holy HECK ems…! This is so perfect, this is amazing.
I need this. I need Ole Gammer Greenhand and her big happy lollopy puddle of a
wargdoggo, Heather.With his big sad eyes whenever she is cooking, so that he gets the scraps. “Bottomless pit… all right, here you are. I spoil you rotten, y’know that?”
And his tendency to try and curl up on her tiny lap, even though he can only fit his head and maaaaaaybe his front paws on there. “Ooof! Oh, you big goof. All right, who wants an ear-scratch? Whosagoodboy? Whoosagooboyden! YOU ARE!”
And his goofy, tongue-lolling grin after he has done a good job chasing the birds off the seedlings. “That’s a boy! Good job, Heather.”
And oh yes FINE, sure – and his teeth that can crack an ox’s thighbone in one bite. “Oh, that’s just the dog, that noise – pay it no mind me dears.”
and the ranger sees him and stares.
And Gammer Greenhand notices where the ranger is looking, and waves a tiny, wrinkled hand. “That’s just Heather, the great lummox. He’s a big soft lump, but I keep him for the company, you know? It’s nice t’ have someone to talk to, at my age.”
Schlagwort: fic
Fic meme: 16 + Elrond & Elros
16. small birds, dry grass
Eärendil sprang up from the rim of the silent sea, and hung in the evening that poured into the west. Above him the golden smudge of the waning gibbous moon was floating down on the air of the sunset’s dying fiery breath. Below, the ocean’s cup caught the sky in a mirror.
“Tilion is chasing Papa again,” Elrond murmured, from Elros’s side.
“Mm. He has sunk closer in my lifetime, and still not caught him,” said Elros. They’d had this conversation at least two dozen times before, but Elrond sounded just as wondering every time, and so Elros was glad to have it again.
They had lain on their backs lazy with heat all afternoon, smoking, with their arms folded behind their heads, in the parched grass and dusty summer heather of the highlands above the blue bay of Andúnië. Now the cool salt air came up from the sea, bringing wakefulness. In over four hundred years, Elros still had not become used to the blazing sun over Númenor.
The air was still bright, and lit the wings of the white seabirds as they streamed homewards into the uttermost west, crying strange and mournful above the sighing waves.
“They fly to the quays of Avallónë,” said Elros, “Gulls’ cries! Do they call for you to sail after?”
“Aye, one day,” said Elrond sleepily. “Time will come. Do you wish it too?”
“Aye, but I think longing for things forever unknown are sweet when unfulfilled. Don’t you?”
Elrond laughed softly. “Thanks to you, yes, I have learned it is so.”
Elros reached out for the pipe. “My eyes cannot follow the birds to Eressëa any longer. Only in dreams.”
“I am sorry. Or, is it better in dreams?”
“Perhaps it is better in dreams. In waking, all the birds are too small.”
He stopped and frowned. He had not meant to say that, but his pipe was good, the evening was sweet, and his company was as old as he.
Elrond opened one eye and gave him a keen look before softening. “I know.”
There was companionable silence, upon wayward paths of thought. Elrond broke it first.
“I say, you could probably get a better look at the seabirds — or they could get a better look at you, without setting their feet on mortal lands — from the sky.”
This time Elros opened one eye, suspiciously.
“What.”
“Remember?” Elrond rolled over on his side with his chin resting on one hand, eyes dreaming, elsewhere. “If you took the old hang-glider over Forostar like you and Urwendë and the children used to, who knows what you might yet meet?”
“You brainless little scallop.” Elros levered himself up on one elbow. “I am four hundred and ninety-six years old. My fingers—” he flexed them, “can no longer grip, and my joints —” he puffed pointedly on the pipe, “—are seized with rheumatism. I am too old to go hang-gliding. Or for that matter, pearl-hunting, or spark-diving, or isle-rafting. If I wanted to die immediately, I would be sure to take your advice.”
“Ah, I see!” said Elrond, raising one eyebrow at Elros like an aggravating recollection of a reflection — unlined eyes and smooth rosy cheeks and thick silken black hair. “Do you not think drowning in the bay while chasing birds and stars is a fitting way to go out? You could declare it another tradition for all the Kings of Westernesse hereafter. Like what you said about the—”
“I said a lot of things when I was young.” Elros settled himself back in the grass and handed the pipe back. “Now I would like to die right here, and I would like to reach five hundred before I do. And—I have not been hang-gliding in nearly three hundred years, for I only went with Urwendë.”
At that, Elrond simply nodded, and lay back again.
“Very well,” he said, only a little too gently.
The lighthouse of the haven came alight, and began to spin slowly, a clear flame throbbing on the sea’s edge. Elros thought back, far back, before wives and kingdoms, where it was dim.
“Elrond!” He whispered. “Elrond!”
“Yes?”
“Can you remember for me? In Sirion, the night Before, I promised Mama I would do something for her the next day. But I cannot recall what.”
“I remember,” said Elrond gravely. “You promised her you would show her the shell city you had built in the cove. But it was not for the next day. You said you would show her some time, whenever you were finished.”
Elros stared up into sky, and felt a pang.
“Oh. Some time. Some time!”
The birds’ cries echoed fainter, Eärendil’s star burned deeper, the moonlight dissolved in the water at the edge of the world, where the doors of night were opening. The spark of white Avallónë flickered a moment, beyond the sea.
“If you wish, brother,” Elrond said finally. “We could go up in a balloon.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, and then Elros sat bolt upright with a start.
“What!” he said, rubbing his back and wincing. “You have a hot air balloon?”
“Come, would I have offered what I do not have?”
“A balloon! Here! What if I died while you were waiting to tell me! Tyelpe finally got them to work? Do they go very high? What did—”
“Indeed he did, after all these centuries!” This time, Elrond looked as old as he really was, sitting and grinning around the pipe in glee. “A gift, of the silence of the skies, from we on the hither lands to Elenna that lies starwards — he had one sent to the lighthouse, with his regards, if you want it.”
“Want it! I can’t believe I spent decades doing the cartography of this island on the ground, only to get this now when I am past due to leave harbor. The trials of mortality! Ask him to send more for the children, will you?”
“I promise I shall. And Elros, I do not know how high or far it can go. Shall we be the ones to try it? That is,” Elrond added thoughtfully, a gleam leaping to his eye, “if your old bones are up for it. You know, the sun gets terrible hot and the winds can knock the basket about a—”
“Oh shut up, shut up, old man, of course we shall be the ones to try it,” grumbled Elros, holding out his hand and waiting to be pulled to his feet — Elrond was already standing, hand out, vital as memory. “If we hurry, we might lift off in time to meet the seabirds flying back when Papa sets in the dawn.”
ok but what if
the tolkien dwarves invented the printing press
give me that fic
I never thought about it, but, I mean…of course it’s the dwarves.
The elves would never think of it, fading out of Middle Earth with their perfect memories entirely intact, bearing the lore of ages in their own lifetimes. Elrond would never think to write down the story of his life, for all that it stretches back to the Silmarils’ crafting. When they do write things down, they believe in taking the time to inscribe the words with their own hand–no one knows the hard truths of permanence and impermanence like the Firstborn, and if you are going to take the time to make something ephemeral into something lasting, you do it right. And besides, Quenya and Sindarin and forgotten Noldorin, all are made with elaborate curling letters, intended more to be written with a brush tip or a calligrapher’s pen than printed for clarity. A printing press would never capture the fluidity quite right.
The race of men…well, they’re still trying to recover. The great kingdoms of the human race–hard Gondor and broken Arnor, wild Rohan and poor shattered Harad to the South–took the brunt of the Ring War hardest of all. Even the strongest of them is left in fragments. New rulers, damaged walls, burned cities. Not many have time, in those first years–and it does take years–to worry about the lore that might have been lost or muddled by water and fire and falling stone, not when there are still leaderless orcs roving and people starving as they try to stretch the harvests. By the time they do, they’re trying to piece together what they used to have. No one thinks twice about trying to piece it together the way it was, and the way it was, was handwritten. Someday the race of men will be great innovators, reaching toward the stars with sure hands and bright eyes. Now, though, the race of men is enduring, is rebuilding and making alliances, trying to prevent the losses of the war from reappearing ten, twenty, a hundred years down the line. They are doing well, at enduring–pragmatists, grim and tough and determined–but they hardly have the time for mechanical marvels that don’t aid building, speed farmwork, or otherwise smooth the path.
The hobbits persist in being stubbornly hobbitish. Oral history is what they do, and their memories for family ties and dramatic gossip could give the oldest Eldest a run for their money. Who’s going to bother to write down the story of the time Athella Proudfoot–no, not that one, the other one, Odo’s great-great-great aunt–drank half the tavern under the table, got up on the bar, did a jig in nothing but her bloomers, and then settled in to drink the place dry? (And still looked fresh as a daisy, if quite a bit less sober, the next morning.) No one, because anyone you ask knows the story of everyone who ever did anything worth knowing the story of. What do the hobbits care for legends and lore? They know who they are and where they come from, songs and stories and all, and there’s a certain level of strength in that. Strength enough to walk into Mordor, strength enough to reclaim the Shire.
The dwarves…the dwarves are a people who once had libraries, sweeping and beautifully full of knowledge. The libraries in Khazad-dum have rotted, by now, ransacked by orcs and goblins or burned entire by Durin’s Bane. Books and scrolls, illuminated with precious metals and expensive inks by the finest scholars, are worth nothing to a dragon, nothing but fuel for amusement, things to send sparking. The library where Dis learned to read, where Thorin and Thrain before him learned statecraft, are nothing but ash. The Iron Hills, Ered Luin, those places were filled by a people seeking refuge. Few dwarrows snatched tomes as they fled Erebor. Fewer still kept them at the ruin of Azanulbizar. The dwarves escaped their ancestral homes with the clothes on their backs and scraps of bread baked on stones, with the pyres of the burned dwarves still smoldering behind them.
It’s a survivor of that flight who scratches down the first idle plans. She remembers seeing Dain Ironfoot, barely more than a child–but then he seemed such a grown-up to her, at the time, when she was still a beardless babe only just walking–bloodied and limping on a crutch as he stood up to claim the leadership his father had left in his wake. Dain and Thorin, young dwarrows still, but already old with the weight of the world. She remembers that better than the dragon, better than the battle. Her mother died in Ered Luin, but not before writing a poem for the burned ones, a poem for the two dwarves who had surrendered their own youth for the sake of their people. She can’t stand the idea of her mother’s poem being lost, the way so many things were lost in flight after flight.
That dwarrowdam dies, an old dwarf in her bed with her loved ones around her, and it’s her best friend’s daughter who comes across the plans, many years later. Yes, she thinks, looking at the levers, at the vague notes about possible lettering methods, yes, that could work.
It doesn’t work, at first. It doesn’t work a lot, really, but the dwarves are a stoneheaded bunch and not in a rush to be put off by a few petty failings. Or by a total collapse of the base mechanics, the first time she tries to pull the lever. The dwarrowdam unearths herself from a pile of metal and gears and wood, with the help of a few other folks who heard the complicated crash and weary cursing, and starts again.
It takes most of two years and a lot of brainstorming–first with her friends, then with her guild, then with any poor fool careless enough to wander into her workshop–but the scribe-machine works. She shrieks and bursts into tears when the first page comes out crisp and clean and beautiful, and sprints into the great hall waving it triumphantly over her head.
The paper says, in kuzdh runes, plain and clear, We are Mahal’s children, and we are yet unbroken.
fic title: nobody can save me now; the only sound is a battle cry
On the battlefield Arfin is a menace. His blades, sharp as scythes, cut through flesh the way an oar cuts through water. He moves smoothly, silently, as though he weighs nothing and is made of air itself. The only reminder of his mortality is the bloodied gash that starts at the bridge of his nose and crosses his cheek to his ear.
Fell and fey he has become, the camp whispers when they think their king can’t hear them. There are whispers comparing him to Feanor, to Fingolfin, they say Arfin is more like a storm than the sea. More like a tempest than a clear day.
They wonder how it took them so long to see it.
Arafinwe was never the safe one.
And now in the middle of a war, he has no reason to pretend to be.
(He meets with Sauron on the field, the world holds it’s breath.
Neither the Maia or Arfin left their blade, instead, a smirk worms its way onto Saurons’s face.
The Maia sings, and Arfin’s rage is so unholy, so unrefined and raw, that when the High King of the Noldor opens his mouth, it’s as though a hurricane came storming out.)
Revenge for Finrod.
Celebrimbor at Sirion?
He had been hoping to see the same monsters as the rest of Sirion. It would be easier, so much easier, if they came as rabid beasts that had eaten up the noble men he’d known.
But when they halted before his barricade at last, his uncles still looked very much themselves. Not so proud as in the days of his childhood but as implacable in this as they had ever been in the war against the Enemy.
Here was the man who had taught him his first letters, infinitely patient even as he struggled to relearn how to write himself. And here the kind uncle who had held him against his terror of the dark and sung away his fear.
Now Maedhros’ jaw tightened at the sight of him, though something in Maglor’s dark eyes went soft. Of Amras there was no sign at all. Already dead, Celebrimbor would learn later.
Behind him, the men and women of Sirion shifted uneasily. There, a woman who had fled the sack of Gondolin traced her fingers over the fletchings of the shaft set to her bow, while a Sindar boy hugged his boat hook tighter to his chest.
“What do you hope to do here, Nephew?” Maedhros called. The barricade was as well constructed as Celebrimbor could contrive from furniture and upturned boats, which was not half as well as he would like – atop his tall grey mare, his uncle’s eyes were level with his.
“I thought to show the world that the House of Fëanor still has some honour left to it.” Celebrimbor was wearing the red surcoat that had lain in the bottom of his trunk since before Nargothrond fell. It was a risk in the chaos of battle but he would not be the first Fëanorian to change sides this day and he wished to make a point. “That we are more than thieves and mur-”
“Yes, yes. But what do you intend to do?”
“There are kinslayings and kinslayings, my uncles. What will you do if I do not move?”
The grey mare pawed the cobblestones beneath her, striking sparks with her iron shod hooves. His uncles turned to each other in silent conference and Celebrimbor knew them far too well to think that this would stay them, yet he hoped-
“Whatever you may think, whatever lies they dripped into your ear in Doriath, we haven’t fallen so far that we’d harm our little nephew,” Maglor said, nudging his horse forwards. The Gondolindrim woman pulled her bowstring taut but Maglor paid her no mind at all. His focus was all upon Celebrimbor, and his voice held all the warmth of hearth fires, all the peace of birdsong as night falls. “Do you remember, Tyelperinquar? The cradle song I made for you?”
“Don’t-”
“Listen,” Maglor said, and he began to sing. It was a nonsense song, a child’s song, but with the weight of nostalgia behind it and all the power of the greatest of their bards, it cut deeper than any weapon.
Celebrimbor did not feel his knees give out but his vision wavered and suddenly he was looking up at his uncles. He turned to the woman with the bow, not sure what he would beg of her, but she did not stand beside him any longer. She lay upon her side as though asleep. Perhaps she was, for there was nothing here to fear. Who had he wanted her to shoot?
Surely not his uncle who, even now was easing the sword from his fingers, the sword he did not need. He let Maglor have it after only a moment’s struggle. Family. They were his family. Who could you trust if not they?
“Neatly done,” said someone far away.
“Poor boy.”
“Luckier than some.”
“It won’t hold him – he is his father’s son.”
“Poor boy.” A laugh. Someone ruffled his hair. “Come, we’ve delayed too long.”
Hey look, it’s a time travel variation I haven’t written yet!
@darthnickels Kiiinda what we were talking about… Or it could turn into that, anyway
Han caught Leia by the elbow as she tried to sidle past him, into the corridor of the Falcon. He jerked his head toward the woman seated at the dejarik table, hands cupping a small cup of violet tea, bending periodically to blow on it. Luke sat next to her, fascination on his face.
“You want to explain what we’re doing here, sweetheart?” Han asked.
He still looked rough from his time as a carbon frozen conversation piece, a bit sweaty, and covered with sand. It fell from his hair when he moved his head and he pulled a face, irritated that he was going to have to clean the Falcon, first thing, right after waking up. Leia wanted to tell him that she hadn’t been cleaning up Chewie’s hair either, but she had the pressing problem of how he was still holding onto her.She pushed him, none too gently, on the chest, and pulled away.
“She needed our help, Han. I don’t know where she came from – if she could possibly be who she says she is – but I’m not turning a person in need away, especially not in the middle of a sandstorm!”
Han made a grasping gesture with both hands – rude – and then threw them toward the woman.
“Shmi Skywalker!” he shout-whispered. “Skywalker! Luke’s grandmother! Are you kidding me?”
Day 2:
there was a strangeness in the horn / a wildness in the cry / the power of devilry forlorn / exulting bloodily
It was a merry company that rode from Menegroth’s glittering halls and out upon the hunt.
At their head was Elu Thingol, garbed by Melian’s subtle arts in silver grey with hawthorn as his crown. With him came Lúthien, his daughter, fairest of all Children, slender limbs veiled in blue and gold and the twilight shadow of her hair.
All the host raised their voices in gay song, and the bells upon their bridles chimed brightly in accompaniment.
All save one.
“O Mablung, why so glum?” cried Beleg.
“I would that we sought nobler prey,” said Mablung. “A proud stag, a fierce boar – what honour is there in hunting these stunted beasts?”
“It is true,” said Daeron sadly. “What animal would not gladly die that their pelt might clothe fair Lúthien? And yet these creatures have no fur worth having, no meat to feed her, and no spreading antlers to adorn her chambers.”
Wise Beleg shook his head. “The folk of our realm are much troubled by these vermin and there is always honour in putting their fears to rest.”
At that Mablung was satisfied for he was valiant and cared as much for his people as his glory.
It was well that he was, for at that moment the dogs picked up the trail and a glad cry went up. Great horns were sounded and the hounds bayed and sprang away into the brush.
Behind them came their masters, laughing and hallooing, starlight glimmering in their hair and upon their spears.
Before them, their quarry froze in silent terror and then started away into the trees. It was cunning in woodcraft but the keen eyes of the Eldar saw every broken branch and snagged lock of hair.
It was only a matter of time.
The host of Doriath rode at breakneck speed, rushing through the undergrowth like wind, like fire, like the surge of cleansing water, sweeping the forest clean. Lúthien laughed gaily, too breathless to raise her voice in song, and the birds in the bushes took flight and fluttered about her horse.
Fierce and valiant they were, but the hunt was not without its risks; a horse fell screaming, a crude yet cunning trap of twisted steel closed about its leg. Its rider leapt from the saddle, cursing, and brought an end to its pain. The rest of the hunt rode around him, the rush of a river parting around a stone.
It was then that they caught sight of their quarry, filthy and stunted, plowing through the trees ahead, stamping tender shoots beneath its crude boots.
Proud King Thingol raised his silver lance and his was the first throw. The spear flew true, slicing deep into the beast’s leg, drawing a shriek of pain that raised an answering cheer from his host.
Their prey was an obdurate beast though, and did not slow its desperate rush.
“Where does it flee to? Is it too cowardly to stand at bay?” cried Lúthien, in a voice like bells and birdsong.
“There!” cried farsighted Beleg. “It crawls into yonder burrow!”
“Filthy creatures,” said Daeron. “They do so seem to love the dark.”
“The hounds will have it out soon enough,” said Mablung, his spear clutched in eager hands, all his disdain forgotten in the thrill of the chase.
Huddled in his hole, listening to the scrape of digging paws, the Petty-Dwarf clutched his knife to his chest and bared his teeth.
i’m actually a little – relieved? wait, wait, before I get excoriated – for a second i thought this was an AU in which they were hunting Beren, and was about to have heart palpitations
seriously, though, it’s easy to forget how much of canon is FUBAR. Amazing piece! (god, the atmosphere of the hunt, the excitement, was so vivid… the jingling and the tinkling of the bells, beLLS, BELLs)
The writing is awesome, the Elves are so horrible! I want to at least punch all of them for not realizing that the Dwarves are sentient (or worse, not caring – they do hunt animals despite being able to communicate with them on some level). Their behavior and the description of the hunt remind me of folk tales about elves, where they are mysterious and beautiful and also fey and really dangerous. Stealing children, leaving changelings behind, kidnapping people into their fairy realms for centuries, that sort of thing.
the tragedy of anakin skywalker (x)
#no but really#why wasn’t anakin a crechemaster#why did they let him major in stabbing?#star wars#queue (tags @cadesama)
OH GOD NO BUT THAT WOULD BE PERFECT. how did the jedi not think of that?
what is anakin’s biggest weakness? attachments.
you know who needs lots of attachment? babies. small children.
anakin should not have been made to study murder: he should have been put in charge of Small Things. He would have bonded with all of them instantly, and it would have given his life Meaning and Purpose.
He’d bond with the kids, but he’d be able to move on because they are Bigger now and they have to go to the Big Kid Class but he still sees them around all the time, and it finally teaches him how to let go of his attachments??? He’d find a kid that he’s particularly fond of and go to Obi-Wan and say “I have found your newest padawan.”
this could have fixed so. many. things. ;_____;
Heh, and Anakin would keep picking Obi-Wan’s padawans for him, and it would be annoying but damn if he wasn’t right every single time.
BUT CAN YOU
JUST IMAGINE HOW ANNOYED PALPATINE WOULD BE his life would be never-ending
string of trying to get a hold of Anakin (I mean, would Anakin give him a time of day if he can spend it with small kids who absolutely adore him instead?)he keeps
comming over the years, but it’s always likeBEEP
“Anakin, my
boy, we haven’t seen each other in a while—““I’m sorry,
Chancellor, now’s not the best time. I’m tutoring a class.”BEEP
“My dear
boy, I wonder if we could meet for a chat—““Well, it
can’t be this week, we’re going to Ilum, but maybe later…”BEEP
“Anakin,
I’d like to—““I’m
terribly sorry, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan Kenobi answers. The apologetic tone might
be just a tad exaggerated. “Anakin is on a trip with younglings, he
must’ve left his comlink behind accidentally.”BEEP
“You’ve
reached Anakin Skywalker’s private comlink. Leave the message after the tone.”BEEP
“It’s such
a shame that Council doesn’t consider sending you on this campaign, considering
the lightsaber skills you demonstrated when I was last visiting the Temple,
Anakin.”“Thank you,
Chancellor, but this is precisely why I need to stay behind. In fact just the
last week, the Masters decided I should take over some advanced lightsaber
classes, considering senior Padawans accompanying their Masters on the frontlines
need the training. I might take the Bear Clan along, make it a learning
opportunity for the young ones—“Palpatine
closes his eyes slowly. He knows this from experience; Anakin won’t let himself
be budged from the topic of little monsters for at least another half an hour.BEEP
“Ah,
Chancellor Palpatine. Anakin left his comlink behind again, he’s in class—“BEEP
“Anakin, I
hoped you—““Oh! Chancellor,”
the voice on the other end is distinctly female, and Palpatine recognizes it after
a second. Kenobi’s second Padawan. He barely restrains the urge to gnash his
teeth. “Um, Skyg—I mean, Master Skywalker can’t pick up now. I can tell him you
called? It’s just that he was helping me with forms, and he forgot his comlink,
and he’s probably already in crèche…”BEEP
Then there’s
that one time when an actual youngling picks up the call. The less said about his
reaction to that incident, the better.BEEP
“—fortunately,
they were all right in the end. But in my opinion, this should never happened
in the first place, Chancellor.”Palpatine
snaps awake. Was that… was that anger? Finally, the hours of listening to
worthless drivel about Jedi younglings paid off.“My boy, I
absolutely agree,” he begins slyly, but before he can continue, Anakin steamrolls
on.“I think Jedi
Order is too deeply entwined in the conflict! I honestly don’t think even
senior Padawans should be anywhere near battles, not to mention in command of
GAR, but now even younglings are acceptable targets for Separatists and pirates!
Master Yoda and I were talking about this lately, and—“Palpatine
swallows a scream of rage with some difficulty.BEEP
“Forgot his
comlink again, Master Skywalker has. With younglings, he is.”Slaughtering
younglings moved to the top on the list of things Darth Sidious will do after
taking over galaxy some time ago.this post keeps getting better and better
More please! Tagging @systlin, @beautifultoastdream and @karama9
That is what the Council would have done if they were smart. Seriously. Here’s Yoda saying Anakin should not be taught because he senses too much fear in him, and it’s fear for the people he cares about, something everyone present realizes fully because when it comes to his own safety, Anakin couldn’t be more reckless.
Then Qui Gon announces he’s training him anyway, someone points out he might fulfill the prophecy and bring balance to the Force, and nobody, NOBODY, thinks that MAYBE giving him a job that’s more about caring than killing might be an idea. Nope. Okay, we’re training him, let’s foster the loose canon aspect of his personalities, make him a war general and keep pushing him into vicious battles to the death. Sounds perfect for his mental health.
The Jedi Council were a bunch of idiots with their head so far up their own asses even a lightsaber shoved up there to the hilt would not provide them enough light to see further than their own noses.
I think I got lost somewhere in this metaphor. You get the point.
After ten years, Palpatine loses his patience and decides to change his plans. Fuck it, Skywalker has kids now–two adorable little moppets who can be captured, broken, and twisted into twin powerhouses of the Dark Side. Torture one while the other watches, convince them Daddy doesn’t love them, easy-peasy.
Unfortunately, he fails to reckon with the fact that not only is he going up against Anakin Fucking Skywalker, but that Anakin Fucking Skywalker is the surrogate father/big brother/best friend/cool teacher of ninety percent of the current Padawans and young Knights in the Order. And while the Council might make decisions and talk about the Will of the Force and stuff, those Padawans and Knights only care about the fact that the man who scared away the monsters under the bed–made it feel less lonely and frightening to be away from home when they were small–is now hurting and scared for his own children.
Just like Palpatine always wanted, Anakin ends up leading an army. An army of young Jedi who smash the ever-loving shit out of everything “Darth Sidious” can throw at them, rescue the terrified Skywalker twins, and drag the Chancellor hisownself before the Senate with conclusive proof that he’s an evil Dark-Side-wielding bastard who kidnaps adorable kids.
Attachments FTW.
God, YES
Luke and Leia would have grown up with 500 brothers and sisters of assorted species. Whenever you see Anakin there are 10 kids with him, occasionally actively hanging off of his arms or riding on his shoulders. (Anakin looks downright gleeful about this). Padme thinks it’s the most adorable thing ever.
20 years later by the time “A New Hope” would have begun, Anakin is 45. Padme is the new Chancellor. Luke and Leia are finishing their own Jedi training. 90% of the current young Jedi order calls Anakin ‘Dad’. He has amassed the galaxy’s largest collection of refrigerator art. After that incident with Chancellor Palpatine 15 years back, Yoda was forced to admit to Qui Gon’s very smug force-ghost that he was right. Everything is right with the galaxy.
I am so sorry this ate my brain and then things ran away from me. I AM SORRY.
So. Anakin leads an army to retrieve his children and it’s this twisted version of everything Sidious ever wanted and he’s prepared for that.
But Sidious always underestimates how love changes things. And while he’s prepared to fight Anakin’s devoted army of former crechelings, he underestimates how that’s changed the rest of the Order.
Because Obi-Wan is quieter about whom and how he loves but doesn’t make it any less strong. When Obi-Wan loves someone it is unconditional and unyielding and he has never loved anyone as much as he loves Anakin Skywalker. Then the twins are born and Anakin is bashfully about it but he’s not ashamed and of course Obi-Wan has to know, he can’t imagine Obi-Wan not knowing his children (Obi-Wan totally already knows, he has been rolling his eyes about this for months and waiting for Anakin to come to him so he doesn’t spook him or for Padme to knock some freaking sense into him, which she does, because not-dying Padme is scary post-pregnancy and not willing to deal with the stupid anymore) and then Padme hands him Leia and everything stutters to a halt for a moment because oh, oh no, Anakin has found him another padawan.
There is no one Obi-Wan will ever love as fiercely as Anakin, except for Anakin’s children, who may as well be his own children. And he knows from the moment he first holds her that Leia will be the greatest Jedi he ever has a hand in raising.
(It becomes a joke among the Knights and Masters at the temple after the Skywalker twins arrive. If you even think that you might like to take Leia as your padawan, you can feel Obi-Wan glare at you no matter where he is in the galaxy.)
And when Sidious kidnaps Anakin’s children – his future padawan – Obi-Wan is the only Jedi in the galaxy who can put a hand on Anakin’s shoulder and say we need a distraction to do this safely, trust me to bring them home for you. Anakin will lead the frontal assault and tear down all of Sidious’ carefully constructed plans. Obi-Wan will sneak in and safeguard their children and bring them home.
That’s the plan, anyway.
Here’s what none of them expected:
When Luke Skywalker came screaming and red-faced into the world, an ancient, meddling, troll of a Jedi Master who had vowed never to take another padawan felt it and thought: fuck.
Whereas Leia is, even as a child, stubborn and willful and silk hiding steel, Luke is twin balls of sunshine. Raised among Jedi, he is so bright a presence it hurts. Even raised among Jedi, he wears his heart on his sleeve and has absolutely no guile and he pouts when the cafeteria doesn’t serve his favourite dessert but will cheerfully walk across the room and give it to someone else if he senses that person is still hungry. The first time Luke sees Yoda he stares at him, all big blue eyes and pudgy baby hands, then grabs his ears and won’t let go. Everyone is horrified. Yoda harrumphs at him and tell him, “Patience, young one.” He toddles after Yoda from the time he can crawl and no matter how grouchy Yoda seems he never actively dissuades him from it.
After the twins enter the temple, Anakin always knows not to worry if Luke is missing from the crèche. Yoda will escort him back sooner or later.
(He’s always much more worried when Leia disappears because, yes, Obi-Wan will bring her back but they’ll have always gotten into trouble in the meantime.)
Yoda does not confront Darth Sidious. Yoda does not lose his duel with the Sith lord and become diminished because of it. Yoda is with Obi-Wan, sneaking into his stronghold to see the twins safe. Yoda cannot go Sith hunting when Luke is in pain and gently clinging to him, his arms around his neck, bruised and bleeding and smiled at Yoda when he saw him because Luke knew he would come.
(Sidious cannot win, with them. Leia would risk her home being obliterated rather than betray her righteous cause. Luke would willingly walk into flames rather than give up on those he loves. It hurts, oh it hurts, to see the other in pain, but Leia can watch Luke being hurt and know there are more important things at stake than the two of them and Luke can watch Leia being hurt and trust that they will be saved.)
Sidious escapes but his Empire falls before it solidifies. He will never be as powerful as he needs to be.
(It’s Anakin who notices there is something wrong with the clones. He’s not their General but Obi-Wan is and Obi-Wan is a good general. When Obi-Wan is hurt, they’re all nosey and worried and Anakin – all but glued to his former Master’s bedside when it’s really bad and first and foremost a mechanic – can tell that something is wrong. He’s not always with them so it never becomes familiar, it never becomes normal, and it niggles at the back of his brain until he’s sitting in front of Obi-Wan’s bacta tank – old training bond humming between them because Obi-Wan hates drugs and hates being sedated and he stays quieter and heals faster if Anakin is there to keep him calm – and Rex walks in to check on the General and Anakin turns around to look at him and he sees it.
The Jedi Order quietly deprograms the clone army. They trace the chip back to Palpatine. Padme and Bail Organa and Mon Mothma start quietly amassing information against him and his allies – enough for criminal charges, pushing Sidious to show his hand and try to kidnap the twins.)
Obi-Wan takes Leia as his Padawan the second she’s old enough for it to be proper. They are scarily well matched. If he was the Jedi’s best hope to keep planets from succeeding during the war, together they can talk whole systems into rejoining the rebuilding Republic.
Yoda leaves Luke in the crèche until the day before his thirteenth birthday. Everyone is worried except Luke (who knows he is meant to be a Jedi and knows Master Yoda is meant to teach him and trusts this, since he was raised in the Temple. It’s easier to have faith when you’ve always had it and it’s never been wrong). Fourteen Jedi have tried to ask him to be their apprentice. Yoda bashed twelve of them over the head with his stick before they could and Luke turned two down himself, the last three days before his birthday. He spends his last day as a twelve-year old following his dad around, both of them a little clingier than usual. Anakin has always thought that Yoda intended to take Luke as his Padawan but he’s literally hours from aging out and he’s seriously considering comming Ashoka and begging her to come act as backup, when Luke suddenly hugs Anakin hard and quick and Anakin looks over and sees Yoda waiting in the doorway.
Anakin hugs Luke back very, very tightly and then he lets him go. Luke already has his few things packed and waiting. Yoda harrumphs at him. “Ready, you are, padawan mine?”
Luke’s smile is blinding. “Yes, Master.”
Leia talks star systems into rejoining the Republic. Luke returns the Fallen to the Jedi. Dooku is the first and most fleeting (having not been killed by Anakin) – having been betrayed and split from Sidious – Luke finds him when he’s dying and gets Yoda to him in time for him to pass them information on Sidious’ new schemes and die a Jedi, with his old master at his side. There are others, after that, who Fell during the war and didn’t think they could ever return from it. Luke, bright and shiny and full of faith, sees them, thinks, I can fix this, and brings them home one by one.
After the second Return, which is unavoidably public, Leia and Obi-Wan look at each other and enlist everyone they can to begin working to make Luke the new poster boy for the Order. Luke is intensely embarrassed by this and a bit bumbling and shy about it, which just makes it more attractive to everyone. It also keeps the spotlight well away from their rebuilding efforts, which are way easier when there’s less press exposure.
Sidious, who would still like to capture and corrupt the twins, eventually stops trying with Luke because there’s only a 50/50 anyone he sends after him will come back and between years of Yoda’s training (ie dodging his stick), Luke’s innate Force sense and his dumb luck he’s practically impossible to kill.
(Sidious dies ignobly at the hands of a new apprentice, one of the Fallen who Luke has been trying to save. His defeat was always going to be someone else’s redemption.)
#I HAVE SO MANY FEELS ABOUT THIS META#GUYS#LUKE GETTING TO BE YODA’S PADAWAN PROPERLY MAKES ME SO HAPPY#OBI-WAN AND LEIA ARE A DREAM TEAM#THEY ARE FRIGHTENING TOGETHER#PADME IS SO PROUD#LUKE IS A LITTLE BALL OF WHINY SUNSHINE AND YODA JUST DELIGHTS HIM#MACE LAUGHS AT YODA FOREVER ABOUT IT#UNTIL BEN FUCKING SOLO COMES ALONG AND MACE IS ALL MOTHERFUCKER#I AM ALSO GOING TO HAVE TO WRITE THAT PIECE OF META BECAUSE BEN AS MACE WINDU’S PADAWAN ARGH#I WANT TO WRITE ALL THE STORIES IN THIS VERSE (via dreamer-wisher-liar)
You people need to tag me when you write, I keep missing good stuff like above!
Oh GOSH!
Everyone predicted Leia would eventually leave the order to follow in her mother’s footsteps but the SCANDAL that erupted when she married a former smuggler had the gossip rags going for years. Because circumstances sometimes change, but the Force will always find a way for certain absolutes. They have one son, and adopt several wayward young people along the way.
Anakin is delighted by his grandson for all that he’s sad that he couldn’t share him with Obi-Wan, who passed just before he was born. Ben would follow his grandfather around like a baby duck and hated sharing him with the other younglings. He’d get so angry when he felt Anakin was giving the other children more attention than him. Anakin would gently explain that he couldn’t play favorites, but Ben would still react with anger and find a place to pout alone.
He is five when he finds a nice secluded spot in the gardens, barely visible from the main path. A fountain sits in the center and Ben lets out his frustration by throwing small stones into it. He doesn’t notice Mace until he sits down right next to him and says “I like to come here too, when I’m angry.”
Ben is startled at first. Though he’s still small and largely untrained, no one has ever really snuck up on him before. He’s also never heard a master admit to being angry before. When questioned, Mace answers that everyone gets angry sometimes. The Jedi way isn’t the eradication of emotion, but the control of it. He brings Ben back to Anakin, who apologizes to the aging master for troubling him, but Mace dismisses the apology and tells him it was no trouble at all. Anakin glances sideways at Mace; they don’t always agree on things, but he can’t help but smile. It has been decades since Master Windu last took a padawan.
As Ben grows older he excels in his lessons. He’s smart, persistent, and so, so powerful in the Force. He’s the very top of his class, and the only one who has yet to be chosen by a master. He still goes to the fountain when he finds himself at war with his emotions. Usually he meditates alone for a while until he is able to calm down, but sometimes, when he feels particularly lost, Master Windu will show up. At these times Ben will often ask for advice, but sometimes they will simply sit together in silence.
Ben is desperate the day before he turns 13. He doesn’t understand how he could work so hard and not be noticed by a single master in the entire temple (which isn’t true, nearly everyone knows Ben Solo and can feel the pull of the Force around him. They also know they were not meant to guide him). He almost, almost comms his uncle and begs to take him as his padawan, but ultimately doesn’t because he knows how Luke follows the Force and if he were going to take him, he would have a long time ago. (Luke is busy anyway; a small girl in the outer rim is about to turn 3.)
He goes out to the fountain to watch the sun set. The next day he’ll go before the Council of Reassignment to be placed into a division of the Jedi Service Corps. He supposes it wouldn’t be so bad to be placed into the Exploration Corps, he’d see much of the galaxy that way. He sits and plans and wills himself to not cry. After all, the Jedi way isn’t the eradication of emotion, but the mastery of it.
Master Windu is still able to sneak up on him even though he’s doing so with a cane these days. Ben once held the hope that maybe the old master would take him as a padawan, but everyone knows Mace doesn’t take padawans anymore. His work on the Council is too important and he can’t give his precious time to a student, no matter what sort of strange bond has formed between them over the years. They sit for a moment before Ben breaks the silence. “What do you think my chances are of being assigned to the Exploration Corps?”
Mace seems to ponder the question for a moment. “Your scores in xenolinguistics is very high. You’ve also done very well in your survival field tests. You’d be a credit to the ExplorCorps.” He pauses for a moment. “Is that what you want to to do?”
Ben doesn’t give a straight answer, “It’s an honor,” he swallows the lump in his throat, “to be a part of the Service Corps.”
Mace sighs. “For someone who feels the Force so acutely, you have so little faith in it.” Ben winces. “Your patience leaves a lot to be desired. And you never really let go of anything.”
Ben is shaking. Of course. It doesn’t matter how well he does in his studies when the fundamentals of the ways of the Force is where he has always failed. He could never be a true Jedi. But it feels like the rawest betrayal when Mace says, “You can’t go into the Exploration Corps, Ben. Being left to drift through the galaxy unguided would be disastrous for you. You’d be very susceptible to the Dark Side if left alone.”
Ben’s eyes feel wet. He knows that too, though he’s never confessed to any of the masters about it. He was stupid to think he could hide it, though. The masters probably felt the Dark Side around him and rejected him outright. A bitter voice inside him resents them for dragging it out for so long.
Then he feels a warm hand on his shoulder. “I’m not afraid of the Dark, Ben. And you shouldn’t be either.” In spite of Master Windu’s gentle tone, Ben can’t bare to look at him. “Self mastery is a life long pursuit that no one ever really accomplishes. You have to take it day by day, even I’m still learning. You have everything you need, you just have to remember that it is a choice you must make and commit to every day.”
Ben sniffs. “Yes, Master.” But when Ben looks up at Mace, he doesn’t see the cold face of a stern teacher or the disappointment of an unsatisfied elder. He doesn’t even see the sympathy that everyone has been directing towards him as he got closer and closer to his 13th birthday. Instead there is warmth and fondness.
“However,” he continues, “it’s not a path you need to travel alone. At least not at first… if you’ll have me as your master.”
Ben lunges at Mace and hugs him tight. “Do you really mean it?”
Mace huffs a short laugh and ruffles the boy’s hair. “I’m too old to say things I don’t mean.” He pulls away. “But Ben, are you sure? I’m not the easier teacher.”
Finally able to hope again, Ben gives his master (his master!) a grin. “I’m not the easiest student!”
Mace gives an actual laugh at that. “Good!” He pulls himself up. “Alright, lets go make it official. I know that grand-daddy of yours is dying to start gloating like the gossiping old hen he is.”
Do you think Ginny came up with her Valentine’s Day poem on her own?
Or do you think she had help?
Like
Say from
I don’t know
A magical diary or something
That she always confided in
And would probably do whatever she asked
Like help her write a poem
OKAY BUT –
“I wish he were mine, he’s really divine – the hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”
Only Death Eaters called Voldemort the Dark Lord.
Ginny did NOT write that.
VOLDEMORT WROTE HARRY POTTER A LOVE POEM: CONFIRMED.
Dear Tom, I really really want to give Harry a poem for Valentines but it has to be a good poem and I’m rubbish at poetry, please help! Love, Ginny
when will this incessant prattling endDear Ginny, you have mentioned Harry Potter’s “stunning” green eyes and “wonderful” black hair many times, perhaps you could include these features in your poem. Sincerely, TomDear Tom, that’s a great idea! I’ve heard you’re supposed to do metaphors in poems, maybe something like “His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair is as dark as a blackboard?” And then I really want to do something like
“I wish he was mine” because I think that’s very romantic and I DO wish he was mine but I’m no good at rhyming and I can’t think of an ending! Are you good at rhymes? Love, Ginny
WHY MUST I SUFFER IN THIS WAYDear Ginny, rhymes are not one of my particular skills. However, you might rhyme “mine” with “divine,” as in “I wish he was mine, he’s truly divine,”if I possessed a body I would be vomiting right nowand then conclude with “the hero who conquered the Dark Lord,” to rhyme with “blackboard.” Sincerely, TomDear Tom, THANK YOU!! That’s WONDERFUL, I don’t know what I would do without you! Do you think Harry will like it? I’m so nervous! Love, Ginny
Dear Ginny, I see no reason for him to dislike it. It is a poem truly worthy of a boy such as him.
They should both be ripped into tiny pieces and then burned.Sincerely, Tom
Fairytale AU in which Princess Padme has been kidnapped by a dragon and Chancellor Palpatine (her father’s top adviser) hires Anakin, the best knight in all the land, to go rescue her. So Anakin travels into the far off mountains with his sword and shield and his loyal warhorse Artoo. It takes days but he finally locates the dragon’s lair.
Only, when he bravely challenges the dragon and demands that it release the princess, Padme strides up with a sword in hand and is like “What the fuck are you doing? Obi-Wan is a dear friend of mine. How dare you come here. All of you knights are the same! You’re all boneheaded idiots who just don’t know when to leave well enough alone!”
And Anakin’s just bewildered because what? Didn’t she want to be rescued from the dragon? But first – “Obi-Wan? Who’s that?”
“Me,” a deep voice announces from Anakin’s right. A puff of hot air is blown out right into his face as a dragon – terrifyingly huge but magnificently golden with a reddish hue to its scales – steps out of the shadows.
Anakin gapes. “You can talk!”
The dragon tips its head down at him and Anakin swears it’s giving him a very unimpressed, sardonic look. Possibly is rolling its eyes internally. “Yes. I am Obi-Wan. What can I do for you? You’re not here to try to steal my treasures, are you? Because I assure you, I will fight you for them.”
“Treasures?” Anakin asks. He hadn’t heard anything about treasures. He looks at the princess. Is it her? But no, she steps aside just enough for him to get a glimpse of the cave behind her. It’s filled with stacks and stacks of books.
The dragon – Obi-Wan – slides a foreleg out as if to block him from running over there. Not that Anakin was even tempted to. He can’t imagine how he’d carry all of those. Or if it would even be worth it.
“Yes. My treasure. Some of them have been banned by royal decree in various lands and these are the only copies. If you’ve come to study them, that would be a different matter. But judging by your armor and the sword in your hand, I take it that’s not the case.”
“Uh, no.” Anakin’s head is spinning. “I’m actually here to rescue her.” He gestures at the princess, who hasn’t lowered her sword at all.
She narrows her eyes at him. “Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine and in no need of a rescue.”
“Are you sure? The Chancellor seemed to think you were in trouble.”
The princess rolls her eyes. “He tends to overreact. I’m just taking some time off from the court. They’re all idiots, blinded by jewels, obsessed with the latest fashions, and constantly chasing after wealth. It’s tiring.”
“Yes, instead, she likes to come here and paint a great big target on my back,” Obi-Wan says dryly. (Can a dragon be dry? Anakin has no idea. He’s never seen one before this.)
“Hasn’t it worked out fine, though? We managed to talk the others around and send them off on our quests.”
“That’s true enough,” Obi-Wan concedes. “And it’ll quiet down when you go home.” He eyes Anakin thoughtfully. “Well, Sir Knight – pardon, what’s your name?”
“Anakin.”
“Knight Anakin, then. Well, if you’d truly like to go on an epic quest, perhaps you could escort Ahsoka home? She lives in the village down the way but she’s been coming here to learn her letters. Her parents worry if she’s gone for too long and it’s always tremendously difficult to get her to leave when it’s time. Normally, Padme would do it but if you can take her tonight, that’ll save us some time so that we can continue our own research.”
“I, uh, okay?” Anakin says.
So that’s how little Ahsoka gets escorted home by a knight in shining armor. She talks his ear off about Obi-Wan and Padme and how Obi-Wan hasn’t been teaching her just her letters but her numbers too so that when she grows up, she can rely on herself instead of having to get married to some “yucky boy.” Anakin barely keeps himself from snorting at that but he thinks that probably, Obi-Wan’s okay for a dragon and Padme’s probably safe after all. It wouldn’t hurt to hang around for a bit and make sure of that, though.
….anyway, so then he hangs out and falls in love with a dragon and it’s complicated (which basically sums up Anakin’s whole life). I can’t decide whether or not to make it so that Obi-Wan’s actually human and was cursed into a dragon form or to just leave him as a dragon through and through.
Obi-Wan could be a dragon that has the ability to assume human form?
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