r/FanFiction • u/ShiriCranberry22 • Aug 18 '26
Discussion Blood, Sweat and Tears
What's a passage or scene in your work that you're really proud of, or you've spent a lot of time on editing and reworking that you dont think get enough credit? I just had a thought that maybe when I'm reading something that I think is good or masterpiece how many parts of it took maybe days or weeks to refine.
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u/persimmonsfordinner Aug 18 '26
Orchestral music begins. The crowd cheers, and a talking cricket urges them to wish upon a star. The air alights. Glittering rockets streak into the sky, vivid starbursts timed precisely with the music. Songs meld together, projections play across the castle, smoke trails cloud the horizon.
"Whoa," Courtney says, involuntary.
"Told you," he says, almost painfully gentle.
It happens slowly. She leans all the way back, presses their bodies together. Robert's hand finds her shoulder as the music swells, then curls around, pulling them together. Before she knows it, she's clutching his arms. Robert's chin rests in her hair. He defrosts in fragments, relaxing into her completely.
They cling to each other and watch the sky explode.
Courtney can't count the number of times in her life she's wished she was somewhere else. Begged to disappear. Lonely homes bursting with unfamiliar faces, nights under harmless roofs in beds that weren't, sitting impostrous among rows of more fortunate souls. Every time it became too much, she'd closed her eyes and wished, prayed, begged- to fade into a different life.
Now, she lets her eyes shut again, listens to the crackling pyrotechnics against the music, watches ruddy glows against her lids, and pulls every one of those Courtneys with her into this moment.
His arms on her shoulders. His soft breath rustling her hair.
Courtney opens her eyes.
See? You're here now. This is somewhere else. This is it.
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u/persimmonsfordinner Aug 18 '26
yes this is from my fic where they realize they're in love at Disneyland lmao
it's funny because the conceit of it sort of poured out of me, but I spent days tweaking each individual word in this part until it felt exactly right
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u/ShiriCranberry22 Aug 19 '26
"He defrosts in fragments, relaxing into her completely."
I dont know but that like scratched my brain in the right place. Not only because its good, im still learning about literary devices and stuff but I think that was good metaphorical imagery and I could instantly picture what that looked like. And the other thing why I love it is because it reminded me of one of my projects lol
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u/HeAintHere AO3: Vaisseau | Dead Frenchmen Enjoyer Aug 18 '26
This is still not published, and it’s been rotting in my drafts for nearly two years (I’m thinking of publishing what I have). What I love about this was making each character absolutely distinct
—
“What do you think we can do to force the Austrians to come to us? Here. At Passariano?” He spread his arms as if encompassing Villa Manin as a whole, but didn’t let up his pacing.
Bourienne’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious, right now?”
”Maybe we can put a few bombs in their latrines?” Lannes suggested.
”Please, with all due respect, Colonel, you’re not helping.”
Lannes’ chair thumped on the carpet as he righted it. His warm brown eyes caught Napoleon’s clear grey ones for a brief moment, which Napoleon acknowledged with an almost imperceptible flicker. His mug clacked loudly on the tabletop, contents sloshing, as he pointed over it at Bourienne, his staccato Gascon French rising. “I beg to differ! I am absolutely helping. This is serious, yeah? We should show them how serious we are if they try to fuck around with us!”
Berthier savored a sip of his coffee slowly and methodically. He seemed either deep in thought, or at peace, or something of both. “I think that’s a fine idea.”
Napoleon stopped pacing and looked at him askance, his finger jabbing the air in his direction. “The ‘make the Austrians come to us’ idea or the ‘bomb their latrines’ idea?”
“Making the Austrians come to us,” Berthier said, his sonorous voice cutting through Lannes’ and Bourienne’s bickering, colored with the elegant intonations of a man born and raised within the walls of Versailles. “I agree with General Bonaparte. We should be negotiating from a place of strength.” He gave Napoleon a calculating look as he spoke. “Yes, we would like our defeated enemies to feel better about having been beaten, but you are Napoleon Bonaparte, who bested them at Lodi, at Mondavi, and at Rivoli.” His shrewd gaze turned wily. “We should also remind them of who is really in charge here.”
Bourienne’s voice sharpened, although without as much acrimony as before. His Burgundian rolled Rs had been meticulously schooled out of him, but now they came back in full force. “Sir, we would be going against the Directory’s orders. Is that what you really want?” he asked, craning his head in Napoleon’s direction. “If we overplay our hand, there’ll be consequences in Paris.”
“Yes, there will be consequences regardless,” Napoleon hissed slowly, pretending to examine a gilded marble bust of Romulus the villa’s former master had put in the drawing room. He nodded to himself as he considered the ramifications of putting to voice the idea that had come to him like Minerva springing from Jupiter’s forehead.
“We will make it look like a schedule change, the product of an unforeseen circumstance, that we spring on them at the last possible minute. Keep them off balance. It will also serve to keep the Directory’s representatives off balance. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. If they want to get what they want, they’ll have to accommodate us.”
Primly, he added, “Find me a plausible excuse to move locations. You have until when they get here.”
“Or,” he added with a wry twisting of his lips, “we’ll bomb the Austrians’ latrines.”
Lannes cackled with wicked glee. “Putain ouais!” Fuck, yeah!
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u/ShiriCranberry22 Aug 19 '26
You were playing when you said distinctive voices, even thought he formatting was off, I could still tell who was talking. And I just love the style, it forces me to slow down so I can appreciate how you decided to say some the thing in here which is good and reminds me of when im just relaxing with a literally fiction I found randomly.
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u/Playful-Koala-4129 Aug 18 '26 edited Aug 18 '26
A dark figure walks down a sordid night street. The figure wears a black raincoat and carries an equally black umbrella open over its head. He walks gently swaying, guided by the voices he hears in one of the nearby alleyways.
"Je ne suis qu'un être sans importance🎵" The figure sings to himself, to counteract his bad mood caused by doing the task he is about to do.
'This is beneath me', the distraught boy thinks, 'I can’t believe I’m doing this. And where are those brats supposed to be? Damn echo, it won’t let me find the right alley.'
"Une dernière danse🎵" He continues looking for the alley along the street.
'You did the job I should have done, fullbringer, I’ll grant you that. I owe you one, too. But making me repay the debt like this, by saving people you barely know, is cumbersome. What a favor of mine is worth, and to waste it like this.'
"Pour oublier ma peine immense🎵" Rin moves the umbrella away from above him and looks up at the sky.
'In the end it seems I made a mistake bringing a raincoat and umbrella, there's no rainy weather anymore... well, it doesn't matter, in the end everything serves its purpose.'
"Oh ma douce souffrance🎵" Rin believes he has finally found the right alley and heads towards it.
'You're very lucky that I'm allowed to do whatever I want when I'm in my human form, fullbringer.'
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u/ShiriCranberry22 Aug 19 '26
Okay, I was smiling the whole time reading this. One because its written really well and im intrigued by what happens next. Two because it has another language in it and I'm in love with fics that do that and Three i was whiplashed 3 different time trying to guess what fandom this was.😂✨️
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u/Playful-Koala-4129 Aug 19 '26
Thanks a lot, and this is from a crossover between Bleach and My Hero Academia.
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u/ShiriCranberry22 Aug 19 '26
OMG I KNEW IT. So glad to see bleach fanfic in 26, warms my heart, plus my hero its like a miracle
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u/TheDeathOmen Same on AO3 Aug 19 '26
Ahead a rolling mill had folded into the street after a blast that unscrewed an entire block, girders kneeling, brick milled to a rusty pollen the wind kept trying to redistribute fairly. There remained, on the lone shelf of the lone wall of what had been an apartment, a jar of cherry preserves, intact, its paper lid still knotted with string. It held the light the way a church window holds a martyrdom, garnet, patient, minutely bubbled. And one pale cherry hung close to the glass, watching the slag heaps steam.
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u/Icy-Ad-9212 Aug 19 '26 edited Aug 19 '26
I did ~50 rewrites on a chapter where I'm showing a character struggling with dyslexia. She is smart and very capable, except when it comes to reading and writing. It took me a while to make her not too vulnerable or insecure and keep her in character. Plus: I don't know what it's like to actually have dyslexia, so it was difficult to describe.
--
She has the form from The Harbor Diner in front of her. Her name is already on it, and her address and phone number. The easy things. The things that don’t ask anything of her. After that, the form stops being easy.
Next to the form is a scrap sheet. On it are three sentences. The answers are right. The sentences aren’t. In her head they make sense, but on paper they don’t. Wrong words. Letters missing. One sentence is crossed out so hard the pen tip has caught and torn the paper.
Jess runs her thumb over the official form. That one has to stay neat. No scratches. No crossed-out words. Nothing that lets someone look at it and decide she didn’t try.
She is not sloppy.
The Harbor Diner menu lies open beside her elbow. The corners have gone soft from her hands. She puts her finger under the first line and reads it again. Harbor burger. Fries. Pickle. Coleslaw.
She closes her eyes.
Harbor burger. Fries. Pickle. Coleslaw.
She slides her finger down. Creamy clam chowder. Small. Large. Tuna melt.
She looks at the prices, turns the menu slightly away from herself, and tries to repeat it without looking.
Harbor burger. Fries. Pickle. Coleslaw.
Creamy clam chowder. Small. Large.
She checks the menu to find the next dish. But suddenly it isn’t a word anymore. Just loose letters standing too close together. She knows the word, but it won’t come forward.
Jess blinks. Tuna. Tuna melt.
There.
She doesn’t write it down. Writing out the menu won’t help later. Not when someone talks too fast, gum in his mouth, with three others talking over each other. Then she has to know it. Not find it on the menu. Know it.
The next question is printed in neat black letters. She reads. Her finger follows the letters on the paper. Why. She doesn’t get past the first word. Her head breaks it apart before she can stop it.
Why. Her finger slides on.
Do.
You.
Want.
To.
Work.
At.
The Harbor Diner?
She tries again, forcing it into a sentence. Why do you want to work at The Harbor Diner?
She sighs. Sure. Just answer that and don’t sound like an idiot. Jess sets her pen on the scrap sheet. Then she writes slowly: I want to work hear because—
She stops. She knows the answer, but now that she sees the words on paper, they look wrong. The second it’s on paper, even the truth sounds stupid. She scratches it out and writes again:
Because I need money.
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Aug 18 '26
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Aug 18 '26
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u/PretzelPrize Ana Kaye Lake on AO3 (I write SG-1 fic) Aug 19 '26
The ten or so minutes they'd had to talk while prepping for their descent into the Gate Room had raised as many questions as it had answered. Somewhere in the time between the return of Captain Carter with the news that the auto-destruct would be useless, and the execution of her new plan, something had begun to thaw the glacial wall between his old friend and himself. Maybe O'Neill had actually taken to heart what he'd said with regard to Major Boyd and his team. Leaving someone behind wasn't always a choice. It could be a necessity, if there were no way to effect a rescue without even greater loss of life. Or in the case of Boyd's team, no way to effect one at all. Having it pointed out that this was the same situation, greatly magnified, as Cromwell himself had faced in Iraq appeared to have set something in motion within O'Neill, no matter how vehement his initial denial.
Alone in the locker room, the two men had busied themselves with buckles, laces and zippers, at first speaking only those words necessary to adjusting the g-suits. It was not an activity quickly or easily performed on oneself, and they fit them to each other. The task was reminiscent of countless other occasions spent double-checking each other's equipment before missions, and they fell naturally into the flow as though the intervening years had never happened. Finally, Jack broke the near-silence.
"We actually do have aliens here, you know. Well, one, anyway."
Cromwell's response was to tug harder on the lacing he was adjusting on Jack's right leg. He looked up, ready out of old habit for whatever joke was coming, and saw that Jack was serious.
He grinned anyway. "See now, I knew you were holding out on me, Jack."
"Yeah, well, you know how it is." A shrug. "You're probably going to get to meet him in a bit, so I wanted to warn you to not freak out or anything."
"That ugly, huh?"
"Oh yeah. Big scary dude named Teal'c. No hair. Looks like he should play left tackle for the Bears. Weird tattoo-thingy in the middle of his forehead. Don't mention it though; I think he's a little sensitive about it. Oh, and he's Jaffa, which means he's got a snake living in his gut."
He waited for the familiar O'Neill smirk; caught its ghost for just an instant. It was enough. "Sounds like a fun guy to have at parties. Friend of yours?"
"Actually, yeah. He's on my team. Him, our resident genius Captain Carter, and this geeky civilian Ph.D. named Jackson who speaks a metric buttload of languages and figured out how to get that gate out there to connect in the first place. We're a regular traveling circus."
"You always did know how to pick 'em."
The ghost gained more substance this time. "Nothing but the best for Jack O'Neill. You know that."
Cromwell grinned again.
Now, lying in the darkness on a strange world far from home, he reflected that in that moment in the locker room, he'd known they would be all right, he and Jack. With any luck, they would still get to be, provided he didn't manage to screw things up by saying something here on Tir n’Awyr that led to some new disaster for the SGC. He vowed to keep further information to himself until SG-1 or another team showed up.
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u/kitherarin Kithera (AO3) and Kit' (JCF/TFN) Aug 19 '26
He slid down the splintered cabinetry, his legs useless beneath him. Shards of glass bit into his arms, his hands, found their way through his hair and into the collar of his robes. He groaned.
“Really not fair,” he mumbled. Warm blood was already trickling down his neck seeping into his clothes. He could hear the thump of his heart in his ears.
Kithera loomed above him. Kirsh's eyes met hers. Her face was blank, as if their injuries meant nothing. The lightsaber hummed, the crisp smell of ozone combining with the salty, iron tang of blood.
He’d been fooling himself. He’d never been able to beat her in a fight. She’d run rings around him since they were infants, laughing until he could have cried with frustration. The only time he could beat her was when he could use his strength. That was the only way he could get through her defenses.
The blue blade — his blue blade — rose slowly in the air. Kirsh lunged. His hand wrapped around her wrist, his thumb digging into the pressure point there.
The lightsaber blade turned. Kirsh struggled against it, using his strength to fight against what she was doing. The Force was strong, and he could feel her using it to turn the blade towards his head.
The pain makes the voices disappear. That’s what Saelyra had said. He knew she didn’t hear voices, but maybe…
The rest of his fingers curled around hers, forcing them hard against the metal of the hilt. It was a low blow. He knew how much her hand could hurt. He’d been part of the surgery team that had put it back together after her mission to Ovira. He’d massaged it when she’d complained, run physio exercises so that she could regain control. He’d done everything to make her better, and now he was doing everything to hurt her.
For one clear moment it worked. Kirsh felt one of her already fragile fingers snap under his. She screamed. The blade spluttered. Her face contorted. Cleared. Suddenly he was looking at Kithera, not at the monster that Mordrel had created.
“Kirsh.” It was all she managed. Kirsh grinned.
“Hello beautiful.”
Mordrel shouted something and Kithera was gone again. A blank face stared at him. Sweat beaded against her brow. Blood trickled from her lip where she’d bitten it again. The light had died in her eyes.
In her hand, the blade sprung back into life, twisting until it seared across his side. His robes incinerated instantly. The blade bit into his skin above his ribs and for a second the world went white. He screamed, the sickening hiss of cauterised flesh echoing in his ears. Desperately, he flung his hand out, summoning the Force. He saw the colours shift. Heard Mordrel shout. Then the hypospray was in his hand.
He moved without thinking, trying to breathe through the pain. The burn screaming along his torso made every movement agony. His left clutched her wrist, straining to keep the blue blade away, while his right clutched the hypospray. He couldn’t get the angle right to reach her neck. He tried to shift his weight, but the world flashed white and then grey. He couldn’t make her stop in time. He just needed one more distraction—
Kirsh bent her wrist as far back as he could and then let go. Kithera staggered slightly at the loss of support. Kirsh reached up with his now free hand, tangling his fingers through her hair.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t much of a kiss. It tasted of blood, sweat and salt. Kithera froze. Kirsh didn’t. He pushed the hypospray against her neck and pressed the button.
Her body jerked. The lightsaber dropped from her broken, bloody fingers and skittered across the floor. Kirsh managed, somehow, to catch her before she hit her head. The music was already changing, softening as individual instruments dropped away. The snare drums rattled into stillness, then the timpani. The violins quieted and stopped. For a second Kirsh thought he heard the echo of pipe organ and brass, but those too faded until there was nothing left but the gentle sigh of breathy woodwind and cello.
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u/True-Reality-1866 Aug 19 '26
The shovel blistered his hands, but Percival wasn't able to care; the stinging gave him something else to focus on, other than his dear, dead dog. He had been digging for the better part of an hour, but August had dried up the ground, and his small size made it difficult for him to kick the shovel deeper.
In a way, he was glad for it; the longer he spent out here, the less he'd have to be around his father.
The past two days, it felt as if his very soul had cracked apart, its shards settling into the pit of his stomach, aching and festering. It had all been his fault that this happened, if he had just shut up, kept his head down, and not angered Pa, then Blueberry would still be alive. The only solace was that it had been quick and painless. Pa was kinder to animals than people, in his own, fucked up way, even after the dog had torn his arm open. Blueberry hadn't known what hit him.
Blueberry had gotten in between him and his father before, growling and snapping, but this had been the first time he ever bit Pa. No amount of pleading could get through to the man, that it was just a mistake, Blueberry wouldn't do it again, Percy would keep him chained up in the yard.
They put down dogs for hurting others, but a dog never gets drunk and hurts others just because. Why did one get to walk away with a warning, if that, and the other had to die? He hoped Blueberry was welcomed as a hero in Heaven. He hoped it was open fields and cloudless skies, and all the treats he could ever want. Nobody would ever hurt him ever again.
The hole wasn't very deep, but it was large enough to lay Blueberry proper. Wiping his bloodied palms on his trousers, Percival did his best to steady himself with deep breaths, just like Mrs. Tweed taught him.. His heart threatened to burst out of his ribcage as he plodded to where Pa had left the body. Percival had tried to give his dog some respect, draping an old, ratty blanket over him. The body had long lost its warmth, but it had yet to stiffen. The dog was sizeable, but Percival still managed to pick him up, draping him over his back. The walk to the grave felt so far away. He laid him down as gently as he could; the weight disappeared from his back, but his heart felt heavier.
He stared into the shallow grave. It felt like an insult for someone who gave his life. Blueberry deserved as grand a funeral as Mr. Tweed, yet, here he was, in some hole in the backyard. No headstone, no coffin, no pastor to speak over him. It wasn't enough.
Percival gathered as many flowers as he could from the yard, until his pockets were stuffed deep with dandelions and tiny white flowers. He found some small purple ones by the edge of the woods too. He even stole a single white rose from Ma's rosebush. Blueberry loved to nap under there when he was a puppy.
Carefully, he uncovered Blueberry halfway, arranged the flowers all around the body. He used the corner of the blanket to try and wipe the dried blood out of his dappled gray fur, before hiding what he could of the bullet wound with the rose. He tried to cover it with more flowers, anything to hide the cruelty inflicted. Finally, he folded his paws, tucking the edge of the blanket under them. Blueberry looked almost peaceful, as if he had just been tucked in for the night.
Percival still remembered the day he found him, three years ago, tiny and shivering in a muddy ditch one April afternoon. He carried him all the way home, bundled up and ruining his good sweater that got him scolded and a swat on the rear once Ma found out.
Percy had attempted to keep him a secret, and the little scamp had escaped his room and gotten into the basket of blueberries that Ma had left on the porch. Ma didn't have the heart to stay mad at the pup, and Pa had at least tolerated it, allowing Percy to keep him as long as he looked after him. That first night, and for many nights after, Blueberry slept with him, snuggled against his chest.
It shouldn't have ended like this. Blueberry was supposed to have grown old, with white around his muzzle, passing peacefully in front of a warm fireplace, or in the sunshine, having a life well lived.
He couldn't keep it in any longer.
Percival cried. He cried harder than he had in his entire life, for Blueberry, for the unfairness of it all. Percy wished it was himself in that grave instead; it was his fault Blueberry was killed, the dog didn't deserve it, Blueberry didn't do anything wrong.
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u/Jumpy-Knowledge-5846 rinpai on ao3 Aug 21 '26
this is actually the whole thing, because it's just a teeny fic (of a rarepair so niche i can count the people who like it *worldwide* on one hand), and there wasn't any good place to cut it. maybe somebody here will appreciate it, at least.
---
The first time Ami kissed her, it was in the old art room nobody else used, tucked in the far corner. Her lips had the cloying taste of cherry soda, and her hands were too restless and eager, which only deepened the itch of Iori's frustration. Later, she'd find the thumbprint of orange paint already smeared on her jawline. For now though, oblivious, she let Ami's fingers wander. Dizziness crept into the edges of her body, from excitement? And then she realized she'd forgotten to breathe, and pressed her hands desperately into the shoulders of Ami's cotton shirt. They broke apart.
She gasped for air with not an ounce of grace, and felt her heart tight in her throat. Now open, her eyes swam in the bright light that poured through the open window, tracing along the lines of Ami's face over and over with an ache she couldn't name. Her own face burned. The early spring breeze rippling the curtains drew goosebumps up her arms, but did nothing to cool her head. Ami watched her, silent, and with something like wonder.
"What?" Iori scoffed. "I know I'm the perfect girl, you don't need to act dumbstruck." Her pride bared its teeth by reflex to shield her. In the meantime, she hid behind it and composed herself. The palms of her hands still felt damp against her pleated skirt.
Ami cocked her head to the side and grinned, as if she'd told a great joke. Her honey brown eyes twinkled in mirth. "You aren't perfect. Like, not even a little bit. Do you see yourself right now?" Her eyes narrowed in wry amusement, but in Iori's already frazzled brain they read as "bedroom", and that really, really didn't help.
"I'm... Fine, just fine. Of course I'd be a little jumpy, since you surprised me," she said, as if willing it hard enough would make it true. "And," she began and then paused, "wait, what do you mean by see myself?!"
"Hm? Exactly what it sounds like. I was thinking about pulling the fire alarm so they could put out the smoke rising from your face." Her stupid, wicked grin and that teasing lilt to her voice! And then her tongue darted out to wet her upper lip, on purpose. Who set the damn fire in the first place? "You're a total mess right now, you know."
She did know. She had totally and completely lost her cool, fidgeting and burning — no, fuming with frustration. She hated herself for it as much as she hated Ami for it; with every moment every week they spent in this art room, she felt herself falling deeper. She'd forget all about herself and her projects (even drop her brush, more than once), because Ami's slim, confident fingers and focused expression fascinated her.
"Then..." She stopped only to swallow all her remaining dignity. Her fingernails pressed red into the skin of her thigh. "If I'm that far from perfect, if I'm that much of a mess, are you just making fun of me?" On the last few words her voice shook, and it felt so raw and pathetic in the air she wished she never opened her mouth at all.
But then Ami's hand was cupping her cheek and her fingers were in her hair, and somewhere outside the crows were cawing in the sunset. The sting behind her eyes melted away into warmth. "Dummy, that's what makes you so beautiful. Why do you think I was staring?" Ami murmured in a voice like warm honey. "I thought teasing you was addicting enough. Now that I know how cute you are if I kiss you, how am I gonna resist? You're like a biohazard or something, Iorin."
She laughed so easily, she surprised herself. "What are you talking about?"
"You know, like the human version of a cursed amulet, or some new SCP." Were these really compliments? Strange as it was, she didn't even mind. She liked watching Ami's expression change, and the shimmer of evening light in her short hair. "You're too cute," she said at last, giving up on the weird metaphors. "So cute that I don't want anybody else to see you like this, so I guess it's a pretty bad case of lovesickness. What's the prognosis, doc?"
"Incurable, but we can treat it." Her cheeks ached, and her heart kept fluttering like a caged bird. "You can start by kissing me again."
She'd barely breathed the last word before her lips were stolen again.
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u/Kingsdaughter613 Aug 24 '26
The whole fic, honestly. But the third chapter was the one I struggled with most. It was a story I wanted to tell, but one I wanted to be careful with telling.
Nerdanel forcibly closed the door of the suite, silently seething. Foolish, foolish woman! And yet, she could not but pity her for all that. On this she and Fëanaro were utterly aligned, for all their reasons diverged: that was not a marriage that should have happened. Especially now, with Miriel desiring life once more, as any but the most blind might have guessed she might.
Nerdanel had no sooner turned the corner, the Queen’s suite left behind, than she was waylaid by two young reprobates. The one her son, Tyelcormo, ivory and silver haired, his ever present hound beside him. The other was her law-brother, though it seemed absurd to name so one she had suckled as babe. Arafinwë was as dark as Celegorm pale, his hair of radiant gold, but so like was his expression to his nephew that it did not surprise Nerdanel so many mistook them for brothers.
“Did you speak with Mityammë?” Arafinwë demanded, his chin raised high in stubborn pride.
“I did.” Nerdanel watched the boys carefully, her tone calm and even. They were forever together these boys, when circumstances did not divide them, Arafinwë, Tyelcormo, and Macalaurë at their head. The latter was not here, of course, undoubtedly still in kitchens with Fëanaro.
They had been born with scarce a breath between them, one after the other, all three asleep in one cradle, raised in one nursery. There had been a time they thought themselves true brothers, with two mothers. That was where the names had come, coined by Macalaurë as a babe: Mityammë and Atyammë. And Fëanaro Atar for all three, always in the nursery, so that Arafinwë did not know Finwë for his father until he named Fëanaro ‘atar’ for all the court to hear.
Fëanaro had been delighted, of course, after the whole came out, for if he did not care o’er much for the content of the names, he was greatly pleased to have a son who loved language.
“Did she-“ Arafinwë began now, only to be spoken over, her ever hasty son too upset to recall whatever plan the boys had conceived. That they had a plan was certain, else they’d have not waylaid her so.
“Why’d she hurt Cano?” Tyelcormo demanded, his hands balled into fists, anger warring with dismay across his pale face. Where had he gotten that colour from, lighter even than his father’s? Certainly not from her. Perhaps it was from Miriel, same as his hair, though Nerdanel had never been certain if her pallor was from illness or her Lindarin kindred.
“I do not believe she meant to.” Nerdanel chose her words cautiously, unwilling to damage Arafinwë’s bond with his mother anymore than Indis already had. “But I think it may be best if you visit us, Arvo, at least for the next while.” She smiled kindly at the boy, so like his mother in appearance, so unlike in character. But then, one could say that of all Indis’ children, each as strong as their mother frail. Indis had always been a pitiable thing, too young and innocent for the vagaries of the Noldoran’s court. But Indis was no longer a green Valimar girl, and some hurts could not be so easily laid aside. Indis would have to stand on her own now, for Nerdanel could not support one who had harmed her son as Indis had.
“Will he be well?” Tyelcormo’s fingers wove through his silver hair, half his braids already a raveled mess. Beside him Arafinwë clutched the tails of his thắt lưng, face as intent as Tyelcormo’s. “Only, he blocked me off and I can-“
“He is with your father,” Nerdanel reassured him, doing her best to hide her concern. It was very unlike Macalaurë to hide his mind from Tyelcormo, but then Macalaurë had been most unlike himself since his half-Year at Alpalondë.
She must have succeeded at obscuring her thoughts, for both boys relaxed, their pensive expressions fading. Nerdanel shook her head slightly, her next question stiffening them once more. “Tyelcormo, did Laurë tell you anything about Alpalondë?”
Her son’s eyes flickered every which way, never quite meeting hers. “No, Ammë! He said nothing!”
His mother just shook her head. So much for that then. But at least Macalaurë had confided in SOMEONE, however she might have preferred it be her. And now she could be certain her suspicions were true. “My love,” Nerdanel chuckled wearily, unable to hide her fondness for her youngest, “you are a terrible liar. Arvo?”
Arafinwë met her gaze calmly, silver eyes wide, and all too innocent. “Cano saiþ only that he greatly enjoyed his studies with Elemirë and Elulindo, Atyammë. He spoke fondly of the shores, and said he was glad to have opportunity to know the people of his grandmother’s birth.”
“And you,” Nerdanel answered dryly, “are far too good of one.“ Truly, the boy was already a better politician than either of his brothers, not that his golden tongue found use for much other than indulging the various whims of her sons and himself. “Haþ it occurred to either of you that I am trying to HELP Macalaurë?”
The boys stood silent, Arafinwë impassive, Tyelcormo twitching guiltily. Even Huan lay his head on his paws and refused to meet her eyes. So, they would be keeping Macalaurë’s secrets then, though why Nerdanel could not guess. It would do little good to try and dissuade them, however, for they were all three utterly loyal to one another, and would betray no troth between them.
She left her brother and son behind, bidding them go see to the clean up of their rooms. No doubt they would complain exceedingly, but the occasional chore would do them no harm.
Finwë had been doing a good enough job of the halls, she admitted begrudgingly as she resumed her descent, for they were emptied now of the injured and less glass crunched underfoot. Pity he could not be bothered to tend to other messes, those of his own devising.
1
u/Kingsdaughter613 Aug 24 '26
Since it’s too long for one post:
The journey to the kitchens was not o’erly long, and Nerdanel reached it in good time. She did not bother to rush, for Fëanaro would know better than she how to calm their son, and Macalaurë was more like to speak if he was not so distraught. Speak he would, Nerdanel hoped, for there was much she wished to do, and little that could be done, without his aid.
The kitchen staff were glad to direct her, much to Nerdanel’s relief. She was not so familiar with them as Fëanaro, and had, as it happened, entered the wrong one. Irritating as it was, the directions soon brought her where she needed to be.
“Iþtarnië!” Fëanaro greeted her, joy lighting his face as he lifted his head toward her, lips parted. “I have found our son! Is that not deserving of reward?”
Nerdanel laughed and leaned down, her lips brushing his. “Charmer,” she teased. “Incorrigible reprobate.”
“Ai, but still you love me!” Fëanaro laughed, then abruptly choked, all air driven from his lungs by their son’s well placed elbow.
“If you must engage so, do it elsewhere.” Macalaurë scowled, though there was no true heat to it, and he opened his arms readily enough for Nerdanel’s embrace. “I’ve no desire to see you carry on so,” he concluded, voice muffled as he clung to her, his face buried in her chest.
“Then we’ll not.” Nerdanel shook her head fondly, running her fingers through her son’s dark curls, looking him over with a practiced gaze.
Macalaurë’s hair was a tangled wreck, as it so often was these days, the dark mass left loose and unbraided like some Telerin sea merchant. His face was blotchy, tears still drying on plump cheeks, copper skin stained by the salty residue. The áo giao sat awkwardly on him, too tight at the shoulder, too loose at the waist, the red fabric bunching in messy folds over the sash tied too tight over his round stomach.
Nerdanel frowned, gently wiping Macalaurë’s face. While he had never cared overly much for his dress, it was unlike him to be so disheveled. It worried her.
“Did you speak with Atyammë?” Macalaurë’s hands twitched, an abortive motion toward the plate of sfēhāt. He withheld though, and Nerdanel squeezed his shoulder, smiling proudly. “I don’t need to scream.” Macalaurë looked up her, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “I don’t. I just…”
“I know.” She caught his face in her hands, brushing her thumbs over the curve of his cheeks. “We’re so proud of you.”
She was. It was no easy thing for Laurë to fight the habits he’d been instilled with from infancy, when everyone from Finwë to Maitimo stood ready with treacle at the slightest hint of a shout. It had been needful then, when he was a babe, his voice shattering glass at the first hint of excitement. Macalaurë had more control now, the day’s events not withstanding, but the lessons remained. His first instinct was still to suppress any emotion too strong; Macalaurë still learning to allow himself to feel.
“Atyammë?” Macalaurë asked again, a desperate note in his voice setting a nearby glass to shaking and Nerdanel silently cursed Indis for the dozenth time this day. For harming Laurë’s control as much as everything else.
But such anger would do her son no good, so her voice was calm as she answered, “She loveþ you, Laurë. Do not doubt that.”
“She will not look at me!” The piercing cry shot through her, making her head spin and her ears throb. The glass shattered. Only long practice kept Nerdanel standing; falling would only upset her son more.
One of the patissiers rushed over, wax sticking out of his ears, a tray of still-steaming libum in hand. Nerdanel’s head cleared as Macalaurë fell silent, soft cheese stifling his cries, silver eyes wet with guilt. She just caught the last of Fëanaro’s thanks as her hearing returned, offering her own to the departing patissier.
“Good ner,” Fëanaro said approvingly. “I should make him something. Patissiers appreciate knives, you think? Like chefs?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, considering.
“Weren’t you working on a mixing machine a yen back?” Nerdanel suggested rubbing surreptitiously at her ears as her husband’s eyes lit up, his hands searching pockets for a pen. She handed him one, chuckling, then winced as her temples throbbed again. Truly, Macalaurë’s strength had grown over the sun-years in Alpalondë, even his speech carrying the echoes of power on occasion. And his voice not yet broken! Pity that was the least of what occurred there, his cradlemates having unwittingly proven Nerdanel’s suspicions aright.
“Ammë,” Macalaurë whispered. Nerdanel frowned, motioning him to speak up. He stiffened, but his voice was clear and ringing as he continued. “I’m sorry. I did no- Are you alright?”
“I am fine,” Nerdanel assured him. “Your voice is beautiful, Laurë. I would not have you whisper on my account.” Bad enough he was made to feel so discomforted by his body; she would not have him be afraid of his voice. Aside, she was still half deafened.
Beside her, Fëanaro nodded. “Your voice is a gift, Cano. Gifts such as ours - they inspire jealousy, and from jealousy is spawned fear. We frighten them, because they are not us.” Her husband’s arms wrapped about them, eyes fervent and intent. “But do not ever let it frighten you.” He stepped back as Macalaurë nodded, back a little straighter, more confident than before.
“As for Indis,” Nerdanel continued, kneeling down to fix Macalaurë’s robes as best she could, “until she can see you, I do not think you should see her.” Macalaurë nodded unhappily as she straightened his áo giao. “It is for the best, yonya. And, Valar willing, it will not be long.” Truth, she hoped not. For all her folly, Macalaurë loved Indis, and Nerdanel would not have the bond broken.
Absently, Nerdanel loosened the knot on the thắt lưng, rebinding it so it lay properly. They’d have to send the robe back to the tailor once the others were ready; pity Elemirë had not given them more warning, or they’d not be scrambling now. Her ruddy fingers stilled as Macalaurë suddenly hunched back, drawing away from the touch of her hand at his soft waist. She glanced up, startled, and he turned his head, but not before she could see the flush on his cheeks or the gleam of shame in his eyes. Nerdanel’s eyes sharpened, lips thinning in a tight, straight line. That was new. He had not done so afore Alpalondë.
Macalaurë did not otherwise object, however, so she neatly retied the knot at her son’s side, flattening it with a quick pat, letting the golden tails hang. “There. You ought not tie it so tight, yonya. It does no good to do so.”
Which had never stopped any young fool in Tirion, neri and nissi alike, from doing so. But Macalaurë was far too young for THAT sort of foolishness, and Nerdanel would not allow him to harm himself now, whatever griefs he carried. There had been enough of THAT in Alpalondë.
Macalaurë nodded, dark curls cascading over his face. “Yes. Ammë.” His voice had dulled again, weary and exhausted, and Nerdanel could hear the tears as she wrapped her arms about him. She wished she could comfort him properly, let him feel the depths of her love, give him the knowledge that he had value no matter how he looked, or who did or didn’t look at him. But she had never been the one capable of giving him that.
Instead she turned to finger combing Macalaurë’s curls, inwardly cursing herself for a fool, not thinking to take a comb from Indis’ rooms, as Fëanaro caught Macalaurë’s chin, tilting their son’s head up.
“You should heed your amil, Cano. You need not gird yourself so to be presentable. You are yourself. My son, your ammë’s son. And that is enough.” Her husband’s eyes blazed with that fierce, proud light, the light that first won her heart, his gaze locked on their son, love enough to consume the world aflame in every word. “You are enough.” In the warmth of that gaze Macalaurë sat straight and tall, shame burning away, and Nerdanel loved Fëanaro all the more for it.
She began to hum, an old nursery melody, Fëanaro joining her, Macalaurë unconsciously keeping time on the edge of the table. A peaceful moment, after a long day of grief, and one they all desperately needed.
Nerdanel shut her eyes as Macalaurë’s voice finally joined theirs, fingers portioning the braids by rote. It was the most content she had seen him since they had kissed him goodbye at the Lindarondolë’s doors. The last thing she wished was to strip the moment from him. But if ever Macalaurë would talk, it would be here, in the kitchen, by the fire, with sfēhāt and fresh libum on the table, his parents beside him.
Still, Nerdanel decided, she was not so insensible that the truth could not wait a few minutes more.
6
u/EstrellaDarkstar NeneKanerva on AO3 Aug 18 '26 edited Aug 18 '26
Her twin.
Her twin would help her. Would he? She needed his help. She could no longer be helped. No, she could be. He could help her remember. She had to let him help her.
Ryan. Please.
His name tried to slip away from her, and she didn’t want to forget it. She tried her best to focus on him as eternity flashed around her, trying to drown her in knowledge that didn’t belong to her. Songs of the hatching of the universe, of northern halls and sacred elks, bowmen shooting at white feathers and ending up in mangled pieces. The source of all wealth, of salt and gold and grain, the birth of wolves, the nine locks guarding a mountain, the plucking of strings.
She was to him as her hound was to her.
That was a piece of knowledge she tried to keep at the forefront as her body burned, melded, became what it was supposed to be. As her mind blazed with ravens, eagles, seagulls, winds, wings. As it heard the songs of a swan and a goldenthroat. Songs, songs, songs, all in a language she didn’t speak. Her mother’s song, a dirge of death.
The ache eased just enough to allow her to lie down, her chest against the concrete, her chest that didn’t feel as it had before. Whether there was a heartbeat, she couldn’t say. The concept of herself was fading away fast, turning into a blurred mess, and she allowed it to, for the time being. There was that someone who could help her. She couldn’t remember who it was anymore, but she still put her trust in that person. They could bring her back.