#lord of the rings online fanfiction

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 2 (12th Dec)

language | culture | beauty

Word count: 4,197

Under the burning afternoon sun reflecting upon the white city, Faramir emerged from the library, instantly shielding his eyes. Had he truly kept his nose buried in scrolls for so long? When he had entered, it was merely dawn, the palace still lulled in peaceful sleep. Constantly awoken by the tiniest noises and cracks from the hallways or outside, he had stirred out of bed and had decided to do what he did best in such irritating moments.

Studying.

Recently, he had found a plethora of reasons to delve into books again — not that he truly needed any — and learn as much as he could about a realm whose history and people that he admitted to not have paid heed to often enough.

Now that he and Éowyn were married, he felt a pang of guilt for not knowing more than he already did about her kingdom and her kin. Although they were to settle in Ithilien once their new home would be born from the ruins of a previous mansion, Faramir yearned to respect the customs of her land as much as his own within their household.

He was willing to compromise and demonstrate his sense of flexibility. Where their art of guest-receiving would align with Gondor’s standards, he saw no problem with providing a mixed education to the children he hoped to have and raise with her. Often had he pictured it; a blonde little being mounted on horseback with the poise of a court member of King Elessar’s entourage. The child would master Westron and Rohirric at equal level, speak Quenya fluently, and have at least some notions in Sindarin or Dwarvish tongues. They would be both wild and tame, proud of the two united banners of their bloodline.

Sensing that he was getting ahead of himself again, Faramir departed from the archives and set out for the citadel. As he paused to contemplate the breath-taking view upon the Pelennor, one which he should have long grown weary of, he found his mind drifting back to his research.

Rohirric. A language unlike any other that he knew or at least encountered, with its peculiar grammatical structure and malleable word order. For the first time in years, he was facing a barrier between the knowledge he sought and himself, as if the more he read about it and its phonetic system, the less he understood. It was as though he was grappling with a most complex device he needed to unlock, but missed the keys to access even the most basic notions of the dialect that she grew up speaking.

He had considered asking Éowyn directly to teach him, and the thought of having her sit him down at a table whilst happily scribbling away on a piece of parchment to also participate in the recording of Rohan’s oral culture sounded like the best way to ever spend time.

Faramir pictured her hardly-concealed impatience at his mistakes and his horrid accent, typical of beginners. How she would be unable to tame her reactions to spare his feelings, wincing whenever he would say something wrong or pronounced something to the point of complete incomprehension. And he would love every bit of it. She was Éowyn, after all. The fairest maiden he had ever beheld, the one who accepted his hand in marriage and shared his bed ever since the lavish wedding at Edoras.

But he meant for the whole learning process to remain a secret for now. It was all part of the grand gesture he wanted to make for her. He had already planned most of it. At sunset, he would take her to the garden in Minas Tirith, where he had held her hand for the first time. They would watch the golden and rosy hues of the evening sky from underneath the arches, and he would slip a carefully-picked flower into her luscious hair. Then, he would recite a love poem he would have written in her language, ending it with a simple sentence reflecting his adoration for her, and making a point of how beautiful she was to him.

If he finally managed to grasp the quirks of Rohirric, that is. Aware that each language reflects the culture of those who speak it, he needed to put himself in the boots of a Rohir, but he could not wrap his head around the way that they thought, the way that they felt and experienced the world around them. Something as simple as the subtlety of terms and the connotations of certain phrases eluded him.

He had seldom ridden through the plains and valleys of Rohan. Its landscape, although now somewhat familiar, remained a great mystery to him. Having lived all his life in Gondor, he had enjoyed the privilege of encountering visitors from nearly all over Middle-earth, engaging in hours-long conversations with them, but he had never known the challenge of settling down in a foreign land and immersing himself in another way of life. Faramir had offered to stay in Edoras until their Ithilien home was ready to welcome them; he would have gladly helped Éomer in his new role as king, to provide him with wise counsel and serve as mediation with Gondor.

But Éowyn had refused. While she was elated to have wed him in the heart of the colourful Meduseld, she was eager to start this new chapter in her life, to leave her past behind and begin her assimilation to Gondorian culture. Perhaps she was braver than he had ever been in this regard, he thought. There had been no hesitation on her part, and he had assumed that she would have wished to stay in Rohan longer in hopes to make a difference in the treatment of women. Or, more realistically, she would have barked at her brother until he would yield and introduce new laws while getting rid of archaic ones.

As he entered the Hall of the Kings, Faramir faced the two empty thrones ahead of him. Aragorn must be attending another council meeting in a different part of the citadel, he thought. It did seem rather strange to him that the hall was left vacant; what if somebody entered to beg for help? Would they even be heard?

A rustle coming from his right alerted him that he was not alone after all. Under the arches, studying one of the statues with passive interest, stood the king of Rohan himself, clad in his armour, yet comfortable enough to let his guard down.

‘Éomer, my brother!’ he exclaimed, walking up to him with a beaming smile and open arms.

The king pivoted and his stern expression softened upon seeing his sister’s husband. He indulged him to a warm embrace and patted the prince’s arm rather harshly, but the latter paid it no mind.

‘I did not know you were visiting!’ Faramir said, surprised to see him in Minas Tirith at all, especially in the empty hall. ‘Has anybody been notified of your presence? Have you been assigned quarters for your stay?’

‘Yes, yes, don’t worry. I wanted to enjoy a bit of peace before being swarmed with servants and diplomats.’

Faramir laughed and shook his head. He would have felt exactly the same way, had fate been different and had he become Steward in his father’s stead.

‘Does Éowyn know that you are here?’

‘Not yet. Ah, she will find out soon enough.’

‘Are you not eager to see her?’ he inquired, his curiosity piqued. ‘If you do not send for her, you know that you will hear about it until you are on your deathbed.’

Éomer laughed and responded with a simple shrug. Faramir invited him to his office so they could both sit down and share news of their respective lives. How things had changed! After the pouring of wine and the exchange of pleasantries, the prince noticed that he had left some of the borrowed scrolls from the library wide open onto the desk. Unwilling to stain them with spilled wine or ink, he began to roll them up again, but their content did not escape Éomer’s notice, who squinted at the writings.

‘That is Rohirric!” he noted with a pleased expression. ‘Are you studying our tongue, brother?’

Faramir blushed and sheepishly nodded his head. He hoped that Éomer would not start questioning him about his knowledge, since he still considered it to be awfully vague.

‘Indeed. I wish for our household to be shaped by Rohirric and Gondorian customs alike. Éowyn is my equal, she should not forsake her culture for my own, even now that she came to live in my land.’

‘How’s the learning so far?’

‘Not great.’

He placed the secured scrolls onto a nearby shelf, away from the dangers of clumsiness, and returned to his chair, picking up his goblet.

‘I cannot seem to wrap my head around the way that your people see and write about the world. Do you see the same things that we Gondorians do? Do you see the bud of a flower and feel the promise of a fruitful spring to come?’

Éomer snorted and chugged the rest of his wine in one, large gulp.

‘You are overthinking it, Faramir,’ he said in reassurance. ‘The Rohirrim are not as complicated as you think. We do not need a hundred words to describe a tree.’

With Faramir’s permission, Éomer helped himself to another cup, stretching out his legs in front of him.

‘See us as more… practical people. Where you might look at this desk and say “Here stands the pillar of knowledge, the support of my hours of contemplation and meditation, the theatre of my duty and of my wit, where justice is served and culture preserved,” us Rohirrim would just say…’

The king waved his hand with raised eyebrows towards the piece of furniture in brief silence.

‘“It’s a desk.”’

Faramir chuckled and sipped the deep burgundy nectar.

‘Well, you sound well-learned in Gondorian phrases and imagery,’ he teased.

‘That happens when your brother-in-law keeps pestering my men about lore, poetry and song whenever he visits Edoras.’

Their shared laughter fills the room and instantly brings more warmth to it. The new prince of Ithilien stared at his working table in deep contemplation and pondered Éomer’s words. It’s just a desk. And indeed, it was, but could there not be more to it?

There it was again, his damned eternal Gondorian perspective.

Faramir tapped his fingertips against his goblet and reclined in his seat.

‘What makes your people so practical indeed?’

‘You are asking the wrong person, brother. I can’t say that I have much interest in knowing about such things. But the way I see it, it has something to do with our lack of documentation. Our stories, our tales, our history… We share them orally. We don’t value written records the way that your kin do. I suppose that we do need to keep it simple so our message and our motivations do not get lost in translation and interpretation. Besides, we see beauty in simplicity.’

‘Is it so?’

It made sense to him. Éomer might not have been raised a scholar, but his argument seemed to have opened Faramir’s eyes to something he had never even suspected. Of course, he had forgotten about the risks of oral tradition! How many names, accounts and legacies had been misshapen by the trials of time? By the innocent romanticisation of narration at the detriment of facts?

Faramir drank his wine pensively and glanced at his guest. Perhaps he could let him in on his little quest. After all, Éomer was great at keeping secrets, and he spoke the language he sought to master.

‘Éomer, I wish to learn Rohirric for Éowyn. I want her to feel at home wherever she goes, and I want her to feel understood. I have been trying to teach myself in secret for weeks, but it seems that the more I learn, the less I know.’

His brother-in-law curved his eyebrows in surprise — although he did not expect any less of Faramir. The king put down his cup and opened his hands.

‘I am a warrior, not a scholar. But I suppose that if there’s anything you wish to know, perhaps I can help.’

His host beamed at the offer and put his cup aside as well. He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, propping up the sheet on his knee with a thick volume on the history of scientific innovations of the Haradrim.

‘There is one notion that seems to differ much between our mentalities,’ he started, ‘and it is this of beauty. You said that your kin find beauty in simplicity, but what else? How do you express it?’

‘Oh, well, we feel connected to the earth and fire, where Gondorians evoke air and water to us. Any aspect of our world that we find attractive, we connect to these two elements. We like what is grounded as much as we like that which is fiery. Many of our sayings and expressions comprise these themes, when they don’t revolve around horses.’

Not wasting a single second, Faramir scribbles away, his brow furrowed in concentration. Earth. Fire. Noted.

‘Do you have vocabulary with elemental connotations to describe something you find pretty?’

‘Yes, we do,’ Éomer answers before marking a pause, seeking examples. ‘When we mean to say that someone is as beautiful as the sun, we say sunne fyrna. Burning like the sun. Like they radiate light.’

Rejoiced at the idea that he might have found something to use to compliment Éowyn, he continued to take notes, guessing the spelling from the rules he had read about.

‘Is it a powerful way to compliment somebody’s beauty?’

‘Yes, and no. It can be overused.’

‘Oh.’

Éomer chuckled and drank another gulp of wine, before scratching his beard. He pictured his sister and tried to imagine how she would like to be complimented by Faramir. Not how anybody else might, but which words she would value from his mouth. Then, with a smile, he held out his hand for Faramir’s quill, and his brother-in-law did not hesitate to lend it to him, alongside the parchment.

Not quite used to writing, Éomer’s trembling hand formed a few words onto the paper and showed it to his host.

‘This is the highest compliment that Rohirric women could ever hear. If you wish for Éowyn to fall for you all over again, this is your key. But let me warn you: do not blame me if her bairn sees the light of day nine months after you say it to her,’ he winked.

A few days later, once Éomer had departed Minas Tirith to return to Rohan, Faramir approached Éowyn and tenderly wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing the back of her head. Despite the tears of sorrow from seeing her brother leave again, she allowed herself to smile and turned in his embrace to place a tender kiss upon his lips.

‘How about you and I have a walk in the garden at sunset?’ he murmured, his fingers weaving through her golden hair.

‘I would rather stay at home, if you don’t mind,’ she said with a sniffle. ‘How about we sit by the fire and you read to me again? I love hearing you tell stories.’

Faramir’s disappointment was powerless compared to the thrill that invaded him to know that she enjoyed listening to his tales. So, he gladly accepted, but still took the time left that day to pick the most beautiful flowers at the market for her, as well as her favourite Gondorian pastries.

When the fire crackled in the hearth of their home, Faramir entered the room, finding her already nestled onto a chair, her eyes admiring the dancing of the flames. Éomer was right; the Rohirrim were particularly bound to this element.

And now, he found beauty in it, too. Perhaps not like a Rohir would, but he did.

He found elegance and refinement in the way that it illuminated her delicate traits, her chiselled cheeks and the lovely dimple on her chin that he so often kissed. In its halo, the fairness of her hair glowed and radiated like the summer sun and the bright moon had come together in one. Her thin, pale hand rested onto her lap, only adorned by her wedding band. It was the perfect image; the love of his life in the firelight, making him fall head over heels all over again.

Faramir stepped inside ever so calmly, holding the flowers in his hand. Éowyn, alerted by the soft footsteps, turned to him and instantly smiled.

‘Fari, are those for me?’

He nodded, mirroring her grin and brushing his fingertips against her cheek. He came to one knee before her, admiring her with the most loving eyes that any being would be graced with.

‘Beautiful flowers for my most precious lady. My gorgeous wife.’

She chuckled and leant closer to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him into a tender kiss. Then, she took the flowers and admired them with her lips parted in awe.

‘They are perfect! Thank you. Let me find a vase for them.’

‘Do this, and I shall find a book for us to enjoy.’

They parted ways with another kiss and joined again after a few minutes. Faramir sat on the chair by the fireplace and patted his knee. Éowyn kicked off her slippers and sat in his lap, tying her wrists around his neck and resting her head in its crook. He opened the book and proceeded to read a tale of romance, the type that they had both come to appreciate more ever since their first encounter.

As he spoke the words in his solemn and affectionate voice, his eyes losing themselves in hers every so often, she felt her heart slowing down. Passion that causes one’s heart to race at the sole sight of one’s lover sure is pleasant; but to her, there was much greater satisfaction in finding a person with whom one feels so at ease and at peace that their heart would feel tranquil at last.

When the story came to a close, Faramir felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. Now was the time to surprise her. He had written the poem with Éomer to help him translate his feelings in the Rohirric tongue, and his brother-in-law had provided with ample wordings and phrases for him to convey his affection for his wife.

But now that he had to recite it, he found himself at a loss. None of the words remained within reach. They eluded him every time that he thought he could reshape one of the verses. Oh, what to do?

Well, he would have to do what he always did in unforeseen circumstances as a Ranger. Improvise. At the very least, he could remember the loose vocabulary. He could manage to simply tell her that she is beautiful. That was easy.

Closing the book and placing it on the rug, Faramir held his beloved wife’s hand and stroked its smooth skin. Lost in her deep eyes, he let the words overcome him. He let them invade every piece of himself that was not already conquered by the sight he beheld.

‘Éowyn,’ he intoned with a lovestruck voice, ‘leofest wife min, is éosgitan prættigre thonne thé.’

Éowyn froze, her eyes round as marbles and her jaw slacked. Faramir beamed with pride at the sheer surprise upon his wife’s face. But when her bewilderment turned into a deep frown, his exaltation swiftly came to an end.

‘Did I mispronounce something?’

She blinked a few times before rolling her eyes to the ceiling with a groan. The tension in her shoulders decreased, until she met his gaze once more.

‘Did Éomer teach you this?’

‘Well, yes. I have been studying Rohirric for the past weeks, but I needed his help. I wrote you a whole poem, but as soon as I looked into your eyes, I… I could not retrieve the words and I felt rather foolish. So, I used the other words he taught me to compliment your beauty.’

Faramir ran a hand through his hair, rather embarrassed. Surely, if this was her reaction, he had done it all wrong.

‘Was my pronunciation that horrendous?’

Éowyn laughed and pecked his cheek.

‘No, my love,’ she consoled him. ‘If you need advice about learning Rohirric, here it is: never trust Éomer. What he taught you means that horseshit is prettier than me.’

‘Oh. OH. No, no, this was not my intention at all! I…’

‘Calm down, Fari. I figured as much.’

He sighed in relief and wrapped his arms around her waist.

‘Why would he do such a thing?’

‘He’s a big brother. That is what big brothers do.’

‘Boromir never…’

‘My love, from all the things I have heard about him, I can assure you that Boromir was no typical older sibling. Siblings bicker, they fight over the pettiest thing. Éomer and I often shouted death threats to one another!’

Faramir blanched and shook his head in disbelief. He could not fathom Boromir ever uttering such calamities to him. But come to think of it, his father had done that aplenty in his stead.

‘I see. Well… I apologise for my words. I never meant to insult you.’

‘I know, Fari, you do not need to reassure me. Take it easy on yourself. Éomer took advantage of your cluelessness about our tongue to trick you. In a way, I think it comforts me into thinking that he sees you as his brother now. Not only did he gratuitously insulted me through you, but he also played a trick on you to embarrass you without harm.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Oh, yes. He would not do that to just anyone.’

The pair exchanged a loving smile and indulged into a slow kiss. When their lips parted, Éowyn instantly forgot the incident and traced his jaw and chin with the tip of her nail.

‘So, you said that you are learning Rohirric? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I wanted to surprise you. I wrote a poem in your language for you, and I meant to recite it in the garden at sunset. But since you preferred to stay at home, I wanted to pronounce it here instead. Again, I forgot all of it. But I have it written in my office. Now, I do not know how much of it I can trust.’

‘You had Éomer translate it with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Expect the lewdest things, then. But I will read it, if you allow me. Perhaps he did grow some common sense and actually did a good job. You can never know, with him.’

She peppered his face with kisses, causing him to blush and giggle. Oh, how he loved it when she made him drop his guard and made him giddy with the simplest of gestures. None other could bring him to such heights.

‘Min se swetesta sunnan scima,’ she murmured into his ear.

‘Wait,’ he exclaimed, perking up. ‘Sunnan… It is the sun, is it not?’

‘See? You know more than you think.’

Faramir grinned from ear to ear in victory. At last! He had understood a spoken word! He felt like a child whose arrow reached the target for the first time. It did not matter whether he did not hit bullseye; he had reached it.

‘But what does it mean?’

‘It means “my sweetest sunbeam”. And seeing you now, I believe that it could not fit you more.’

He chuckled and cupped her face, gently tracing her cheekbones with his thumbs.

‘What word is there in the Rohirric tongue to describe what I feel when I see you?’

‘Your words were spot-on.’

‘Come on,’ he playfully groaned, rolling his eyes. ‘You know that I was the mere victim of a crude trick. I want, no, I need, a word to express the fact that you are my most precious treasure. A gem I shall never tire to behold. One I seldom dare to touch with my rough fingers out of fear that I might shatter you.’

Éowyn flushed red yet did not avert her gaze. She stroked his hair and sighed.

‘Sincroden.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Sincroden. It means “treasure-adorned”. Many maidens of the Rohirrim dream to have a man address them as such.’

A shy smile played on his lips as he registered the information. He shifted a little on his seat and, sensing her slipping off his lap, he held her knees firmly and pulled her back onto him, pressing her to his chest.

‘Sinchroden wife min.’

The twinkle in Éowyn’s eyes betrayed the bursting joy within her thundering heart. Once again, she bestowed him with a most tender kiss, and none of them let go for the rest of the evening. Clad in the flames’ cast orange hues, they no longer needed words to convey their devotion to each other. They spoke the universal and unspoken language of bewitched hearts, eyelashes grazing their cheeks and the caress of their mouths the only syllables they required.

#Please do not proofread my Old English lmao #I had to rely on online sources and my two textbooks #Then I had to tweak stuff to make it sound Rohirric #Faramir #Éowyn #Eowyn #Farawyn #lotrweek #Lord of the Rings #Éomer #Eomer #Rohan #Gondor #Rohanese #lotr #lotr fanfic #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #fanfiction

[esta-elavaris]

Status: Ongoing [for a very, very long time probably] Pairing: Boromir/OC

Summary: Sybil was a teenager when she wished with all she had that she might wake up in Middle-earth, able to right the wrongs she perceived in its story. Whatever power granted her wish didn’t seem to think she’d need any memory of her old home to help her once there. A decade later, when she stumbles across Boromir in the wilderness, will she be able to fulfil the goal she no longer has any recollection of?

Links: AO3 -- FF.net

Lots of pining, slow burn, modern!OC who doesn’t know she’s a modern!OC...yet (and is therefore very distressed over where her flashes of images from the future come from) - and it’ll probably end up being ridiculously long. I can’t believe you guys talked me into this, but I am so glad that you did.

#might pin this for a bit #yes that's rose from titanic #listen I don't have photoshop on this laptop I had to use canva and a shady free image editor online i did what i could lmao #boromir/oc #boromir/modern!oc #kinda #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings fanfic #boromir fanfic #boromir fanfiction #lord of the rings fanfiction #writeblr

[kemendin]

Powerless

Another short LOTRO piece dredged up from the archives.

For once, Grimkur was glad of the fact that he couldn’t see the faintly startled and even disconcerted looks being directed his way. At least, that was how he imagined they were looking at him. The faint pause between light steps, a moment of silence in the sweep of cloth on stone – the sounds were enough to tell him what was going through the minds of the Elves as they passed by. He had heard them murmuring, with curiosity, with distaste. He ignored them. He didn’t need their opinions right now. Not ever, in fact, but particularly not now.

His gnarled legs dangled childlike over the edge of the bench where he waited, leaving something grimy on the latticed stonework and the floor beneath. He had been told rather pointedly that he often left a trail where he walked. To this he had been forced to acquiesce – he certainly wasn’t in a position to argue – and then he had promptly walked away, just to help prove the point. That had certainly jammed the stick further up, judging by the huffy silence that had been left in his wake.

The sound of the door nearby gently opening made him turn his head. He levered himself off the bench with a grunt and walked over until his nose was nearly touching the robes of the two Elves who had emerged.

“Any change?” he asked, his voice made gruffer by concealed anxiety.

There was silence for a moment. He could sense the look the two exchanged, and it irritated him.

“Just tell me! My ears aren’t delicate twigs.” He lifted his scarred face in the illusion of a glare.

“None,” came the answer, in a deep, rich voice laden with unusual weariness. “He remains, for the most part, unresponsive.”

Grimkur let out an explosive breath of frustration. “What do you mean, for the most part?”

It was the other Elf who replied this time, his voice lighter and more anxious. “He sleeps a great deal, and when he is awake, he seems not to know anything around him. There is no focus in his eyes, as though he is not aware that he even exists.”

“And still, he says nothing,” continued Elrond. “Not a word has he uttered since he was brought here. And not, you told me, since you found him.”

Grimkur shook his head and spat out some meaningless noise, turning away. He could feel them watching him closely, Giluin in particular. He knew what they were thinking – such a tragedy, that he should go to such lengths for what amounted to a stringless puppet. He wished they wouldn’t. He didn’t regret for a moment the arduous journey he had made to Forochel, under the guidance of a carefully pessimistic and resigned Elf escort. Long cold nights listening to Giluin’s forced cheerfulness as he spoke with ignorant nostalgia of his idol’s many scholarly accomplishments, until Grimkur had told him to shut it, with rather less kindly a phrase. Damned Elf didn’t know anything when it came to that.

Four days it had taken them to dig through the ice, four days in which everyone but Grimkur had been forced to find rest from the work and bitter cold. How Giluin had persuaded some of the Lossoth to direct and aid them he didn’t know, and didn’t care. When the others retreated for the night the Dwarf alone had continued, kept warm by the constant rhythm of his arms as his pickaxe bit into the snow and by the furs that Giluin draped over him in the darkness; and also by the angry, impossible question of why he was going to all this trouble to recover the body of a no good leaf-ears anyway.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, taurûth?!” The words were involuntary, the voice of a clenched fist lashing out. Behind him, he felt Giluin flinch.

“His spirit is stunned,” said Elrond, clinical now, but still with heaviness in his tone. “He has no will to rouse himself.” A fraction of a pause. “By all accounts he should be dead, his fëa passed onward. But something tethers him here, something which even I cannot tell.”

“So what can put him right?” Grimkur stumped back around angrily to face the Elves.

“I cannot say. Perhaps only time.”

“Or?”

Another pause.

“Or perhaps nothing.”

Grimkur had to assume it was the bestial growl leaving his throat that prompted further words.

“This is not a battle wound to be healed by herbs and bandages, nor an illness to be cured through any care we here might give. Something has broken which cannot be made whole again by any physical means. Whatever holds him here must draw him back, or else he must find a way to return to this world fully.”

“Yet you’re the one who’s saying he has no will left!” growled the Dwarf.

“And that is why you must not cling to hope. I will do all I can, but you must hear this: unless his spirit finds a path out of the darkness, he will fade again.” Elrond’s voice turned stern then. “The trials of his soul have been great, Grimkur. Do not judge him harshly if, in the end, he chooses to leave this world and its sorrows.”

#lotro #lord of the rings online #lotro fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotro oc #elrond #lotro:kemendin #lotro:grimkur #my oc #kem writes

[z-h-i-e]

Oxonmoot 2022: Panels I am Presenting (or Co-Presenting)

Attending virtual Oxonmoot (or still considering it)? It's coming up the first weekend of September, and this is the third year running I'll have panels/funsie things I'm presenting. Here's the brief list; descriptions under the cut. (I also hang out in the virtual crafting/art/writing areas a LOT - like, a LOT a LOT. And of course, I'm not going to miss the "Dead Orcs Party"* at the end.)

Thursday - Lord of the Rings Online (Live Stream with Play-along Options): Roleplay Neighborhoods

Friday - A Community of Art From A to Z, with Ann and Zhie (cohosted with AnnEllspethRaven)

& So You Want To Write Fanfiction: Battling Writer's Block

Saturday - So You Want to Write Fanfiction: Writing Choose Your Own Adventure(tm) Stories

Link to Oxonmoot Info - Virtual registration is £40 for Tolkien Society Members and £50 for non-members for the online and hybrid content for all three+ days, plus access to the Oxonmoot Discord

*No actual orcs harmed for this party.

Lord of the Rings Online (Live Stream with Play-along Options): Roleplay Neighborhoods

Adventure in Middle-earth, or just watch other adventurers from the comfort of your couch. Watch, or participate in, a Live Stream of Lord of the Rings Online, focusing on the set-up of in-game roleplay neighborhoods, with commentary from long-time players. In the play-along version, you will want to have a character who is out of the intro and able to travel to the Shire neighborhood; for those who are watching, you get to sit back and enjoy the action. If playing along, please download the game and create your character in advance!

Play will happen on the Landroval server. Neighborhood to be announced at the beginning of the panel. 

A Community of Art From A to Z, with Ann and Zhie

AnnEllspethRaven and Zhie wish to show images of a wide range of Tolkien art and fanart to illustrate the diversity of themes and styles utilized by assorted artists who have taken the time and effort to bring Tolkien's texts to life. Each work will be discussed and honored for its contributions and its technical achievements by two persons who hold university degrees in the humanities and who have a deep love of art as a subject, understanding also the emotional experience inherent in being content creators.

So You Want To Write Fanfiction: Battling Writer's Block

Just like a Balrog, Writer's Block is the surprise no one wants to encounter. Join this workshop to learn about ways to combat writer's block, including exercises and games that can be helpful to defeat your writing foe.

So You Want to Write Fanfiction: Writing Choose Your Own Adventure(tm) Stories

Why choose one ending when you don't have to choose -- make your readers do that for you! Choose Your Own Adventure (tm) stories follow many different paths. This panel will cover how to choose topics appropriate for CYOA stories, and how to organize the story so you can get to The End, again and again. We'll also attempt to write a simple CYOA story as a group. 

Topics Covered

CYOA Basics & Tips

Brainstorming

Storyboarding

Platform Examples

Game-Based CYOA

Templates

#oxonmoot #tolkien fanfiction #lord of the rings online #tolkien fanart

[yupekosi]

dp x dc prompt again bc i am plagued with blorbo thoughts. should i make this a series?? anyway

so we all know that Jason 'Pride and Prejudice' Todd-Wayne is a nerd, right? no amount of muscle can hide that this fridge of a man was once the dorky little kid that was so excited to go to school he skipped out on Robin patrols to do homework.

I propose that Danny 'I Wanna Be an Astronaut' Fenton Phantom is also a fucking nerd. he gets good grades, when he's not having to juggle school, sleep, and secret ghost fighting, and he takes to engineering like a ghost to ectoplasm. he's also the exact kind of space-obsessed geeky kid that would absolutely devour every sci-fi show and book he could get, and I say that as someone who was that space-obsessed geeky kid.

so, as young teens, both boys spent a lot of time in online fandom spaces, and eventually become internet friends. Jason's into classic lit and Lord of the Rings while Danny's into comic books and Star Trek, but they get on surprisingly well. They're chatting on forums and beta-ing each other's fanfiction, that sort of thing... and then Jason vanishes.

he just stops responding to messages, he stops posting, all his accounts are abandoned. Danny is very concerned, of course, but this happens right around the time of his accident, so he has more city-destroying things to worry about than an online friend going MIA. and eventually, as he gets older, he sort of forgets about Jason, only occasionally thinking back to the kid he used to talk to, wondering whatever happened to him.

so time passes, and Danny, now a young adult, ends up meeting the Batfam for whatever reason. is he part of the Justice League? in Gotham for a Wayne Enterprises internship? superhero shenanigans? Ghost King Summoning? secret twin/son/clone bullshit? up to you!

any way, he's hitting it off with the Batkids, and at some point Jason subconsciously quotes something from one of his old, unpublished fanfics from his Tumblr days.

and Danny's jaw drops. the Batkids stare at him; you can see the gears turning in his head before he blurts out;

"You're WingingIt02???"

and something deep in Jason's brain, buried under layers of death-trauma and Pit Rage clicks.

"Holy shit, AstroloGhost??"

[once again, not planning to make this a fic, but feel free to run wild with the prompt! just give credit if you do, please! :3]

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp crossover #dc x dp prompt #dc x dp au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom x dc #dead on main #kind of? i intended it to be dead on main but it can be read as gen #jason todd x danny fenton #jason todd x danny phantom #red hood x danny phantom #jason x danny #dead on main ship #i know those are stupid usernames but it's 3am #make up better ones if u want im too eepy #nerd4nerd dead on main real and true #can a jane austen boy and a star trek boy really fall in love yaoi style #arcades prompts

[starbirdfinch]

A Small Break - Lord of the Rings fan story

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┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩

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┊ ┊ ☪︎⋆

┊ ⊹ ┊

✯ ⋆ ┊ . ˚

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⋆ ★ Words: 3099

⋆ ★ Warnings: Mean Lady, Not So Good Writing. ^^’

So this a short story I wrote weeks ago- it was just for fun and practice as I wanted to get back to writing short stories. I’m a bit nervous about sharing it on here. ^^’

Feedback is really appreciated!

Also, if you have questions while reading the short story- don’t be afraid to ask me! ^^

Enjoy!

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Maristella’s throat felt tightened as the sight of the crowd seemed to have gotten bigger, overlapping laughing and chatting filling her ears. Letting down a shaky gulp, she took a small sip of her wine before glancing around- she can feel some eyes on her, which doesn’t help her attempts to calm herself down. She knows most people are curious about a new member of the rangers, especially considering how rare it is for most people to see one in person. This doesn’t change how Maristella can no longer stand the feeling of eyes burning into her skin, along with the fact that some of them are judging eyes hidden along the curious eyes.

How many of these people do Arwen and Aragorn know personally..?

Maristella found herself awkwardly shuffling through the crowd, doing her best to avoid getting in the way of conversations or to bump into anyone. If only her dress hadn’t made it harder, almost stumbling due to her foot catching the hem of the blue silk that forms the beautiful gown she was gifted to wear for this wonderful event.

“My apologies..” Maristella muttered to some people her stumbling feet bumped her into. Though her apology wasn’t enough to save her from quiet jeers as she walks away.

“Two left feet that one has. Best duck if she decides to show off her archery skills”, followed by some chuckling. Maristella immediately straightened herself up, wanting to appear like their words had no meaning. Though it does answer her thought earlier- she doesn’t see Aragorn and Awren being close to those kinds of guests.

Short chuckles are heard, prompting the woman to turn to face two smiling hobbits- beaming happily, as they make their ways towards her.

“Your foot is smaller than a hobbit and yet, you are stumbling about worse than a fawn just learning to walk” Merry teased.

Pippin joined in. “One spill on the dress and the queen will be displeased- best be careful”

“At least, it’s blue, Pippin!” Merry chuckled, patting his cousin on the shoulder. “At least it’s blue!”

Maristella lets out a quiet huff but her eyes has a glisten of amusement, recalling the little trick Pippin Took and Merry Brandybuck had pulled- decorating everything in blue. The poor wedding decorator, Cufaron, while impressed, was fearful of receiving the blame while Isteron, the wedding planner wasn’t amused by having to be pushed back with the schedule. Maristella does remember one person who did a poor job hiding his amusement once he saw the decorations- the Elf of the Fellowship, Legolas.

“Not many are familiar with Hobbits such as us”

She remembers the Elf chuckling as he walked towards her.

“Am I correct when I guess this little surprise must be the doing of a certain Took and Brandybuck we know?”

Maristella shook her head slightly before turning to the two Hobbits, having a small smile on her face. Seeing two familiar faces calmed her nerves just a bit. “Well, unlike a certain dressed up ranger, her two little friends are indeed enjoying the ceremony?”

“Oh, not enjoying a lovely celebration for a wedding?” Merry tilted his head.

“I would be enjoying it a lot better if there wasn’t…so much noise..and stares..” Maristella shuffled from one foot to the left. “It is a beautiful celebration though- I am sure Arwen and Aragorn are pleased..”

Merry nodded as Pippin spoke up. “If you ever wish for a break- the garden is currently empty. Gandalf will be heading out in a bit to show off some fireworks.”

It was Maristella’s turn to tease. “And I am to guess he fully trusts you to be near his performance after the last time you two got a hold of his fireworks..?”She didn’t know the hobbits when they had celebrated Bilbo’s birthday but Bilbo was more than happy to tell her the events.

“Are you saying Gandalf doesn’t trust us?” Pippin spoke, smiling- whether he is playing along or truly doesn’t realize she’s joking; she doesn’t know. “We are hurt by your words, Maristella- We are but innocent hobbits.”

Maristella chuckled, a teasing tone in her voice. “Innocent- Pippin Took and Merry Brandybuck? Will I ever live to see that day?”

“Perhaps you already have.” Merry joked back before turning around to leave. “If you need an excuse to leave- we’ll be out in the garden.”

Maristella blinks before looking at the entrance for the garden, taking in a deep breath before returning her glance back to the Hobbits to see if the two have already wandered off to where Frodo and Sam are. Maristella took in another deep breath before glancing around, hoping to find more people she knew but she either couldn’t find some or they’ll all doing their own thing- Aragorn and Arwen were talking to guests, Gandalf was heading outside with the Hobbits just as Merry and Pippin said, Faramir and Éowyn were nowhere to be seen, Elnord were talking to some elves that were clearly of noble blood, and Legolas and Gimli were doing what they did best. Another drinking competition.

Seems Gilmi still isn’t over the fact Legolas beat him at Edoras.

Leaning against a column, Maristella found herself in the same position as she was during the celebration of their victory at Helm’s Deep; watching Legolas and Gimli have a drinking competition from a distance. This current event is replaying just the past- the way Gimli sways tells Maristella that the dwarf isn’t gonna make it. Legolas was quickly drinking the drinks in almost one gulp with no drops on his face or clothes, no sign of alcohol taking effect; how he is able to do that, Maristella will never know.

“He’s handsome.” Maristella overheard two women not far from her, also watching the elf and dwarf. “I heard he’s the son of Thranduil.”

Thranduil, that’s right. The king of Mirkwood, having lived in Dale, Maristella heard stories of him- never seen him but the stories speak for themselves. Maristella could hardly believe the innocent, mischievous Legolas is the son of such a fearful and cold-hearted king. Whenever Legolas talks with Maristella, he never brings up the topic of his father so she can’t help but wonder if there was a falling out between the two. If the young ranger was gonna be honest, she was unaware of the fact that Legolas was even a prince even after their first meeting. Despite his strong appearance, he never had a sense of royalty around him nor did he ever bring up the fact himself; she just assumed he was just an everyday elf.

“I wonder if he’s searching.” Maristella continues to hear the women talk, some nervousness can be heard in her tune. She tries to not automatically turn to look at their direction. Maristella doesn’t want to get caught overhearing their conversation.

“I advise against it. It’s a shame he’s participating in such low games.” Maristella could hear a hint of disgust in the other woman’s voice; she sounded older than the first as well. “He is not setting a fine example of his kingdom if he’s drowning in ale with a dwarf of all things. Last I heard elves and dwarves despise each other.”

“I am sure he’s just humoring the dwarf.” The younger woman chuckled. “What’s the harm in it anyway?”

“When you think of a powerful elf, a prince no less, is that what you would picture?” The woman scoffed quietly.

Maristella held her tongue but failed to hide the annoyance in her expression- this woman clearly doesn’t know Legolas, yet, she believes she has the right to judge him. Can Legolas hear this conversation? Does he even care if he does- he’s not showing any signs he’s listening or care at all. He is just smiling, raising his brows as Gimli, as predicted by anyone, falls right off his chair- Éomer laughing alongside him. Ever since the last celebration, Éomer always seems to be there to watch any competitions Legolas and Gimli has.

“None of these men should behave this poorly.” The woman continued. “Especially during a celebration as special as this one”

Maristella turned her face to glance at the two women with a quiet glare- she wanted nothing more than to tear into the woman but once again, she kept her mouth shut.

This is important for Aragorn and Arwen- I shouldn’t ruin it because of one hag choosing to be all high and mighty.

Maristella ignored the women’s stares as she took another sip of her wine, starting to walk away. She didn’t know where to go exactly- this big room had one person at every corner. Maybe she should follow Gandalf and the Hobbits to the garden.

“It seems we have a little mouse overhearing our conversation.” She heard the older woman speak, the voice getting quieter as it started to get lost in the overlapping conversations.

“Isn’t she one of the rangers that traveled with the king and his companions?” The younger woman spoke, a small, strange tone in her voice though Maristella can hear the curiosity underneath the tone. “I didn’t think I’d see her here.”

“No need to be jealous if you’re referring to her and the princes” The older woman spoke. “She is but simply a mere archer- no one of higher status.”

Ouch.

Maristella let out a quiet huff, deciding it’s probably best to go out into the garden- maybe not to meet with the others like she originally planned. To be alone, is this how most people spent their past time at events like this? Talking down about other guests? Maristella doesn’t want people bowing at the sight of her or any attention but shouldn’t the fact she and the others were fighting against Sauron give them a bit of respect? These people wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for those who risked their lives, yet, they judge when they believe they’re not looking.

They wouldn’t have the courage to say any of this to any of our faces- Aragorn wouldn’t be happy to hear about his guests being rude towards his friends behind their backs.

Leaving her cup on a table she walks by, Maristella was greeted by the cold night air, something she welcomed greatly as she took in a deep breath through her nose and exhaled from her mouth. She didn’t glance behind her as she exited into the garden, believing no one would notice her slipping away- not realizing a pair of brown eyes watching her vanish amongst the trees and bushes.

Maristella blindly walked along the stoned path, holding her dress up slightly to avoid stumbling once more. She didn’t slow her pace until she couldn’t hear the sounds of the party anymore- slowing into a walking pace. Being away from the dreaded crowded room and out in the cool, empty garden, Maristella was able to feel like she could breathe and relax.

I might not be able to stay out long- I left without saying anything, they’d probably be wondering where I am soon.

Maristella soon reached the fountain she was earlier today with her stallion, Blizzard. Thinking about it makes her want to go see her horse, at least he’d be more civilized company than the guests. As she heads over to sit down, she could have sworn she heard something- footsteps? Glancing her shoulders, she saw no one walking down the paths. Perhaps she imagined it? That was proven false quickly as she heard shuffling in the branches at all, some leaves and blooming flowers falling around her. How did someone go from behind her to the trees above her? They couldn’t have done that without her hearing or at least seeing them. Unless someone or some people were messing with her.

That answered her question pretty quickly- she knew only two people were able to mess with her like this and one of them was most likely in the cellar, trying to steal a wine bottle. Which leaves just one person.

“You looked troubled, Ithildin.” Maristella looked behind her to see a familiar elf dressed in beautiful blue robes made of silk, standing on the edge of the fountain- perfectly balanced with no signs of falling. A silver crown rests firmly around his forehead, his blue eyes glistening in curiosity but teasing.

“Legolas..” Maristella sighed softly. “Shouldn’t you be helping a certain dwarf unconscious on the floor?”

“Éomer and Faramir have that taken care of. Helped Gimli right to his guest quarters” Legolas explained. Oh, so Faramir has returned from wherever he went. “I just saw a certain mouse leaving the party and got curious.”

Maristella lifted her dress to sit on the fountain’s edge, careful not to have the hem dip into the water. “So you have overheard the conversation.”

“Only the last part. Whatever was said before- I was too busy enjoying my time to notice.” Legolas sat down next to her. “But it seems you’re unable to do the same.”

Maristella said nothing at first, not being able to look at Legolas for a few seconds. She hated how easy she was to read; ever since she was a child, she never could hide what she was really feeling.

“How many events like this have you intended?” Maristella muttered softly.

“I’m 2,931 years old.” Legolas chuckled softly. “How many do you think I’ve intended?”

“Must have been a lot.” Maristella tilted her head in his direction. “Being a prince and all. You must have visited many places.”

“Actually, no.” Legolas corrected. “I only ever participated in events my father would have thrown- though it wasn’t much, only when I was younger; before I reached the age of 100. Not as exciting as this party or our celebration back at Edoras.”

Maristella blinked in confusion. “Your father isn’t fond of parties..?”

Legolas didn’t say anything at first, a flash of sadness in his brown eyes, clearly thinking of a sensitive topic. Regret quickly filled Maristella- was she right about the damaged relationship? Was it something Legolas didn’t want to bring up?

“No, you can say he wasn’t…” Legolas chuckled quietly, though his smile quickly vanished. He then perked his head up and looked back at Maristella. “Why do you ask..? Maristella, is what she said bothering you..?”

“No” Maristella stated, tensing up slightly. She lets out a sigh, dropping her shoulders before saying. “She was acting like you and Gimli were doing a crime just by drinking ale”, Legolas arched a brow but said nothing, letting her continue. “She thinks since you’re the prince of Mirkwood- you must act a certain way and only be in the company of certain people. That you’re shaming your kingdom by just having a competition with your friend- even believes Éomer is doing the same thing as well”

“Hm.” was all Legolas said at first before leaning against his hands, continuing. “Maristella, I do not care what people say about my friendships- I knew right away there would be talk about Gimli and I. A dwarf and an elf being friends? It’s unheard of but we are proving it is not possible.”

“It does not bother you when someone talks down on you..?” Maristella arched her brow.

Legolas let a small smile appear on his face. “I know who I am- my time should be about me and my friends.” He glanced back at her, tilting his head. “However, it does bother me when people talk down on my friends. Maristella, your title as a ranger isn’t all you are”

“Yes, I am also a two left footed archer, '' Maristella joked.

Legolas chuckled softly. “You are a skilled archer, an elf-friend, you are one of the many brave souls that fight against Sauron and his men. One opinion won’t change that.”, Maristella smiled at Legolas before glancing down at her reflection. Taking in a moment of silence, she lifts her legs onto the edge, sitting in a position to fully face Legolas.

“Everything just seems to be moving too fast- when I left Dale, I did not expect I’d be a ranger, fighting against a powerful being with an army of orcs and trolls, being at a celebration of Gondor’s newest king”, Maristella looked up at him, her dull blue eyes staring into his soft blue eyes. “Befriending an elven prince”

Legolas narrowed his eyes softly. “And do you reject leaving home?”

“No” Maristella smiled bashfully, glancing down. “I left to go on an adventure and I got one- just wish things would calm down for a few moments so I can think about everything that has happened..it is scary but thrilling”, she looked up with a bright smile, Legolas smiled. “I wonder what will come next”

“I must admit that whatever does happen next” Legolas spoke quietly. “I do hope we are still in contact with each other”

Maristella quickly realized she couldn’t look away, studying Legolas’ face closely- tilting her head slightly as she narrowed her eyes softly. Growing up in Dale, Maristella has seen elves; she always was amazed by their beauty and Legolas was no expectation. He was so unbelievably beautiful- his soft eyes full of life and his blonde hair perfectly framing his face.

“I do as well.” Maristella muttered.

A loud boom made Maristella jump before looking up just to see sparkles of colors explode in the sky; Legolas letting out a small laugh.

“It seems Gandalf has started his fireworks.” Legolas stood up, turning to face Maristella. “Shall we join the others- our friends may be wondering where we are.”

Maristella looked at the fireworks before over to Legolas before nodding. “Yes, we shall”

Maristella stood up and let Legolas lead her through the garden, watching a small crowd come into view. It seems the Hobbits weren’t the only ones watching the Fireworks. Arwen and Aragorn stood not far from Gandalf, Elrond beside them, Faramir was sitting on a bench with Éwyon and Éomer, Maristella even saw Vhenan sitting on a tree branch, a wine bottle in her hand showing she was successful. Gimli watching the window of his guest quarters- perhaps the fireworks woke him up and knowing Gimli, he will join the group soon enough. Even Frodo was smiling and laughing with his fellow hobbits, something that deeply pleased the rangers. The rest of the crowd contains other guests, even the younger woman from before; smiling in awe with her eyes sparkling brightly. Gasps and laughter filled the air as Gandalf lit another firework in the air. Maristella even laughs softly as she covers her ears, sharing a happy glance with Legolas, the fireworks reflecting in his brown eyes, before looking at more fireworks. For the first time, all night, Maristella felt completely at ease, even if the loudness of the fireworks bothered her little. This is an event that Maristella prefers, a relaxing and happy little event where no one cares about anything but having a break with loved ones from how stressful life can get.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

And that’s it! I hope I made it a enjoyable read with some things being settled. I hope I was able to keep the characters in character and I hope Maristella seems like a interesting character herself.

Again, if you have any feedback or questions- comment them below! ^^

ALSO! There is something ‘hidden’ in the story- it’ll look like a mistake but I did it on purpose. ^^

[C]────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

#lord of the rings #fanfiction #oc x canon #legolas #legolas x oc #lord of the rings online #sorry for the bad writing. ^^’ #been years since I did wrote stuff. #for fun #practice

[retellingthehobbit]

Tolkien Webcomic Recommendations!

I know people here follow me for my webcomic adaptation of the Hobbit. So I thought I’d share recommendations for my favorite similar Tolkien comic projects, in case people are looking for other Tolkien webcomics to read! :D

My recs will be mainly Tolkien comics that adapt portions of the original books, just with their own unique spin on them.

1. Sam and Frodo Comics, by Molly Knox Ostertag

Ostertag is probably the most well known artist on this list! She is a professional graphic novel artist who does gorgeous adaptations of scenes from Lord of the Rings, read through a queer lens, in order to tell the story of Frodo and Sam’s love for each other. This is mixed in with comics based on her own Tolkien-inspired writing. I’m focusing on comics in this rec list, but I’ll add that Ostertag has also written a lot of engaging prose fanfic with illustrations.

“Sam and Frodo Comics”

“In All the Ways There Were” (illustrated prose fanfic adaptation)

2.Lord of the Rings Book Canon Comics, by @yambits

Yambits does beautiful adaptations of scenes from the original lord of the rings books that do not appear in the New Line Cinema films, hewing very close to the original prose, and focusing on the love between Frodo and Sam. I especially love the way they depict the magical temptation of the Ring.

“Ithilien,” an adaptation of Frodo & Sam’s encounter with Faramir

“In the Lair,” an adaptation of Sam & Frodo journeying together into Shelob’s lair

“The Tower,” an adaptation of Sam journeying to the tower of Cirith Ungol to rescue Frodo

“Escape from the Tower,” an adaptation of Sam and Frodo leaving Cirith Ungol to journey into Mordor

The Ringbearers, a comic about the One Ring reflecting on the resilience of hobbits

3. Sansukh the Webcomic, by @fishfingersandscarves and @determamfidd

Sansukh is a well-loved Bagginshield fanfiction that is now getting a webcomic adaptation co-created by the original author. The premise is that after his death, Thorin Oakenshield is not able to speak to his surviving loved ones, but can influence them in subtle ways; he uses this power to help inspire Gimli to join the Fellowship of the Ring and protect Bilbo’s nephew. From there the fic becomes an “adaptation” of Lord of the Rings, retelling the trilogy through its new lens until the very end.

This is a bit of an outlier on this list because it’s an adaptation of a fanfic that’s an adaptation of the books, rather than an adaptation of the book. However, if you’re into the Hobbit fandom/Bagginshield, I recommend checking it out! It’s also one of the few comics on this list that is currently updating. :)

@sansukhcomic (tumblr blog)

Chapter one

Original fanfic the comic is based on

4. The Ainulindalae from the Silmarillion, by Evan Palmer Comics

People who know me, know that I’m *usually* not a big Silmarillion person. However!

Comic artist Evan Palmer did a gorgeous adaptation of the Ainulindale. This section of the Silmarillion describes the elven myth of creation, the ancient years where the world was created through a divine magical song. Palmer’s Fantasia-inspired expressive watercolor art really helps bring this section of the story to life!

Full comic

5.The 1989 Hobbit Comic adaptation, by Chuck Dixon and David T Wenzel

This is another outlier because it’s a physical comic book, rather than a webcomic- and unlike all the other recs this is an “official” adaptation produced by an actual publishing company rather than a zero-budget work made by an indie creator working alone/with a partner. I’m unsure if it can be found online.

It’s an adaptation of the Hobbit that hews extremely close to the original book, making practically no changes at all. It has very gorgeous watercolor illustrations! ( It’s been a big inspiration for me on my own little comic adaptation of the hobbit shsjd.) This is also the only comic on the list I’ll offer critique of, because it’s the only one made by an actual company with a budget— so I’ll say that because of page limits imposed on the comic many of the pages can feel overcrowded with prose, and emotional beats/comedy beats sometimes aren’t given the time to properly land. At times it feels less like a comic adaptation and more like reading the original prose of the Hobbit accompanied by some very beautiful illustrations. But if that’s what you’re into it’s great!

It’s a fun well-illustrated read that I recommend. I’m not sure where people can find copies; I stumbled across it in my library, so they’re definitely still around.

If anyone has additional tolkien comic recommendations,especially ones that can be found easily online, feel free to add them to this list! : D

#the hobbit #lord of the rings #lotr #the Silmarillion #Tolkien #sansukh #the hobbit comic #retelling the hobbit #webcomics #middle earth #webcomic recs #not chapters #misc #let me know if I’ve written anything incorrectly in this post and all correct it! #(if the comic authors see this)

[johannestevans]

Woe, Boypussy Be Upon Ye: Transing Characters in Fanfic & Fanart

What’s the deal with envisioning your blorbos as transgender?

Originally published in Prism & Pen. Also on my Patreon.

It’s a meme, I made it. Here it is.

It’s been unbelievably positive for me as a trans dude, the change in approach to trans characters in fandom and subsequently in media in general, and I just wanted to write a bit about my experiences with the cultural shift and how positive it’s been for me personally.

What’s weird about people in fandom confidently, nay casually, writing characters as transgender and just having them be a regular dude with a pussy or a regular girl with a dick is that like… I remember when it wasn’t a thing.

Back in 2009, for example, which was a big time for fandom — Superwholock was running rampant, Star Trek (2009) had just gotten a new generation of fans into Trek — or even in 2012, when Les Misérables (2012) had dropped and gotten new people into Les Mis, or when the Hobbit had revamped a lot of interest in Tolkien’s books and the original Lord of the Rings films, not to mention The Hobbit itself, none of this even getting into the Marvel movies, like…

It just. It wasn’t a thing.

Sure, there were transgender characters around, characters that people wrote as trans, but I remember it so strongly as being very niche. It was deep, emotional work where people had to work to “justify” the emotional work they were doing, and even then, they couldn’t just say a character was trans and be chill about it. In order to justify a character being transgender, one had to put in mountains of evidence, or admit the trans perspective was a genderbend of sorts.

For me, I’m pretty sure the moment when things started to change was when I was reading and writing a lot of Loki-centred fanfiction, roundabout 2014–2017 — and the more permissive culture was very much borne of Loki being seen as an exception.

Loki, of the Marvel film and comics, is an alien secretly kidnapped and adopted into the Odinson family, and is known to change his body and appearance frequently, including changing his apparent gender or expression.

He was, in the comic canon (not to mention the original Norse mythologies) quite genderfluid, after all, so even if you didn’t refer to him as explicitly transgender, you could explore him as being some variety of genderfluid, nonbinary, or intersex — as an alien, as a Jötnar as opposed to being AEsir like Thor or Odin, as a god.

But then things changed a bit more.

Welcome to Night Vale, a weird narrative horror podcast, started in 2012, and one thing you could rely on from a lot of fanfics is that people might have weird or alien or otherwise not-not cisgender but not entirely cisgender genitals either. The Magnus Archives, also a narrative horror podcast, started in 2016, and when I got into the fandom in roundabout 2019, which is also when the new Good Omens TV show was due to release and there was a resurgence of interest in the book as well, I remember experiencing a sort of newfound thing where like…

I’d had a mental block around writing many trans characters, before — I could create my own characters who were trans, but a big part of me still felt like I wasn’t allowed to just make a canon character trans if they’d never been mentioned as being trans before or made explicitly trans.

What was it that stopped me?

My own dysphoria? Perhaps a little. Maybe some lacking self-confidence.

Most of all, it just felt as though I couldn’t justify it. I couldn’t justify seeing a cis man written by cis people in a cis show and saying, “Hey, no, he’s like me, actually” — even though I could easily do it about the same character being gay or Jewish or even chronically ill or disabled.

It was like there was a mental block inside me I just couldn’t get past.

I still had a lot of the old online cultural expectations stamped onto me, I think, even being an out trans man who knew many many other trans and intersex and nonbinary people of every gender imaginable in fandom.

I think for Welcome to Night Vale and then especially for The Magnus Archives, part of what made it so easy for people to write and envisage different characters as trans, the fact that there was such limited physical description of characters, the fact that you were attached to them by their voices alone, allowed people to envisage them in whatever way they liked.

In The Magnus Archives, most of the main characters are envisaged as trans in one way or another — Daisy Tonner particularly is explored with all flavours of butch dykey complexity, trans in whichever ways or directions are juiciest and most interesting. But for so many of the characters — from Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood to Sasha James and Tim Stoker to Elias Bouchard to Peter Lukas to any of the other Entities — there is no end to the characters people will explore or envisage as trans or nonbinary or just straight-up outside of gender or gender-weird.

No one has to justify a period character being trans with no problems. Loads of people write Izzy Hands or Stede Bonnet or Edward Teach, as being trans in Our Flag Means Death alongside the canonic nonbinary character Jim Jimenez. Any and all characters, trans or otherwise, are invited to participate in ye olde top surgery performed by Roach, the ship’s surgeon, or somehow get hold of ye olde hormones in whatever handwavy way necessary, and it’s cool and fine.

And what’s wonderful for me is the way I see the current approach to trans characters gleefully and delightedly applied to fandoms that are years if not decades old.

I see people write House MD fanfic now where they just go, right from the beginning, yeah this or that character is trans, and they’ve always been trans, and it’s chill. What if James Wilson was trans? It’d rock, that’s what. What if Greg House was trans? Yeah, he’d probably do his own T-shots under the table.

People write Spock as trans now, or guys from M*A*S*H, or Jean Valjean.

What if in the X-Files Dana Scully and Fox Mulder were T4T? Makes complete sense, and also, the idea fucks absolutely. They’re already so lesbian vibes for each other, it fits perfectly.

I wrote a silly little Tumblr post a few weeks ago envisioning Morticia and Gomez Addams as T4T, and it blew up immediately — I think about how if I’d made that most a decade ago it would have been met with crickets, if not a bit of scorn, and not just from transphobes, but just people who like me at that time hadn’t been able to relax and have fun with it.

That’s the real crux of the matter, the impact a lot of fandom has made on me and the way that trans characterisation is approached, the hunger I have for trans characterisation now — it’s the idea of being trans as joyful and delightful, as inherently fun and sexy, but also just as being something every day and normal. A detail you can include as casually in your interpretation of a canon character as any other headcanon.

There’s a beautiful freedom in it, and I’m so grateful to have been able to learn from and grow because of other trans people paving the way with their confident headcanons and delving into trans ideas in their fic.

It’s done wonders for me everywhere — not just in my fanfic, but most of all in the original works I pen now, each one of them featuring trans character after trans character.

#musings #fandom #fandom culture

[ackerfics]

FAMILY LINE — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc

act one, chapter five: the birth of the golden (wc: 9.1k) | masterlist

tw: poorly translated valyrian bc i used a translator online. forgive me.

117 AC

There is a reason why Aegon loves his name day.

People seem to remember him when the Grand Sept’s bells toll to start the one-week celebrations across King’s Landing, as expected of the first son of the King. The gates open to dozens of wheelhouses carrying the high nobles of the realm and the Keep has never been more colourful, housing each intricate combination of hues the Houses bear. Servants scurry among the floors of the castle to make the events as extravagant and fitting for a prince who the King begged the gods for, shipments are received in the docks for the banquet spreads to be laid out for a week, and fittings for new royal clothes are made each passing minute (Aegon wants to barf out his meal just to escape from it because apparently, the girls have their own fittings, so it’s just him, Aether, Aemond, Daemian, and Daeron). Mother won’t be breathing down his neck to pay more attention to his lessons and be more like Aemond, who has expressed a growing interest in history (a boring thing, if you ask him). Father won’t look at him like he is a passing face in the castle; for once, he gets to be a son. 

Excitement ignites each limbal ring of his eyes, mixing in the light of the sun between the tendrils of cornflower blues he possesses, because on his name day, it’s not his half-sister, Rhaenyra, they greet with jovial cheer in the Keep, it’s him.

But his tenth name day is not about the first son of King Viserys.

It unfortunately revolves around a little Prince that isn’t him.

Aesira has been a constant in the life of her first cousin once removed (she’ll call him his nephew anyway for her own sake) ever since he was born.

Jacaerys Velaryon is the name that he carries but his colouring is neither of his parentages, that much is true. Aesira is not blind; she can see that there is no shed of anything Targaryen in that little body of his except for the glint of something purple within his brown eyes when the light touches them perfectly. As a babe, his features hadn’t settled in; but as he reached two name days, the curls of brown framing his face and the button nose adorably sitting on his face is very much a reminder that he is not trueborn like Aesira and her brothers. Yet her cousin, Rhaenyra, looks at him like he is the light of his life — pride in the crinkles around her eyes and love lacing every bit of her smile.

It is also during these times that Aesira feels a palpable emotion that is completely unfamiliar to her.

Among her and her siblings, Aesira is the only one who maintained a connection to the Heir of Uncle Viserys, which lies in affable smiles exchanged in passing, knowing glances whenever someone mentions the paintings and tapestries plastered on the Keep’s walls, and understanding squeezes around smaller hands as a Lord points out how similar the two look in certain angles. How bittersweet it is when this string tying them together stems from something so inevitable and cruel, crafting a masterpiece so beautiful that many people remark it to be as precious as the titles they carry — The Realm’s Delight and The Flower of the Realm. The two are often seen walking together in the labyrinth hedges of the gardens when their schedules are kind enough to allow them, donning contrasting colours on their dresses as if they are from different Houses altogether. It is a sight when they grace the castle with their combined presence — both of which embody the ethereal beauty only Targaryens can achieve.

However, it is during these meetings with Rhaenyra that Aesira sees how much the Heir dislikes anything related to the Queen, the animosity radiating in the slight curl on her top lip when she breathes a word related to the most powerful woman in the realm. When Aesira revealed that the dresses she had in her closet were all commissioned by the Queen, Rhaenyra sent a few of her old dresses, the colouring as bold as her character — all reds and blacks and so Targaryen. When she mentioned a word about her tea sessions with the Queen, her gracious cousin proposed having daily outings of their own in the gardens, promising an abundance of their favourite cakes and more gossip happening around the court. She once shared her observations with Aether and her brother had the gall to laugh it out, comparing it to his petty rivalry with Aegon whenever they had their fights. Now that she sees it from both sides, Aesira surmises that Rhaenyra and the Queen’s indifference and anger at each other aren’t that much different from Aegon and Aether’s dynamic (but the latter pair always goes back to being partners in crime). She is not as clueless as she seems; she can see the longing in the Queen’s eyes when she stares at Rhaenyra too long and the affliction hanging over Rhaenyra’s head when she is around the Queen.

It is one Lady Redwyne who told her that the two women cementing roles in her life held a rare affection for each other while they were in their childhood. A pleasant surprise that sparks Aesira’s interest. Their relationship became strained, according to Lady Redwyne, when Uncle Viserys announced to wed the Queen during a Small Council meeting. It became the thinnest of threads when something scandalous involving someone so roguish happened in the middle of the night. Aesira didn’t have to ask who this someone was when the glares from the other Ladies landed on Lady Redwyne soon after. Of course, he was a part of it. Now, the court Ladies are silently dividing themselves between the Heir and the Queen, gossiping about the next big story and betting on who will win an argument if one ever surfaces. While they giggled behind their decorative fans about the recruits for the City Watch, Aesira was left mulling over the information she just heard, answering questions when they were only addressed to her.

When little Jacaerys was born, a hesitant Queen Alicent went to visit the babe with Aesira in tow, offering their congratulations to the married couple. Aesira held her hand the entire time to prevent her from picking on her nails, a habit that the girl noticed from the moment they had their second tea session. 

That unfamiliar emotion bubbling in her stomach started tickling her insides during this visit.

Rhaenyra, while wearing faux pleasantries upon facing the Queen and her inquiring gaze, looked so different when staring down at Jacaerys. Aesira never imagined her bold older cousin being this soft around someone, especially after hearing her badmouth every single thing she hated in court. She never realised it back then but it was the start of the change happening within Rhaenyra — a change that was dipped in nostalgia. Mother wore that look when gazing at her and Aether. Gone is the Rhaenyra who accompanied her to the gardens and gone are the daily meetups involving cake.

It started bubbling again when she heard the Queen grumble about the defining features morphing Jacaerys into a toddler.

Brown hair and brown eyes and the swish of a gold cloak following Rhaenyra’s every step. Aesira gives it the benefit of the doubt. She knows about the lineage running in Lord Laenor’s blood — parts of Baratheon courtesy of Princess Rhaenys.

But everything seemed to change when she happened to witness Ser Harwin Strong gazing upon Jacaerys with the same love painted in Rhaenyra’s eyes while the toddler stood on wobbly feet during his attempted walks — Rhaenyra’s little group gathering in the gardens for the joyous moment. When the treasonous thought forms in her mind, she took that time to look at Lord Laenor, seeing the exact proud emotion on his face when he cheered for Jacaerys to reach him in his small, baby steps. The sight burned her eyes and throat. That ugly emotion is painting her in the same shade of green the Queen prefers having on her gowns. While not looking like a trueborn Targaryen, Jacaerys has a father that will never leave him and a mother who will never die from childbirth. It’s unfair. Aesira looked down, swallowing the onset of bitterness covering her whole figure, hating the fact that she happened to enter this specific area of the gardens during an intimate moment shared by a family.

“Jace, where are you going, my boy?” Lord Laenor’s voice echoed in Aesira’s ear when she turned around to choose another area of the gardens to read her book. “Can he even walk that fast at this age?”

A small body wrapped around her skirt, stopping her in her tracks.

“Aesira?” Rhaenyra asked.

Aesira slowly looked down at the one responsible for preventing her from getting out of this mess. A gummy smile beamed up at her, little specks of white peeking through the grin. She blinked in place, her hands wringing with the fabric of her skirts. There were bound to have creases after this encounter. The number of times she saw Jacaerys was when he was still swaddled. Now reaching his first name day, the boy was growing into a little boy who would be a menace now that he learned how to walk.

Right when she was about to gently pry Jacaerys’s hands off of her clothes, she heard the smallest, most adorable voice calling for her.

“Thira!” Jacaerys cheered with a pure smile, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

Rhaenyra grunted from the bench, pushing herself to stand while placing a hand on her pregnant belly. “It seems like he adores you.”

“Thira!”

Aesira stared at Rhaenyra for a good minute. The small hands clutching her dress tightened, shaking her to capture her attention from The Realm’s Delight to the babe staring at her like she placed the stars for him to point out. Maybe that was what she looked like to Little Jacaerys’s eyes — a star maiden glowing with the sun’s halo around her head as he stared at her ever so adoringly. Lord Laenor chuckled from his haunched position on the ground, amusement pushing his head to shake from side to side.

She tilted her head, now fully looking at Jacaerys, who seemed to shine brighter now that she did. “Hello,” she greeted.

Jacaerys giggled, an endearing sound that lightened up their area of the gardens. “Hello!”

Masking the unfamiliar feeling and replacing it with polite cheer, Aesira let go of her skirts and turned to the little Prince craning his neck to fully see her in all her glory. She gave the adults behind them a questioning glance. Once she got a smile from Rhaenyra, raised eyebrows from Lord Laenor, and a neutral expression expected from a knight, Aesira picked up Jacaerys off the ground and balanced him on her hips. The babe squealed at the new person carrying him that wasn’t his mother, father, or the sworn sword assigned to protect them. The hesitance in her actions resulted in jerky movements that were unbelievable for someone who started caring for her baby brother when she was a child of five name days. But this babe wasn’t her Daemian. The scent on little Jacaerys was completely different yet so similar to her brother; as well as the feeling of him in her arms contrasted with Daemian’s calm nature. Aesira never realised that she was starting to bounce Jacaerys in her arms until the babe erupted into giggles again. 

“I believe this is the first time we have ever interacted, Lady Aesira,” a deep voice pulled her attention from gazing at Jacaerys’s gummy smile to a man with beautiful dark skin and tight white locks. He placed a hand on his chest, bowing at her by inclining down his chin. “Laenor Velaryon. It is a pleasure to meet the little Lady everyone has been raving about in court.”

Aesira curtsied with Jacaerys in her hold. “It is my pleasure to meet one of the honourable knights who braved through the War for the Stepstones. You did the crown and throne a great service — may the Seven bless you, good Ser.”

Lord Laenor bellowed a hearty laugh. “The Ladies must have been floating in your praises whenever you’re with them, my Lady.”

“I was merely saying the truth, my Lord.”

“Huh,” Lord Laenor hummed. “He has no shed of himself in you, I presume?”

“Laenor,” Rhaenyra cut in.

“What?” The Velaryon Heir swivelled to give Rhaenyra a look that showed he wasn’t following until the Princess narrowed her eyes at him. His expression didn’t change even after turning around to face Aesira again. She knew better — this man held every right to show contempt for the same person she hated. He was, after all, the brother of the young Lady Daemon has taken away to Essos, never to be seen again by her family and friends. It was almost a tale of romance fit for novels. Aesira had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself from scoffing from the depth of her thoughts. Lord Laenor shrugged in a nonchalance that was innate to every man hailing from the nobility. Aesira figured this was him trying not to make the situation heavy with the topic he was walking on like a tightrope. “It’s so refreshing to see his child be so different from him. Must be the Arryn in you, huh?” He raised his hands in the air. “I’m going to shut my loose lips before I find myself on the other end of someone’s pregnancy hormones. Forgive me for bringing him up, my Lady. I, myself, have expressed what I felt about him way too many times and all of them were not nice.”

So, she was correct. Lord Laenor didn’t like her father as much as she did. 

“Thira!” Aesira felt her cheeks being patted by smaller hands and pudgy fingers. Jacaerys had his adorable face scrunched up. “Me!”

“Pardon, little Prince,” Aesira murmured, brushing her nose against his, which resulted in another round of pleased giggles. “I’m looking at you now.”

Lord Laenor chuckled at the side. “I believe we are witnessing the start of something remarkable.”

The Lady Targaryen nods her head in agreement. “Yes, seeing Prince Jacaerys walk earlier made me remember the time when my little brother did it for the first time as well. It is quite remarkable.”

“That’s not quite what I mean.”

“Laenor,” came Rhaenyra’s stern voice.

“Sorry, Rhaenyra.” A large grin pulled on Lord Laenor’s face. “I was merely stating the obvious.”

It was at that exact moment that Aesira received a wet kiss on her lips, the giver of the token of affection laughing while clapping his hands. Warmth and nostalgia blanket her in a cocoon existing only to enclose her and Jacaerys in this speck of one’s afternoon. Without her control, Aesira genuinely smiled at the little Prince, even if it was as small as a twitch.

Rhaenyra sighed. “I’m sorry for having Jace come to you without any warning.” She walked toward Aesira and her son, her hands cradling her belly, and back straight with the weight of the realm on her shoulders. She didn’t forget to give Lord Laenor a look that had the man retreating to where Ser Harwin was stationed with his hawk-like eyes. Rhaenyra didn’t hesitate in running her hand over Aesira’s hair, her fingers hitting the butterfly slips nestling on either side of her head, which served as the only ornament and style decorating Aesira’s hair. “Nevertheless, it warms my heart that he has taken a liking to you.”

“I don’t mind it, cousin, and it warms my heart as well that he likes me.”

And during her tea sessions with the Queen, Aesira asked what was bothering her the whole time, “Is it wrong for me to hate a child, Your Grace?”

Alicent looked up from her cup of calming tea. “Little one?”

She remained spaced out, simply staring at a piece of honey cake. “There’s this ugly, unfamiliar emotion brewing inside me whenever I look at Jacaerys. It is mostly when I see him getting love despite not looking like me and my brothers.” Aesira met the Queen’s wide eyes. “Am I a terrible person?”

“Oh, sweetling,” the Queen’s touch is filled with care, “it is normal for children to feel envious of others. There is nothing wrong with feeling this way.” So, it was Envy who was responsible for her feeling mixed emotions around Jacaerys. The Queen was having none of her looking away. She tipped Aesira’s chin to affectionately pinch her cheek. “Don’t ever think that you are lacking love in this lifetime. My existence disproves your negative thoughts.”

Aesira looked down. “But he has a father.”

The Queen’s bottom lip jutted out in that signature pout she carried whenever she was troubled. “A mother’s love equals that of a father’s. What matters most, in the end, is how you will blossom with the love that was given to you when you were young. It is up to you, little one, to decide how you choose to live your precious life.”

So, she douses the small spark of envy in her, and becomes a constant in Jacaerys’s life until more firewood turns it into something bigger and different that she has no choice but to let it burn her from the inside out.

Aesira finally finishes her gift for him — a handkerchief embroidered with a golden dragon, topped off with his name in an elegant cursive that took her an entire day to perfect (and days to practise). Helaena is a blessing to have with her during her sewing lessons with their Septa; the younger girl already mastered looping the needle through thick fabrics with her fixation, boasting pieces that depict the most bizarre and most beautiful insects she discovered in the gardens. It was also she who suggested learning how to sew a dragon, providing no explanation whatsoever except that she saw it in her dreams. Since Helaena knows more than she lets on, Aesira trusts her judgement and finds herself with prickles of blood on her fingertips and nights spent in front of her fireplace to figure out the proper loop making up the dragon’s neck.

And here she is now, carefully running her thumbs over the material, while waiting for her handmaiden to finish styling her hair.

The door opens and the Queen enters in one of her emerald gowns, her crown sparkling in the natural light filtering in Aesira’s solar. “I’ll take it from here, Belinda,” she directs her words to Aesira’s handmaiden.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Belinda curtsies before smiling at Aesira. “My Lady.”

Aesira returns the smile. “Thank you for helping me with the dress, Belinda.”

The handmaiden's lips quiver in a more heartfelt beam. She is replaced by the Queen’s softer hands and brighter disposition. The woman gathers the entirety of her hair and runs her fingers through the waves, smiling at Aesira through the looking glass.

“I always love doing your hair,” the Queen wistfully states, “that and putting clips in Helaena’s.” She chuckles, never looking away from weaving her fingers through Aesira’s tresses; molten white-gold that is almost otherworldly, a piece of molten sunlight on earth. The Queen eyes the various accessories littering the vanity, most probably from Belinda laying everything out before trying a style that will match Aesira’s dress. It is a pale blue piece that is more tulle than anything, the sleeves draping down in a bell shape down to the girl’s elbows. The skin on her wrist is decorated by a couple of bracelets to make up for the lack of an entire sleeve. “Do you want something simple or an updo, little one?”

“I would very much prefer a simple style, Your Grace,” Aesira answers with a smile. “I want Aegon to have his day.”

The Queen squeezes her shoulders, a wordless sign of gratitude, before twisting and pulling out strands of hair from a section she parts. Aesira doesn’t even feel anything while the Queen does her task. The slightest bit of prodding she feels is from when a series of flower pins are inserted into her hair. It’s times like this that Aesira truly feels at ease, her eyelids drooping by the second. With her head slightly tilted down, she lets herself be enveloped by the Queen’s occasional humming.

“Do you like it, little one?” The Queen asks while putting on the finishing touches to her hair — a forehead circlet that falls gently on her skin. It is all she has. While the rest of the royal family bear their tiaras and crowns, Aesira is the only one in her siblings to have jewellery that mimics the diadems commissioned for the princesses and princes of King Viserys and Queen Alicent. The aquamarine gemstone is sparkling with every bit of regality Aesira has. Her hair is done in a half-up, half-down style, with some sections on her head shaped to become small roses, and in between every one of them are accessories that Uncle Viserys gave her — bundles of iridescent flowers in one. The Queen takes her silence as a positive reaction, her shoulders pulling back in pride. “You are a delightful sight, little one — one of the prettiest girls to ever grace the halls.” The woman can’t help herself; she places a small kiss on the crown of Aesira’s hair. Her eyes catch sight of the handkerchief in between a flustered Aesira’s hands. “Is that a present for Aegon?”

Aesira nods after collecting herself. Sometimes, she gets lost every time the Queen gives her affection. “It’s not much but I hope Aegon will like it.”

The Queen makes a noise in her throat that is awfully like a snort. “That boy loves everything involving you. I’d be surprised if he begs for a gift from you. Just your presence might be enough for him to last the entire name day celebrations the King arranged for him.”

“It’s my first time embroidering something this special, you see. There are mistakes like this one right here,” Aesira lifts the handkerchief so that the Queen can see the little tangle between three threads. “Hel helped me through some of the process so I pray to the Seven that he doesn’t see the parts I struggled with.” She looks up to meet the Queen’s pretty brown eyes (she loves looking at them; the shade is very different compared to the usual purples she sees every day from her brothers). “But I highly doubt that my presence is enough of a present for him when he’s always excited for his name day since I knew him. He’s particular with this specific name day compared to the others, though.”

“I think I know the reason why,” the Queen casually says, her head slightly tilting to the side to assess any stray strands in the girl’s hair.

Aesira moves to fully face the Queen, turning her body to do so. “I believe I don’t follow, Your Grace.” She is usually not privy to Aegon’s little secrets (or the secrets that he chooses to share with her) but his vibrating excitement to this name day doesn’t come into light whenever it’s just the two of them; even Aether doesn’t know about why their friend wants to enter into the double-digit number so badly and that’s saying something. The only person who knows about it is Helaena, which is a first. But the girl said Aegon didn’t tell her, with the boy supporting it by saying that the Princess was being weird again. She knew about it because once again, she dreamt it in her deepest slumbers — one of the rare moments where she doesn’t wake up screaming and crying. “He didn’t say anything to me or Aether.”

“You recall what the Septa said about finding eligible brides when you reach a certain age?”

Oh, so, it’s this moment. “Aegon is going to be dancing during the feast to find his potential betrothed. Septa Marlow briefly told us about it.” She remembers the meaningful, levelled look the Septa gave her while she was reciting the words as if they were ingrained in her brain with how many times she has repeated it through the years — Septa Marlow is older than any of her guardians at the moment. “She mentioned that maybe the King might push him to pick a fair maiden to be his first dance for the feast but it should be a calculated choice because the court would start spreading stories about it.”

The Queen appreciates her quick thinking by pinching her chin between her forefinger and thumb, shaking it side by side, and humming under her breath. “We all know who this fair maiden is — the budding Flower of the Realm.”

It was a title said with adoration inside the Keep, rivalling that of the Siren of the Vale who lured men to their deaths. But Aesira is not a lady who men would fight a war for nor is she a woman who will bring men to their knees to get a single drop of her beauty in their palms. The title she is given is not granted to her by male singers commissioned by the royal family to sing occasionally in the halls — it was carefully coined by Ladies who have found her company quite sublime. A little flower, not just because of her blossoming beauty but also because of the way she carries herself at her young age. One of the older Ladies, one Lady Tully, told her that she felt like a consolation to the drabness of the court, that when a certain Lady was feeling a range of emotions, she was there to say the perfect words to make them feel better. And very much like how the realm relied on flowers to convey their thoughts, Aesira does it perfectly, or so the other Ladies claim to the Queen in passing, which reaches her ears since the Queen loves sharing what the Ladies and Lords say about her wards. With the spreading songs, the people of King’s Landing are all excited to see the little Lady away from the castle and in their cobblestone streets; but that will come at a later time.

Aesira slowly traces random patterns on Aegon’s handkerchief with her thumbs. “Aegon is a close friend of mine — it would be an honour if he chooses me to dance with him at the opening feast. Though, I would appreciate it more if he doesn’t kiss my cheek in front of the entire court.”

Queen Alicent lets out a little laugh. “He still does it every time.”

“Yes, as a form of greeting, he says.”

“That sounds very much like our Aegon. I will tell him to aim his kiss at your hand instead.”

Aesira snorts, a very unladylike sound she only does around her family. “Like he will listen.”

“If I add your name to the instruction, he will. Your power over him is akin to territories bending the knee to a conqueror of a foreign land. I wonder how he will fare when he gets older.”

“Seven Hells,” Aesira grumbles. “I do not wish to imagine it.”

“It is to your demise, little one. Your aversion to it is reasonable.” The air becomes wistful yet again. “It is rare in the realm to have a union built on love.” Aesira is already anticipating it. The court was already crafting the most bizarre theories since a year ago and as she believes, it will be inevitable and hard to avoid now that Aegon has reached ten name days old, which is older than most boys in the realm when they receive word of their first betrothals. “I will tell you this now, sweet flower, that the King is planning on betrothing you to Aegon, the idea was tickling his mind the moment Aegon showed you the flowers in the gardens nearly five years ago. This will not serve as a warning but it is a reminder that your life will possibly change like a snap of someone’s fingers, with your coming role as a Princess of the realm. Again, as someone who cares for you as a mother does, let me see you as my little one for a little while longer.”

Aesira stares into the looking glass. The weight of the forehead circlet is invisible as it is extravagant.

The Queen presses another kiss on Aesira’s head. “Let us go, little one — the people are waiting.”

For once in her life, Aesira has something to ponder that weighs an entire kingdom. In actuality, she doesn’t know what to feel about her possible betrothal to Aegon — she doesn’t particularly hate the thought nor does she appeal to it. At the end of the day, she’s still a child and she has so much she wants to do; finish her tutoring, be a Lady that can travel around the realm and to the lands beyond the Narrow Sea, and have her name remembered as someone true to herself — Aesira wants to be her mother. The late Lady Aellara Targaryen was someone who wore her kindness up her sleeve instead of her emotions. Aesira, to this day, still thinks that her mother might have been the Mother reincarnated and that her strength lies not just in her beauty but in her courageous kindness as well. The people of Dragonstone always seemed to brighten when her mother visited their streets, inquiring about the overall condition of the villages and offering a weekly feast in the main squares, all from the kitchens of the imposing castle in the distance. She was a beacon who shone for those who needed a spark of light in the dead of the night — Aesira wants to be like that to someone.

But then she remembers the person who robbed her mother of the life that could have been the salvation of others. Because it all comes back to him, doesn’t it? The very man who took her flying on Caraxes’s back when she was but a child of two name days. The man who promised his little princess that she would see bigger things and that he would always be there to protect her. He was also the same man who left her twin brother in Maegor’s tunnels. Will her impending marriage with Lord Something be as bad as the marriage shared by her parents? Will she be left on the birthing bed screaming and bloody while her husband flew to some parts of their home island? Will he leave their children behind when the Stranger tucks her last breath in the many last breaths they collected? 

The more Aesira immerses herself in this new life of hers—away from Dragonstone, away from where everything started—he never left.

Now, this fear of her future husband becoming like him starts forming in the pit of her stomach and she wishes she is born like her brothers, a child with a cock swinging between her legs.

Aesira just wishes Aegon won’t be like him.

The first thing she knows that something is wrong is when there is a lack of kisses on her cheek.

Aegon is dismayed, his chest rising and falling faster than normal. His lip is quivering in a frown that makes his entire face into an expression of misery without even trying. The Queen is not that different. Both of them are sporting looks of varying distress, with an interlacing sign of anger in the Queen’s Despite his Targaryen colouring, Aegon looks like his mother through and through — the wide eyes that seem to be a mirror of their soul, the jut in their bottom lip when things get frustrated, the jitters in their fingers that urge them to pick on their skin. With that, she places her hand around his to prevent him from damaging his fingers any further. And while the tourney is shedding blood on the grounds below, Aesira is setting her eyes on the boy beside her, both of them not paying attention to the knights roaring their glee after winning another bout.

“Aegon?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Egg?”

There is a slight squeeze enveloping her hand.

“What is wrong?” She tries asking again. Where is his excitement? Who dares douse it? It is one thing to be slightly perturbed by his secretive giggles before the celebrations but it is another matter altogether to be worried about what might have silenced it. Her voice is almost a whisper that only they can hear. She does it to not catch her brother’s attention since Aegon looks like he’s about to cry any moment now. Besides, Aether is vibrating in his seat after another round of Ser Criston pulverising his opponent. “Aegon, will you tell me what’s troubling you?”

He doesn’t get to answer because the King rises from his seat at the top of their descending balcony to announce, “Gentle people of King’s Landing and those who have journeyed far and wide to be able to experience the revels we have prepared, I have news that I am most happy to share.” He pauses until he makes sure there are no rounds ongoing below and that the nobles of different colours hold out their ears to listen to what he has to say.

Aesira looks over her shoulder to watch the old King as he takes his time enunciating his words over the large tourney court. Everybody bates their breath in anticipation of his next statement. Aesira only turns away from him when Aegon once again squeezes her hand with his. She can’t help but cup her free hand over the one she is holding, her thumb rubbing circles on his skin. He glances at her from the corners of his eyes, his gratitude forming in a tiny smirk pulling on his lips. He’s about to lean his head on hers, one of the many gestures Aesira receives from Aegon, when the King continues his little speech.

“House Targaryen and dragons have always been set in stone for so many centuries. And today I am proud to say that my grandson, little Jacaerys Velaryon, is a dragonrider! The first Targaryen to have his dragon egg hatch in the Keep after our very own Realm’s Delight many years ago! Let’s be merry for another purpose to enjoy the grand festivities!”

Foolish, foolish King.

The entire arena cheers. The night will be merry indeed; for King Viserys loves nothing more than throwing flamboyant parties and honouring his Heir and her spawns. The only ones who seem to have wilted at the announcement are the Queen and her family. Trueborn Targaryens from the Queen and after ten years, not one of their dragon eggs hatched, with the hurt being carried by her the most. And now this humiliation. After exchanging a concerned glance with her twin brother, Aesira happens to catch Rhaenyra at the worst moment possible. Arrogance and smugness ooze off of her like she is born with a crown on her head. Princess Rhaenyra is the only one with her back straight on the balcony and the only one who has a smile on her face like a radiant beam of sunlight in between thick thunderclouds. Aesira knows that Rhaenyra holds a years-long dispute with the Queen and nothing has been more clear to her than this specific one.

Rhaenyra in black and Aunt Alicent in green.

Rhaenyra in the light and Aunt Alicent always in her shadow.

Rhaenyra the mother of a brown-haired dragonrider and Aunt Alicent with silver-haired dragonless children.

But the one who matters the most is holding back tears gripping her hand like it’s his lifeline.

The firewood inside her chest fuels the fire that’s been put out. Aesira feels her aunt’s shame, her younger cousins’ sorrow, and Aegon’s need to be small. What should be a day for Aegon is a day for someone else instead. She has never felt this anger since the day Aether was found wailing and muddied. She doesn’t realise she has been staring at Rhaenyra and her husband long enough for the older woman to meet her eyes. The surprise on the Heir’s face is apparent, seeing so much emotion and at the same time nothing on her younger cousin. Aesira simply stares and stares, letting Rhaenyra feel the consequences of her actions, for choosing the most inopportune moment to tell the King that Jacaerys’s egg just hatched. Because who does that on someone's name day? It is until Rhaenyra looks away with no hint of remorse for her half-brother, her chin higher in the air with an elegance expected of a Princess, that Aesira sees her in a completely different light.

“Sira,” Aegon finally speaks.

She loses her glare and tilts her head to face Aegon’s lowered one. “Do you want me to call for a maidservant to bring you dark chocolate cake?”

Aegon shakes his head. “Thank you for sitting next to me.”

Before the tourney started, Aegon fought with Aether to have Aesira next to him. On the usual tourneys in King’s Landing, Aesira is seen between her brothers with Aegon next to his siblings but on this specific one, he wanted Aesira beside him. She told her twin brother that this is one of her many gifts for Aegon, which the Prince received only with a small smile on his face — very uncharacteristic of him.

She pulls their hands until they rest on her lap. “Helaena said you will ride a dragon made from the hands of the sun.” He is about to pull his hand away from her but she holds them tighter, which finally makes Aegon look at her. She can feel his eyes even when she’s not looking at him — always. “If you don’t believe it because it came from Helaena, believe it because I’m the one who told you instead.”

“Helaena says the weirdest things sometimes.”

Aesira mindlessly wrote phrases on the back of Aegon’s hand, never noticing the boy’s cheeks reddening at the sensation. “She dreamt of you riding this dragon. You know how I hold Helaena’s words in high regard, Egg.”

Aegon pouts. “I know, Sira.”

“Say, Aegon.”

“Hmm?”

The lilac in her eyes bloom into brilliant gems, Aegon reflected on her pupils. “How about we have a little adventure to the Dragonpit after the tourney? I think it’s about time you officially meet Starfell.”

Starfell is a sight for the most oneiric of dreams.

A lithe body that brings the illusion of a clear spring of water; sharp, slitted eyes bearing the night sky with little pinpricks in the iris that were like charted constellations; ice blue membranes lining up the underside of her white wings; those who have seen her claim to have seen the legendary phenomenon of a fallen star coming to kiss the ground. From the moment the dragonkeepers saw her being guided to the Dragonpit (it was quite the struggle since the little she-dragon barred ferocious bites to those hands who dared to wrap chains around her body in an attempt to detain her), they instantly knew that this specific creature came from the same clutch of eggs Dreamfyre laid all those years ago — Achilles, Aether’s dragon, as well.

Aegon holds his breath when this majestic beast lowers her neck to assess the newcomer her bonded walks in with. He can’t help but flinch at the trills coming from the creature’s long throat. Panic sets in as Aesira leaves his side to walk toward Starfell. “Sira—” His breath catches in his throat at the smile directed at him over her shoulder, the hand reaching for her in the air lowering until they drop to his side. It hurts seeing that the serene smile on her face comes from the one thing he wants the most — a dragon. He feels the envy creeping into his chest, entangling with his veins, while he watches Aesira laugh at every nudge her dragon gives her. Speaking of the dragon, Starfell once again regards him in chilling eyes that sparkle in the dim light of the Dragonpit.

“Lykirī, ñuha gevie riña. Lykirī. Nyke māzigon lēda iā raqiros. Zȳhon brōzi iksis aegon.” (Be calm, my beautiful girl. Be calm. I came with a friend. His name is Aegon.)

Her voice sounds like water, flowing around him in every syllable the Valyrian language has. It sounds prettier than the songs he’s heard from the court bards. It’s a beautiful language as said by Father and by the Maesters he has learned his history from but this is the first time someone has said words coated with such care that it doesn’t sound foreign from the usual common tongue at all. Maybe this is what Aesira has been muttering a lot lately, with him catching her in the library during his daily expeditions around the Keep. He doesn’t understand any word of it, except for one word — lykirī (a dragon command he’s learned while waiting for his dragon egg to hatch), but it doesn’t grate his ears as he expects it to with the way someone should pronounce it.

Aegon doesn’t mind listening to her talk like this all day. 

“W-What did you say?” he asks, still standing in the spot she’s left him on like a lost child. “I’ve only understood one term.”

With her hand still on Starfell’s snout, Aesira giggles under her breath before beckoning Aegon closer to her. “I introduced you to her, Aegon. Come on, take one step at a time. I’m here to placate her if the situation requires it.”

Aegon gives the dragonkeeper stationed to accompany the two of them a glance. The old man nods his head in encouragement, a deep bow that has his chin touching the top of his chest. Taking a deep breath, Aegon follows Aesira’s instructions and takes one step at a time, gauging the dragon’s reactions at every pad of his shoe-clad feet on the ground. The pretty creature doesn’t move an inch from her perch yet her eyes track down his movements. A surge of confidence brings him to make determined steps until he’s found himself beside Aesira, inches away from the opalescent scales of glacial blue. Starfell is even more beautiful up close — a dragon fit for the prettiest girl in all the realm. Aegon cranes his neck to look at Starfell in awe, slightly jumping when a smaller hand covers one of his, directing him to feel the scales underneath his palm.

It’s a mistake to look over his shoulder because Aesira is so close to him that he can deeply register the scent of expensive lavender oils on her hair and a hint of citrus on her neck. Each individual eyelash covering her eyes acts like little butterfly wings every time she blinks. There is a little constellation of freckles dotting her nose. Her cheeks are tinted with a natural shade of enjoyment brought by the elation of meeting her dragon after a while. Aegon has never seen these features of hers up close since he closes his eyes when he gives her his greetings (cheek kisses). He gets the sudden urge to place a gentle kiss on her plump cheek, right on the apples rising from her never-dimming smile. Aegon slowly leans down, his eyes open this time.

The lilacs she has for her eyes flicker from her dragon to him. He stops at the last second. They’re closer this time. His heart is racing and pounding as if he has run from the Keep to the Dragonpit. He can hear every thump made against the walls of his chest. Can Aesira hear it, too? 

“Egg, Starfell. Starfell, Egg.”

He wears the warmth on his cheek while looking up at the dragon, who lowers her head right in front of him. A couple of wavy locks are pulled toward Starfell, with the dragon inhaling his scent. Aegon says without looking away from Starfell, “How do I say hello in Valyrian?”

“Rytsas.”

Aegon nods. “Rytsas, Starfell.”

Starfell responds through a series of clicking sounds that are very much like the chirping of birds at dawn. 

Laughter dipped in gaiety makes his torso shake. Aegon’s eyes are like the sun, feeling the thrill of having a dragon not bare its teeth at him like every warning he’s received if he’s planning on walking to the Dragonpit with one goal in mind. “She likes me, Sira!” He cheers.

Aesira’s voice contains bewilderment. “That she does.”

He looks back at her, only to find her staring at Starfell with a confused scrunch on her eyebrows. “You sound surprised.”

She now narrows her eyes at Starfell. “That is because I am. Did you know that Starfell made it her personal mission to snap at anyone when she first came to King’s Landing?” He fixes her with a questioning look. Aesira answers him by squeezing the hand she’s covering on Starfell’s scales. Once again, he can’t look away from her when pensiveness paints her as if she is a subject in the most important painting in the Keep’s atelier. “She’s always so protective of me back in Dragonstone. We weren’t that much apart when me and my brothers were there, Achilles and Ajax are the same with them. When news of us being warded in King’s Landing by Uncle Viserys, she felt my melancholy that she threatened everyone who took a single step to take her from me; you should’ve seen the way she spread her wings, Egg.” He stiffens at the feeling of her leaning her head on his shoulder. This is uncharted waters. What should he do? Be still, you idiot, says the voice in his head that awfully sounds like a mix of Aether and Aemond. “Ever since she’s in the Dragonpit, she has developed a dislike for any dragonkeeper trying to chain her. She’s probably the freest dragon in here.”

“That’s,” Aegon gulps at the proximity, the scent purely associated with her covering his entire senses, “wonderful. Starfell sounds like she loves you very much.”

Aesira snorts before covering her mouth.

Aegon loses the tension in his shoulder to laugh. “Was that a snort I just heard?”

She looks away from him. “No, you must have heard it wrong. I was merely clearing my throat.”

He grins at her. “Where did my fair maiden go? Who is this imposter with me right now?”

“You’re testing me, Egg.”

Aegon shrugs now that her head isn’t leaning on his shoulder. He can breathe easier now. “I have to say; it sounds adorable. You should lose all your Lady regalia when you’re with me, princess.”

Aesira nudges him with her elbow, making him grunt at the force. “Don’t call me that!”

“Why can’t I when you look like that?” He nods his head to all the accessories still in her hair, especially the forehead circlet that matches his eyes (he likes to think it does match his eyes even when it’s a few shades off). “You even dressed the part.” He chooses to never voice out that he will make her his princess, fearing that voice in his head that sounds like both of his nightmares combined and also her pushing him to the ground. “But truthfully?” Aesira sends him a disbelieving expression. A natural smile tugs on his lips, reaching his eyes in childlike merriment. “You look beautiful, Sira.” His smile grows when Aesira’s eyes widen, her cheeks glowing in a pretty shade of carnation. Maybe he’ll give her a carnation bouquet from the gardens. Though he’ll have to be sly to evade the gardeners who poured their heart out to make the gardens the way it is.

“And will you stop looking at me like that?!”

Aegon sputters, forgetting that they are still in front of Starfell. He takes both of his hands to cover his face from Aesira’s onslaught of painless smacks. “What? I said I speak the truth.” Her face gains another shade of red, probably rose, and Aegon’s grin gets wider. He reaches a hand to pinch her warm cheek, cooing at how soft it is in between his fingers. “Don’t be mad at me, Princess Aesira.”

“Seven Hells,” Aesira grumbles but it comes out as something warbled from the way Aegon keeps pinching her cheek. “And here I was, thinking of inviting you to ride with me on Starfell once she’s alright to saddle two.”

Every single time spent with Aesira is filled with genuine laughter that Aegon doesn’t realise the time has flown so high over their heads. Starfell has been permitted by the dragonkeepers to roam around the neighbouring islands for her next meal, something that only the she-dragon and her fellow brothers have, which would be the reason behind her larger size for a dragon of nine name days. With Aesira’s hand firmly in his, Aegon wonders if his dragon grows to reach the size of Starfell or Achilles, Aether’s dragon who he saw for brief moments before he took off to the skies to follow his sister. Ser Arryk Cargyll (or is it Erryk) stands tall at the entrance of the Dragonpit, waiting for the two little children so that he can safely escort them back to the Keep.

But then he hears a call — a song pulling him in.

Aegon stops in his tracks, turning to the tunnels underground making up the Dragonpit. For the first time in his short life, he feels a strong sense of purpose — he has to follow where this call will lead him. Never hearing the shouts for his name and the distressed shouts of the Kingsguard sent to fetch them, Aegon runs down to the Dragonpit, letting this song guide him through the tunnels. Left. Right. Straight ahead. There is no light in here, only darkness stretching on for miles on end, almost swallowing him whole with nothing left to salvage. He doesn’t know how much time he’s spent avoiding steep stairs or sleeping dragons but he knows he’s near to the source of the lonely yet beautiful song. Behind him, he can faintly hear the clunking of armour. Ser Cargyll definitely followed him down here. He pays it no mind and focuses on the increasing volume echoing across the walls of the Dragonpit; it’s a surprise that no dragons have heard the call, the hall is silent except for this song. Aegon’s run becomes a slow walk, his head so wrapped up in this amalgamation of notes that has him in a trance, having no care for the safety of his person until he meets the singer. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, eyelids fluttering in trepidation. Whatever is residing a few paces in front of him will be the singer of the ballad pulling on every fibre of his reasoning. It’s becoming louder and louder. 

Gold is the only thing he can see in this darkness.

Aegon releases a shaky breath. “Rytsas.”

The golden raises itself from his position and nears his face to Aegon’s. For some reason, Aegon feels safe. When he tilts his head, the dragon follows suit. A small laugh tickles his chest, “Who are you?” He mutters under his breath. As if the dragon understands him, a large snout is nudged on Aegon’s torso, reminiscent of how Aesira does when he teases her. The dragon now fully stands from lying down and walks with pounding footsteps toward him. Underneath all the gold, there are pink membranes lining his wings. Aegon’s breath is taken away from him. “What do you want me to do?” Common tongue is all he can utter, taking note to himself to ask Aesira to read Valyrian texts to him in addition to all the tutoring and training. The dragon lowers himself in front of Aegon. “What?” 

The dragon makes a clicking noise in his throat, shaking his head a little and flapping his wide wings around.

“D-Do you want me to climb on your back?” Aegon looks around. “But there are no saddles around here.” Another set of clicking sounds. “Alright, alright. Just let me,” he grunts, carefully choosing scaffolds in between the dragon’s wings. He balances himself with both arms spread out on either side of him until he finds himself sitting on the most comfortable area on the dragon’s back, a juncture between his torso and neck. The feeling of powerful muscles underneath him sends a shudder down his spine. Magic thrums with each breath the dragon makes and Aegon thinks that maybe his blood is responding to the ancient ichor running down the large beast’s veins. The moment he is on the dragon’s back, it feels like the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria are tying together a string that’s stronger than the pillars holding the Keep together. It sets his entire body on a height of confidence, his posture losing that residue of melancholy that followed him from the tourney. Aegon looks down at the unnamed creature. “Now what?”

The Dragonpit’s walls pass by him in a blur, the dragon’s claws propelling him to run. Aegon doesn’t register that the screams following them are his own. 

“Sunfyre! Dohaerās, lykirī!”

Dragonkeepers keep shouting commands at the dragon but the magnificent beast with gold for his scales bypasses them to the open doors of the giant Dragonpit. Tucking his wings close to his body, Sunfyre twirls his body before opening his gigantic wings again, letting the wind take him higher over King’s Landing.

He opens his eyes and the world is in the palms of his hands. The ocean has never felt this vast and all-consuming. The skies have never felt this near to his fingertips. He keeps clinging onto the dragon’s back and he swears he will never let this moment go. He’s sure that the smallfolk of King’s Landing open their doors to see the new shadow covering their streets, baffled at the intricate colouring his dragon possesses (they’re pointing and gaping with their hands over their mouths), and that they can hear him scream out in pure, unadulterated joy.

The golden Sunfyre has been claimed and it only means one thing.

Aegon Targaryen is a dragonrider — a trueborn Targaryen with magic in his bones and divinity in the threads of his hair.

this is already on my ao3 so if you want more chapters, click on this link

if you want to be added to the taglist, send an ask or reply <33

taglist: @winxschester @darylandbethfanforever9 @averyyreads

#— rory's passages 🌼 #— family line | hotd ☀️ #aegon ii x oc #aegon x oc #hotd x oc #hotd x reader #aegon targaryen x oc #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii #aegon ii fic #aegon ii fanfic #aegon the elder

[liquidluckandstuff]

I am officially going to try and read The Lord of the Rings after only ever watching the movies. I am a little tired of fanfiction and the chronically negative online takes that comes with it.

I want something that is new to me and fresh eyes and 0 experience and the delight of figuring out something new because lets face it I KNOW those movies only showed a fraction of what those books are about.

Honestly, from my experience the LOTR fandom have been the best bunch of nerds i've ever met so far and I want something like that in my life. Deep lore that keeps you up at night kind of stuff.

I mean I'm still going to write and stay with my friends in our own little corner of the world but I think i'm going to start being an official multi-fandom space for all my stuff.

#HP ships fandom has become so tiring #i'm still gonna write but i'm going to try to stay off the feeds #constant negative attitudes are bringing me down #personal

[silmarillionwritersguild]

The SWG Hosts Tolkien Fanworks

Fandom creators may be looking for alternative and additional archives, in light of the multiple critiques currently being made of the OTW and AO3.

This is not intended as commentary on the many issues raised about the OTW and AO3 in recent weeks, although an unofficial position of our organization (as a small archive) has always been that it is ideal to archive your fanworks across multiple sites, and multiple options for archiving should exist. Rather, this post will provide information about who we are and the fanworks we accept so that Tolkien fanworks creators can decide if our archive is a viable option for them.

What is the SWG?

The Silmarillion Writers' Guild was founded in 2005 by @dawnfelagund, and our archive opened in 2007. Our mission is to provide an online archive and community for anyone interested in The Silmarillion that values civility and openness in discussing and making fanworks about Tolkien's legendarium. You can read the SWG's complete mission here.

We currently archive just over 5,000 fanworks by 414 creators. In addition, we offer monthly creative challenges, publish a weekly newsletter that features research by our members, maintain a reference library and beta-reader directory, compile a listing of Tolkien fandom events, and host events such as live readings, fanfiction book clubs, and collaborative creative sessions on our Discord.

What fanworks does the SWG accept?

The SWG is an archive for Silmarillion-based fanworks. We try to define the term "Silmarillion-based" as broadly and inclusively as possible so that we can welcome as many fanworks on our site as possible while maintaining our purpose as a Silmarillion group. Significant use of a source, character or character group, location, or time period featured in The Silmarillion, as long as it is not also covered in detail in The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings, qualifies a work for our site. Our detailed FAQ on how we define "Silmworks" can be found here.

We accept crossover, alternate universe (AU), and multi-age fanworks, as long as a significant component meets the "Silm fanwork" definition above.

Non-Silmarillion Tolkien Fanworks. We recently added a section to our site called Beyond the Silmarillion, which accepts all fanworks based on Tolkien's writings or Tolkien-based adaptations (films, shows, games, etc.) SWG members become eligible to post in this section once they have archived five fanworks or 10,000 words with us, whichever comes first.

Types of Fanwork We Archive. The SWG currently accepts the following types of fanwork: writing (fiction, nonfiction, plays/screenplays, and poetry), artwork, audio, video, link collections, playlists, series, and multimedia fanworks that include two or more of the formats above. If you need to archive a fanwork that doesn't match any of the above, the site moderators will help you archive your work with us, if it's possible to do so. With the exception of video, we host all fanworks on our server. (Videos must be posted to a video hosting site.)

Ratings and Adult Content. We accept all ratings of fanwork. The only adult-rated fanworks we cannot accept are images or videos that include "graphic depictions of sexual activity, sexualized nudity, and any representation of an underage character in a sexual situation" because these fanworks violate the Terms of Service of our webhost.

AI-Generated Fanworks. We do not accept fanworks entirely or partially produced through prompting an AI generator. Our AI policy can be found here.

What are the conduct expectations for SWG members?

Simply put, the SWG "is a positive-focused, open-minded space." We require civility in all interactions conducted on our archive and affiliated social sites. The SWG is a moderated site and community, so we do hold our members to our expectations. You can read our complete Site Etiquette and Terms of Service here.

How is the SWG governed?

The SWG was founded and is currently run by Dawn Felagund, assisted by a team of moderators. Active moderators are Russandol, Grundy, Lyra, Saelind, and Janeways; they make the ultimate decisions concerning the archive. Other volunteers aid other tasks needed to run the site and community and may contribute to decision-making as well.

The SWG is not a democracy in that we do not hold formal elections and there are certain aspects of our mission that we are unwilling to change, even under majority preference. However, we consider member feedback as part of our decision-making process whenever possible—especially with regard to decisions on controversial or impactful issues—and some of the policies and features we've implemented over the years have come about by member request.

Members who need assistance, have a concern, or wish to make a suggestion can contact the moderators directly or use the #town-hall channel in the SWG's Discord.

We aim (and are generally able) to reply to all communications from members within twenty-four hours.

Because we are a small organization with relatively few decision makers, we can generally implement change relatively quickly. Our recent AI policy offers a good example of how governance in our group works. The issue of AI-generated fanworks was raised in a discussion among the site and Discord moderators on May 5. In this discussion, the moderators shared information and came to a consensus on how they wanted AI-generated fanworks handled on the SWG. Dawn drafted an AI policy, which was put before the other moderators for feedback on May 9. By May 13, the site admins had researched and implemented a block on AI scraper bots using all known strategies. Also on May 13, the AI policy was opened for public comment through May 26, during which time members and other interested parties shared suggestions via email with the moderators and in discussion in the #town-hall channel on Discord. During this time, the draft policy was revised twice using those suggestions. On May 28, the finalized policy was announced on the SWG's site and social networks, and relevant documents on the site were updated to reflect and link to the new policy.

How does the SWG handle racism and other attacks on groups that have been historically marginalized in fandom and beyond?

As stated in our Site Etiquette, as an organization, we recognize that fandom and the Tolkien fandom specifically has historically been and continues to be hostile to and dismissive of fans from marginalized groups, including fans who are Black, indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC); women; LGBTQIA+; and fans with disabilities. We believe strongly that, as a fandom organization that has benefited from the status quo, we must also be part of the solution to ensure that these inequities do not persist.

Specific solutions we have implemented on our group include:

Our Site Etiquette and Terms of Service strictly forbids "[a]ttacks on other members based on personal characteristics (such as race, color, religion, ethnicity, nationality, age, sexuality, gender identity or expression, disability, or medical condition)" and states that "[a]busive or derogatory behavior will not be tolerated at any time or in any part of the SWG. We do not welcome or allow any content in our group that is designed to be hurtful or insulting." While we generally observe a three-strike policy for rule violations, "[i]f moderators feel that someone is acting deliberately to harm SWG and/or its members … we reserve the right to suspend that person's account without prior warning." Our hope with this policy is to allow members who mess up the opportunity to improve while also having the ability to remove bad actors immediately.

We currently require fanworks on our site to be correctly labeled with warnings, including fanworks that include "in-universe intolerance," such as racism, homophobia, and misogyny. Creators have the option of labeling a fanwork as "Choose Not to Warn" if they do not want to label their fanwork. Our ratings and warnings policy is here.

We maintain an inclusivity focus group that we consult on policies and issues related to inclusivity or that may have a disproportionate impact on some groups of fans. Any SWG member who is part of a group historically marginalized in fandom is welcome to join this focus group and participate when and how they feel comfortable. Any member can request the input of the inclusivity focus group on a moderator decision.

If I want to archive my work with you, what is the best way to do this?

First, review the Site Etiquette and Terms of Service, and if you believe our group is a good fit for you and your work, register for an SWG account.

A moderator will approve your account before you can begin posting or commenting on the site. We aim to approve new accounts within twenty-four hours of registration; typically, it takes much less time than that to be approved.

Once you are approved, you can begin posting your fanworks! We do ask that new members who are archiving many older works with us to backdate these fanworks and exclude them from the Most Recent list to allow creators posting new work to have that spotlight.

Questions on how to use the site, SWG policies, or how best to archive past works with us are welcome via the site's contact form, by emailing the moderators at [email protected], or reaching out to the mods via any of the SWG's social media.

#silmarillion #tolkien

[garak]

i love watching recaps and reviews of popular books because it means i get to have a little insight into what i could have been obsessed with had i not gotten two chapters into that rainbow rowell gay vampire book and decided it was not meeting my bare minimum levels of competent writing and engaging storytelling and the course of my life was permanently changed so that i would never become a voracious y/a fantasy reader. today i am learning about shadowhunter by cassandra clare who i know from bad lord of the rings fanfictions and the msscribe debacle. the fact that they let these people write real books despite having thousands of words of nsfw harry potter teenage incest fanfiction published online using the same damn author pseudonym... its really astonishing

#living after midnight

[kemendin]

The Prisoner

Dredging up some more LOTRO writing from yeeeaaars ago because hey why not?

It was dark. It was always dark.

The darkness had been absolute at first – or at least it would have been to a Man. His eyes, however, were accustomed to such places, and so he could see very dimly as they brought him deeper, past dank walls and corners filled with rotting things, with chains hanging cold and sharp-edged above his head. When they tossed him into a cell, he almost wished that he couldn’t see the stones caked with nameless filth that held him there, in his new home.

Now he was used to it all, though knowing it did not improve anything. Now he could make out more minute details if they had cause to light the sickly torch on the wall, several cells down from his own. In all honesty, he preferred it when they didn’t. Darkness was better than that awful light, for when it sputtered into being, he knew that someone was being taken from their cell – or being imprisoned in one. And neither option could be called better than the other. The instances were rare, but each one was always accompanied by its own cacophony of anguished sounds – screams, moans, whimpers, and always the harsh dragging of chains against stone and flesh. Then the sounds would fade, and the torch would go out, and thick, dark silence would descend again.

This time, however, was different. He had seen the greenish light flare, and waited dully for the tromp of steeled Orc feet. When it came, however, it was quick and agitated, as though the guards were scampering frantically. It was accompanied by guttural shouts and snarls, and every so often a much heavier footfall that shook the stones of the passage. That meant they had one of the trolls with them. And trolls meant that something was giving them trouble.

The clamour came nearer, and he huddled back against the slimy wall of his cell, though still peering out the barred and blackened door as much as he was able to. Fighting the sluggishness of long imprisonment, he tried to make out the individual voices.

“Get ‘im, hold ‘im!”

“Keep ‘im on the floor!”

“Yagghh it’s up again! Can’t -”

The troll let out an ear-shattering bellow, followed by the sound of something large and heavy smashing into the wall; and then, a moment later, onto the floor, which shuddered. There was half a moment of silence, and then panicked Orc voices began cursing again:

“Troll’s down, troll’s down -”

“Grab it -”

“I gots it, I gots it – ARGH – get it in there afore it bites me again -”

At least six Orcs came into view of the door, a couple of them clamped limbs and all around a viciously struggling Elf. One Orc hastily detached itself from its fellows, unlocked the cell door, and stood back. “Throw ‘im in ‘ere, quick-like!”

The others bundled the Elf inside and bore him to the ground, with much scrabbling of lanky limbs, and all immediately darted back out into the corridor. The cell door slammed shut an instant before the Elf was on his feet again, throwing himself at the bars and snarling curses alternately in Sindarin and Black Speech.

The Orcs all stood back and eyed the Elf warily. One of them pointed out, a little hopefully, “It’s still got shinies all woven through its hair – might be gold.”

The one with the key whacked the other Orc across the chest. “An’ you wanna go in there an’ get ’em, idjit?” it asked, and they all looked again at the still-raging Elf.

“…mebbe not,” said the first Orc.

“Then get back up to yer posts!” snapped the second, kicking indiscriminately around him to get the others moving. “An’ you shuddup, Elf, or you’ll get a taste of somethin’ unpleasant!”

The group beat an unorganised and clattering retreat back up the passage, and the torch was snuffed out again, beckoning back the deep and unsavory shadows. The Elf continued yell wrathfully at them as he shook at the bars of the door and slammed his shoulder into them, with seemingly no fading of breath or fury. The other occupant of the cell, unnoticed, watched for a time. Eventually, he dragged himself a little ways from the wall, and spoke in a voice nearly as hoarse as an Orc’s from disuse.

“It’s no use. Save your strength.”

The Elf turned suddenly, his stance tense as he glared down. He said nothing in reply, but he did stop shouting. His gaze was met with one of nearly equal will, though it was clearly eroded by an unmeasured time of torment. The other prisoner stared up at him, then after a few moments, spoke quietly.

“Haven’t seen -” He coughed against the thick air. “One of your kind in a long time.” With a groan, and a great effort, he propped himself up. “Suppose we should make introductions.” He stuck out a gnarly hand. “Grimkur. What do they call you, leaf-ears?”

The Elf’s eyes flashed, and it was only after a long interval of scrutiny that he answered.

“Kemendin.”

#lotro #lord of the rings online #lotro fanfiction #lotr fanfic #dol guldur #lotro:kemendin #lotro:grimkur #kem oc #kem writes #nothing like some bonding in a place of terrible torment

[author-a-holmes]

10 Fandoms, 10 Characters

Thank you for the tag @morby

No rules attached to this one so I guess, just go for my faves (Without duplicating a fandom)... I feel like this is going to highlight at least one of my "types" but I guess I've outed myself on that front before rofl.

Tagging forward, with no pressure, to; @faelanvance, @cwritesfiction, @theunboundwriter, @arigalefantasynovels, @acertainmoshke, @avrablake, @ashen-crest, @sleepyowlwrites, @tisiphonewolfe, and anyone else who wants to play! <3

So, without further ado, my Favorite Characters in some of my favourite fandoms, in NO SPECIFIC ORDER...

One

Fandom; Doctor Who. Character; Doctor Who, Tenth Incarnation

David Tennant's run as The Doctor was my favourite. It was a magical combination of a phenomenal actor, a brilliant "companion", and A+ writing team, but it made me fall in love with the character as a whole. Smart, Intellligent, Alien, but also Vulnerable, and ineffably Human.

Two

Fandom; Marvel Cinematic Universe. Character; Tony Stark

And I do mean "Tony Stark", not "Iron Man". Don't get me wrong, Iron Man is cool, and is definitely my favourite Avenger, but it's because it's Tony Stark inside the suit. It's the intelligence of the character that, again, captivates me and as a writer I see so much potential there. If I wasn't so busy with my own writing projects I'd be very tempted to jump back into fandom again just to have a play with Tony Stark's possibilities.

Three

Fandom; Sherlock Holmes. Character; Sherlock

This one had to make the list considering my pen name! I've loved many of the Holmes adaptions, and but there's something specifically about Benedict Cumberbatch's Holmes where you can just see that brilliant mind ticking away behind his eyes.

Four

Fandom; The Mentalist Character; Patrick Jane

I thought the whole Mentalist story was phenomenal, and the backstory for the character of Patrick Jane, genuis. I also love how much Jane is aware that usually he's the smartest person in the room, but is also painfully aware when he's not.

Five

Fandom; Vincenzo Character; Vincenzo Cassano aka Park Joo-hyung

This is a newer addition to my list, and I've only seen the series once so my memory may be a little shaky, but this was another highly intelligent character. A little vicious, a little violent, but at heart also a good person, and I fell a little in love with the character every episode.

And now, let me pivot into my second "type"...

Six

Fandom; Lord of the Rings Character; Strider aka Aragorn son of Arathorn

The OG Fandom Fave, Lord of the Rings got me into fanfiction. I began my online writing career by writing a "10th Walker" fanfiction that never saw the light of day, because I've always found Arwen's character very frustrating. Then the films were released, and the rest is history. But give me Strider over the polished King Aragorn any day!

Seven

Fandom; Shadow and Bone (Netflix) Character; General Aleksander Kirigan aka The Darkling aka Aleksander Morozova

This one is a little more specific because I haven't read the books, so I have ZERO idea how accurate the series is to the original material, but Ben Barnes, specifically, as the Darkling is all my favourite things mixed up into one character. Smart, Intelligent, Damaged, Rough around the edges, In dire need of saving from himself. He's got it all.

Eight

Fandom; The 100 Character; Prince Roan of Azgeda

Another character that I feel had wasted potential! I think they could have done so much MORE with this character but, much like Shadow and Bone, I've not read the books! So it's possible Prince Roan had a bigger, better, for fulfilling part there than the TV Series.

Nine

Fandom; The Witcher Character; Geralt of Rivia

Look. I've loved Geralt forever. I loved him in the CDProjecktRed games. I bought the books, and loved him there, and then Henry Cavill went and made the 100% hands down perfect Geralt on screen. What more can I say?

Ten

Fandom; The Vampire Diaries/The Originals Character; Klaus Mikaelson

Is there a better example of a morally grey character? Not one I've found, to be honest. Klaus has a freaking tragic backstory, and it's completely twisted his worldview. Does he need a good smack upside he head to teach him that his methods are fucked? Absolutely. Does that make me love him any less? Absolutely not!

#10 Characters #10 Fandoms #Tag Game #Writeblr #Writeblr Community #Writing #Writing Community #Doctor Who #Tony Stark #MCU #Sherlock Holmes #Patrick Jane #The Mentalist #Vincenzo #Vincenzo Cassano #Park Joo-hyung #Strider #Aragorn #Lord of the Rings #The Darkling #Aleksander Kirigan #Aleksander Morozova #Shadow and Bone #The 100 #Prince Roan of Azgeda #Geralt of Rivia #The Witcher #The Vampire Diaries #The Originals #Klaus Mikaelson

[saintsenara]

I always love hearing about people’s fandom and reading/writer journeys especially since they usually involve some very cursed content and fun navigating ‘90’s and ‘00’s tech. Where did you start, what got you hooked, how have your tastes changed over the years, what made you decide to go from reader to writer? 💖

thank you for the ask, anon - and you’re correct that my experience was one of cursed 2000s technology, given that i started reading harry potter fanfiction via the twin madhouses of livejournal and fictionalley, nothing ever tagged beyond ‘lemon!!!’, on the family computer using dial-up internet [god bless the fact that the parents of my generation had no inclination to care about what we were consuming online - one of my brothers was a huge fan of rotten.com, and he's perfectly well-adjusted...]

my reading tastes were, initially, lord of the rings focused - i still think* about a particular elrohir/námo mandos fic which had me in chokehold when i was about fourteen - but i was as big a harry potter fan as anyone of my generation [shoutout in particular to one of my pals, who spent the entirety of a geography trip in 2006 speculating what the unknown horcruxes could be with me while we froze our bollocks off in some godforsaken bog in county antrim]. so it wasn’t a surprise, i suppose, that i was clicking on any fan-fiction links i could find for that series too…

[the fic which has stayed with me most profoundly from those days was called something along the lines of murder at malfoy manor which was on fictionalley and was this exceptional combination of the rules of cluedo and the ron-is-time-travelling dumbledore theory. it was incredible.]

but i wasn’t a writer. i was one of those science-y, not-like-other-girls teenagers who was performatively really cunty about other girls who liked to write little stories or draw little pictures, which i thought was fundamentally unserious. the fact that i was an avid consumer of these stories didn’t make me question what the fuck i was being such an arsehole about…

because i loved a bit of fan-fic, and not only did i love fan-fic but i demonstrably had a fandom presence and was clued up on fandom lore - i could quote my immortal, i knew what a snape-wife was, i was on a forum or two - although i went to great lengths to avoid anyone in my real life discovering that. and i do feel extremely proud of myself that i have a reputation among people i know for not having been particularly cringe as a teen [how little they know… i’ve just got a good poker face.]

i lost interest in harry potter when i went to university - i started uni in 2010, when it was still socially acceptable to be really into it, and i definitely went to my fair share of themed parties in the first couple of years, but by the time i graduated in 2016 (i did medicine, so it’s a six-year slog…) i’d not opened the books, watched the films, or thought about the fandom in years. i remember rolling my eyes at the number of people i know who went to see cursed child when it first opened. bit cringe to be in your twenties and into harry potter, isn’t it?

[lol. lmao.]

but a global crisis changes things, i suppose.

like so many people, i got back into fandom during the coronavirus pandemic - although, regrettably, not because i was stuck at home. i don’t think i’ll ever be able to accurately describe what it was like to work in a hospital in 2020, except to say that by the time i got home each day the only thing i could do other than stare blankly at a wall was lose myself in the comfort of media i knew well and its memories of a simpler time. and once i’d re-read the books a few times… well, it was only a matter of time before i was scrolling ao3 at 3am.

and, because my ego hasn’t changed even if my relationship with my own gender has, it did not take a lot to convince me that i could write stories which were just as good as the ones i was reading.

you can be the judge of whether i succeeded.

[*i’m being coy. i have it bookmarked on ao3]

#asks answered #asenora on writing

[frodothefair]

Hello. I’m Fragrance, or Nisilë.

I absolutely adore LOTR, particularly hobbits and particularly Frodo and Sam. I love Frodo-focused whump and hurt/comfort, as well as all forms of genderbending and fandom cross-pollination. Come say hi. I'm pretty friendly, if I do say so myself. I am also now a part of SHHEEP, and Elijah Wood's character in The Ice Storm is my spirit animal.

Things I like and may post about:

☽ → Lord of the Rings: incorrect quotes, bad memes, headcanons, and other musings. ☽ → The Hobbit ☽ → Aesthetics my hobbit blorbos would like, including dark and light academia, cottage core, and naturecore.

Masterlist:

Fanfiction: ☽ → Flowers of Mordor, WIP. Frodo comes back from the war and finds love and healing with Sam's sweet younger sister. Frodo x Marigold Gamgee (Sam’s canonical sister) and a bit of Frodo x Sam. Jane Austen meets J.R.R. Tolkien. I may post headcanons and sneak peeks, and cry about my muses in this tag. Holliday Grainger is fancast as Marigold. ☽ → Rivendell. Frodo x Marigold Gamgee. A variant of the Flowers of Mordor AU, except Frodo and Marigold get together before the quest. ☽ → Erelas, WIP. Tale written by my husband, who lacks an online presence, about two Gondorean beacon-guards and their kafkaesque existence. I am a beta for this one, and post on his behalf and with his permission. ☽ → Expats, WIP. Real person fanfiction. Elijah Wood gets romantically involved with a fan, and to escape the darker side of Hollywood, the two of them move to Ukraine, the country where she was born, and where she lived as a child. AUs:

☽ → Flowers of Chernobyl, an AU of Flowers of Mordor, where the Fellowship are CIA operatives ☽ → AU I am developing with @konjugaltdien where Frodo is female and she and Sam get pregnant with Elanor after the quest.

Frodo and Marigold Gamgee from Flowers of Mordor, created by the talented @drawulan

#follow #lotr #lord of the rings #light academia #dark academia #cottagecore #natural aesthetic #flowercore #naturecore #mental health #cats #fantasy