with some very valuable cargo attached and takes off into the foothills. Ibrihim knows there’ll be trouble if that cargo doesn’t reach it’s destination, and so offers the party a part of the proceeds if they manage to wrangle the construct and get it back to the caravan in one piece. 

Ibrihim’s niece Qamra is what some might call an “innovator”, always favoring the new promising thing over the tried and true method. This couldn’t contrast more with her twin brother Quasim, a dyed in the wool traditionalist who’d prefer to stick to old routes and reliable ventures. Quasim was understanding when Qamra wanted to change little things like her gender, or fine tune the caravan’s duty roster, but when she introduced the striders  and began to chart new routes that veered wildly from the Sunspan’s usual stoming grounds, it introduced a wedge between the siblings that has yet to be removed. Both are grown and well versed in the arts of walking the world, and everyone in the caravan knows that Ibrihim should nominate one of them as his successor, but it seems the old pathfinder is unsure about which future he should choose for his nomad clan. Perpaps the party will be able to sway him from one side to the other, or mend the rift between the siblings and help them find a harmonious route between them. 

Should the party prove themselves more than just capable hired hands, being both good in a crisis and pleasant company around the watchfires, Ibrihim will offer them a place among the Sunspan, the right to call themselves part of the clan and share a stake of the caravan’s profits. Doing so will likely  take them far away from the lands they know, and should be made at the end of one adventure arc and the beginning of a new one. 

Patron Benefits: 

If you’re running your campaign with the ability for players to train in new skills ( and you should), Ibrihim can act as an expert level trainer for skills such as survival, insight, animal handling, and history, or more uncommon skills like mercantilism. Once the party has joined the caravan, it’s his duty to see them brought up to speed on these essential talents. They’ll also have plenty of time to practice while on the road, with their hours spent “on the job” counting towards their training time. 

As members of the Sunspan Caravan, the party will be partially responsible for meeting with local merchants and wholesalers and buying up trade goods to sell in distant markets. Given access to the logistics and massive carrying capacity available to the caravan, they’ll suddenly be able to make money hand over fist at the small price of a weeks or months long journey through dangerous terrain. 

No one knows the roads or the stories upon them like a traveling merchant, and in spending time with the other sunspans the party will be able to transcribe a large number of maps of foreign lands, as well as amassing a wealth of rumors and hearsay about potential opportunities or hazards. 

Ibrihim has friends and contacts scattered across three continents, and his influence ensures the party entrance to nearly any city or settlement they come across. Acting as his representatives, they can easily meet with any guild, merchant, or minor noble who’s trade depends on the same markets in which the Sunspan ply their wares. 

Once the party has made their first major trade, Qarma will approach them with the idea of constructing their own strider, requiring only a majority little of their capital as an investment and maybe any raw materials they can scavenge to speed along the construction. Upon it’s completion, the party will have their very own all-terrain battle wagon, able to haul large amounts of goods and able to continue moving for days at a time. It’s sure to be an aid to them in their travels, and it’s theirs to keep should they ever need to leave the caravan on any heroic missions. 

[wispstalk]

land

Cloud Ruler Temple clings to the mountainside. At times it's as if the barren slopes are all that remains of the world, an island of cold rock drifting in some hazy void. All the rest, from the wind-battered highlands to the glittering Topal bay, seems burnt away— a dream forgotten with no one left to dream it.

Martin leans in a crenel, flanked by the two watchtowers. Up here the wind rides high and wild, plucking at the ends of his hair as it races by. First Seed can only charitably be considered a spring month this far north, but the brazier nearby fends off the chill, and Bruma Valley sleeps curled at the foot of the mountain. Tanis was right: this really is the best brooding spot in the whole temple.

A hand on his shoulder. Martin had been so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t heard anyone approach. Before he can rouse himself to turn, a slender grey hand comes to cover his eyes.

“Tanis, what—”

“What phase is Secunda in?” the Hero of Kvatch cuts in.

“I—” Martin lets out a soft huff of laughter. “I don’t know. I was… somewhere else.”

“I know you were.” Tanis lowers his hand and cups Martin’s jaw, tilting it upward.

Secunda full, Masser a waxing crescent. A cold, clear night, with high winds herding the clouds away. One seems to have strayed from the flock, however: Tanis nudges him with an elbow, proffering a steaming mug.

An alchemist never offers tea without some ulterior motive. With the coming of spring, Tanis has been plying the temple’s residents with “blood tonics,” whatever those are. But he has a mind for flavor: the bitter, earthy root is rounded out with fennel and cardamom, sweetened with honey. The warmth of it in his hand, the warmth of Tanis at his back, settles Martin back into himself. He breathes in the aromatic steam and looks out again with fresh eyes.

Up here the plants hang on for dear life. Tough, scrubby little things, huddled low in the hollows that pock the rough granite. Down the slopes their defenses thicken: evergreens bent into crooked sprays, their rugged branches bearing crowns of bright, tender green. The spruce buds are luminous in the moonlight. Evidence of another winter survived, another chance to jostle for a place in the sun.

“A prison with a view,” Tanis remarks, “but damned if it isn’t the best view in all Cyrodiil.”

“I've wondered what keeps you here,” Martin says wryly. "Moved up in the world from your dungeon cell, haven't you?"

Tanis slips an arm around Martin’s waist. “I like it here. More than I thought I would. I've seen every corner of this land of yours by now, priest, and it's a fine one.”

Martin breaks into a faint smile. “It really is.”

Far below them the forest spills down the mountain like dark velvet. Bruma’s watchfires are tiny embers in the coal-dark valley. He makes a note to come out in the daylight. Surely there is a stirring in the cradle of the Jeralls. Sun-starved residents baring their arms in defiance of the chill, farmers out to till the fallow fields. Here he is too high up to see the bustle, but he knows— despite all, the sun will draw them out.

He spent his childhood with his hands in the soil, his body tuned to the grand order of the seasons, his mind trained to look for the potential that lives in each tiny seed. Every stretch of land on which he’s walked has given him something to love. Tall reeds waving on the shores of Lake Rumare; dark-winged skimmers nesting in Anvil’s dunes; stubborn Kvatch in the hinterlands, perched proudly on its hill.

And yes, even here. The silent, remote immensity of stone, keeping vigil over the boundless horizon.

The mountain fastness seems less an island to him now. It settles, takes root; becomes part of a living, breathing whole. A land that goes on, and on.

[tanoraqui]

Gil-galad, Son of OC & 50/50 Odds AU(?): (I)

Scenes from a Courtship (Part 1)

Celechwes was far from the only person riding courier along the lines of the Noldorin Siege, though she was one of the farthest-ranging—their High King had established a general courier service, from the Firth of Drengist to the Ered Luin, to supplement and support the local garrisons. But many of its messengers were still bound to one lord or another, one fort or another (especially in the east where the Fëanorians commanded), and only rode relay to and from those places. Celechwes was nominally on loan from Círdan to the service of King Fingolfin, but truly she was there because this was the life she loved: riding fast and free, arriving to open doors with welcome news—or sometimes unwelcome news, but when it was most unwelcome, it was often most needed. Orcs still raided in small bands or large. Shadows still crept from Ered Gorgoroth. Ill winds bringing dark spells still blew from the north. She was eager to help guard against these horrors.

With many couriers on the sturdy roads and slighter paths that bound together the long line of the Siege, not to mention official patrols and simple travelers, it wasn't rare for another rider to fall in beside her (when she’d only just trotted out of the latest stop, and hadn’t yet picked up speed).

It was rare for them to be the Prince of Dor-Lómin from whose gates she'd just rode, Crown Prince of all the Exiles, gold-beribboned Fingon the Valiant himself.

“Hello!” he said cheerfully. “Celechwes, right? On your way to Orodreth and then on to Angrad and Aegnor? I’m sneaking away for a break in Himring, myself, but it’s too fine a day to go idly—would you like to race to the first waystation?”

It was far too fine a day to go idly, bright and crisp, perfect for racing—and the prince only seemed to make it moreso, with his shining eyes and smile glinting with the promise of competition. His horse was very fine, even longer-legged than Celechwes’s, and burdened only with bow and quiver, harp, and some standard camping supplies, where her saddlebags were stuffed with letters and small gifts.

Being a free-wandering Falathrin, Celechwes’s respect for princely titles was mostly diplomatic. She grinned back just as glintingly and said, “It may feel less fine when you lose.” The slightest brush of her heels and she leapt toward, leaving him laughing in startlement—and racing to catch up.

- - -

The good thing was, Celechwes saw the orcs before they saw her.

The bad thing was, she was coming to Himring from the north, having rounded the mountains from Ladros, which meant on her horse she was the tallest thing in the grassy field for miles, and the orcs saw her very quickly as well. She was also alone, unarmed save a small bow, long knife, and light leather armor.

Good: thus she was for speed over strength, and on open terrain, the orcs already leaping up from their skulking crouches couldn’t dream of outpacing her.

Bad: they didn’t need to outpace her, just to outlast her. Orcs were persistence hunters, and her horse was already weary, for they’d been stretching their speed all day. And it was nigh impossible to lose sight of someone in these slow slopes.

Celechwes turned Ilúmellon’s head south and urged her into a canter. They were two days from the fort at the most punishing gallop, but even farther from the mountains where she might lose her hunters by twisting paths. She just had to keep ahead of them…

It was a grueling race, and poor Ilúmellon, the sweetest mare in Aegnor Finarfinion's courier stables, bore the brunt of it. But they kept ahead of the orcs for two nights and a day, and on the second dawn, they crested a hill—the plains having risen and cooled, the grass giving away to the bare, windswept scrub of the March of Maedhros—and saw the watchfire of Himring in the distance. And better yet, they saw a steel-clad mounted patrol winding its way through the hills, armor gleaming under in the early light.

Bad: the patrol were heading east, not north. Good: she could certainly ride toward them anyway, and get them safely between her and the orc band...but the orcs would turn and run at the first sight of such a well-armed party. The lack of hiding spots in this terrain would work against the orcs, then, but even as Ilúmellon panted and Celechwes's ears twitched with over-alertness, such a solution felt...incomplete.

She looked around. The orcs were a couple miles behind her; she had time to breathe. The Noldorin patrol was many more miles distant. The cold hills grew steeper toward Himring, flatter back toward the plains, in odd configurations like someone had dropped a bowl of half-shaped, unbaked rolls on the ground and let them unravel...

To the southwest, a particularly twisting way between two particularly steep slopes. Celechwes's dagger was good, reflective Noldorin steel; she drew it and angled it toward Arion's light and the distant patrol. Everyone knew Falathrim ship's lantern code...

She could only wait to see that the patrol stopped their easterly track. Then the orcs were less than a mile away. She pulled Ilúmellon away from the crabgrass she'd been nibbling, rode pellmell due west, then north back toward the orcs, to come at the narrow passage from just the right direction—

She didn't stop to look closely at the Noldor when she finally crossed their path. Ilúmellon was in a lather and the orcs were close enough that cruel barbed arrows flew past her ears. The warriors were in the right ambush point and they shot back past her; she rode past them with a whoop of victory and nothing else mattered.

But she turned back to watch as soon as she was out of bowshot, because ever since that first torchlit battle she'd known that nothing was as beautiful in deadliness as the elves from across the sea. A golden orb spider was as quick and lethal, but its movements did not flow. A river was as swift and graceful but it wasn't alight with inner fire. And here was a special treat: the flame-haired Lord of Himring himself, who fought like he was born with a sword in his left hand and a shield attached to his right.

The orcs were caught by surprise, and dead within minutes.

"That was well done," Maedhros said seriously as he rode back toward her. "Thank you for an easy morning's work." He took in her courier's armor and the message-bags on her saddle, and grew warier. "I hope you bring no more dire news than a single enemy scout-group?"

"No, my lord," she said, and slid off sweet Ilúmellon's back at last. Truly urgent news came shorthand by watchfires and lantern code, anyway. "Just letters from the west—Dorthonion, the northern Sirion, and...all around Hithlum, really. And one very weary horse. I hope it will be safe to walk the rest of the way?"

"Of course," he assured her. (And if he sat a little straighter at the news of where her mail was from, when he might not have for letters from the east, well, she only really knew gossip at this point, and the memories of an eagle and a feast.)

- - -

“Hey– you! Celechwes!”

A familiar voice arrested her from across the inner courtyard of Himring’s fort, through which she was strolling idly with a half-eaten slab of bread. The lieutenant in charge of mail was still gathering gift packages for Anarsrise next month; she wouldn’t leave until later this afternoon, or more likely tomorrow morning. She didn’t mind—it was about to start raining, and she didn’t mind riding in rain but she didn’t like starting off in it. It set the wrong tone.

It was Fingon the Valiant running towards her across the courtyard, dragging Maedhros by the hand. She stood still—he didn’t sound angry, but it was a little alarming to be abruptly shouted at by shining-eyed heroes (and sometimes villains) of song.

“Celechwes,” Fingon said when he stopped in front of her, “my cousin wishes to race you. On any horse you choose. Right now, if you’re willing.”

“I do not!” Maedhros cried, and he laughed, and it was like the sun had broken through the grey clouds above.

He shoved his cousin to the side without breaking the clasp of their hands. “No offense, Celechwes. It’s really my cousin here who wants a rematch, for the memory of you has haunted him. But alas, valiance is not the same as velocity, and he would surely only embarrass himself again!”

“I didn’t embarrass myself,” Fingon grumbled good-naturedly. “I just wish you the honor of pulling into a waystation in a lather to find that your casual opponent of the morning has already had time to order lunch.”

“It was a very simple lunch,” Celechwes offered, as Maedhros laughed like sunlight again. She held up her snack of rich bread. “Barely more than this.”

- - -

(It was the easiest thing in the world for a courier to pick up gossip, especially about who is where, when—that was practically required for the job! Fingon visited Himring whenever a reasonable amount of peace allows. He visited other fastnesses too, though almost always on the western front—he’d stay with the other sons of Fëanor, but only as a night's stop on the road. If diplomacy required a longer stay, Maedhros or sometimes Maglor coincidentally arrived at the same time. Only at Himring did he tarry for months, sometimes years.

Maedhros didn’t leave Himring save for diplomatic or military necessity. Vigilant, some said. The Oath, said others, or It can’t be healthy to stay within sight of Thangodrim’s peak. If he visited with his brothers for longer than a week, it was because they came to him. But when he rode up to the High King in Eithel Sirion, Fingon always conspired to be there as well, and then together they took the road to Dor-lómin, where Maedhros tarried on the way home longer than he ever did with his brothers.

Apparently this was nothing new. In Valinor when Finwë ruled (the refrain of at least three unrelated songs), and Fingolfin-now-King was ever at odds with his older brother, Fëanor of the burning ships and legendary Silmarils, those who sought peace and friendship at court would go to Maedhros and Fingon. Princess Lalwen and the absent Finarfin had been the general placaters (the older princess, Findis, had always stayed with her mother), but it was Maedhros and Fingon who could reframe their fathers' political fights into solvable disagreements between friends.

That was before Fëanor drew a sword on his brother in the king’s own hall, before Darkness, death, and Doom. Before the Oath and Alqualondë.

Alqualondë, Alqualondë! No one knew just how the rumors of the Kinslaying had first spread, but once the Noldor officially admitted it, half of them would speak of nothing else to a fair maiden from the coast (The other half wouldn't speak of it at all.) We slaughtered them. If only they'd just given us the boats! If Fëanor hadn't— If all his sons hadn't— If Olwë hadn't— If Fingon and Aredhel hadn't— They gave as good as they got! (I pray that they aren't caught in the same Doom.) It was still halfway Dark and nobody knew what they were doing, not the Fëanorians and not the Teleri and not the Fingolfinians running up. The blood in the water... We're sorry. Ay, Alqualondë!

Then the betrayal on the Ice and the burning of the ships, fateful capture and miraculous rescue, the surrender of the crown (entirely reasonable, to Celechwes—the leadership of Fëanor's line wasn't overall impressive.) And now it had settled back to simmering resentment and cooperation when objectively necessary, a creaking harbor chain once more held together mostly by the reforged friendship of the two main factions' crown princes—

Though the one time she phrased it like that, members of three different factions started yelling at her at once.)

[cont!]

[cthene]

In the Watchfires of a Hundred Circling Camps

“We stay on the move while we can move, and we rest only when we need to rest,” limns Scully in the cadences of Genesis.

Mulder bows his head in wordless agreement and hikes the nylon backpack straps over his shoulders. He hasn’t used his voice all morning, and he’s afraid to test it. He can still feel the brain matter under his fingernails.

She is the only thing left that makes sense.

New Fic Time!