Confession: I once read a Dragonborn x Alduin fanfic. I thought I was going to laugh thinking how ridiculous it would be to read it, but I admit I was wrong, it was so well written that I can't look at Alduin the same way as I used to. But I did. more incredible is that I do not regret
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Had a dream this morning that Archive of our Own had a Random button which would simply take you to a random fanfic, like Wikipedia has. (AO3 does not appear to really have this, I checked and couldn't find one, but I kinda wish they did.) Someone had started a game where whatever fic you got, that was your new fandom, which is very fun! I would love this meme in real life.
The problem came in where so many people used the button that it broke and just started sending everyone to Stealing Harry, and like...I have fond memories of Stealing Harry but it's not my best work and nobody should be assigned to be a Harry Potter fan in this day and age.
So I decide to go off and find Astolat and demand she fix this but when I finally did (there was a whole quest) she turned to me like the baddie in a horror flick and said, "But that's the most random story there is" in a dark voice and I was terrified and woke up.
In the cold light of day I know there are more random stories by me on the archive, let alone by others, but I'm not going to try to get back there to argue my case. Pretty sure whatever I spoke to was actually the demon specifically assigned to plague fandom and not Astolat at all.
I'd say "get thee behind me, demon" but I know just how many porny fics on AO3 begin with that premise. (I've written some.) Begone foul spirit, and take your Satanic Panic with you!
Every time the Hero of Kvatch returns to Cloud Ruler Temple, he drops his heavy rucksack to Martinβs table, scattering the carefully-arrayed chaos of his research. He ought to be ready for it, ought to hear the slam of the carved doors and the slight hitch in the manβs gait, but the Xarxes holds him in thrall. Limbs locked, his skull a prison, his soul a wisp trapped in the veil between worlds.
The thud of the pack dropping to the table, the rustle of papers taking flight. Martinβs mind lurches back into the mundane, reeling from this rude alarm.
Before he can set about collecting his scattered notes, Tanis takes a staggering step back and collapses in a heap to the floor.
Martin bolts from his seat. But this is only a mummerβs scene; Tanisβs expression is serene as a dying saint. He clutches at his chest with one hand and reaches theatrically for the ceiling with the other. βYour booksβ¦ too heavyβ¦β he croaks.
Martin folds his arms, lets out a long exhale to still his hammering heart. βOf all the things you lug back here, I doubt a couple booksββ
βA couple!β Tanis springs up from the ground and sets to rifling through his pack. βA couple, he says.β
They pile up on the desk; eight, nine, ten, heβs lost count. Tanis scrambles to keep the ludicrous stack from toppling.
βI keep telling you, the list is only suggestions, you donβt have to hunt down every singleβ Mara preserve me, how much did all these cost?β
βSβmy gold, isnβt it? None of your concern.β Tanis sits across from him, jabbing an emphatic finger into the tabletop. βYouβve blown through every book in the temple, so I always get everything on the list, because I reckon you donβt read them, you eat them. Canβt have you starving.β He grins and jerks his head toward the east wing. βSpeaking of starving. You eat yet?β
Martin smiles. βIβll get bread started if you do the chopping.β
Tanis lolls his head back and groans. βI canβt take another step. Youβve got to carry me,β he says, and slumps against the table.
Martin rolls his eyes and plucks the top book from the stackβ a treatise on mysticism that might serve to pass time while the dough proofsβ and slings an arm around Tanisβs ribs, hauling him up from his seat.
One long arm a yoke around his shoulders; thick-soled boots scraping against the tile. Tanis drags on Martin just enough to be a nuisance, but not enough to send them both stumbling to the floor. βGods, youβre heavy,β he complains.
βJustβ just leave me, priest,β Tanis sighs, and sags further against him. βYouβve got to go on, for Tamrielβs sakeβ¦β
βCanβt you wait to go toward the light until after dinner?β
βReckon I could eat first, yeah.β Tanis points to the book tucked under Martinβs arm. βWhat are we doing with that one? Saute, boil?β
βBoiled books are tasteless. I thought weβd roast it, actually, and finish with a butter sauce.β
βOh, fuck, butter sauce,β Tanis whispers. βKeep talking about butter sauce. I can feel my will to live returning.β
βWell, weβve still got half a jar of preserved lemon, and thereβs rosemary and garlicβ¦β
βNei, nei, juli! My strength has come back to me.β Tanis straightens, relieving Martinβs shoulders of his weight, and crosses the remaining three feet toward the hearth. Itβs late, and the cookfire is low, but warm embers still glow in the heart of the drafty wing.
βYouβre a menace!β Martin laughs helplessly and looks up at the man beside him. A weathered, scar-seamed face in profile, fatigue settled in all its harsh hollowsβ but a gold tooth glints out from a crooked, boyish grin. Smug, having finally accomplished his goal of needling Martin into laughter.
Why should he fear Dagonβ he wonders as he mixes the flour, the barm, the saltwaterβ when a laugh is enough to chase his shadow away?
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