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 Martin’s 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 man’s 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. Martin’s 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 mummer’s scene; Tanis’s expression is serene as a dying saint. He clutches at his chest with one hand and reaches theatrically for the ceiling with the other. “Your books… too heavy…” he croaks.
Martin folds his arms, lets out a long exhale to still his hammering heart. “Of all the things you lug back here, I doubt a couple books—“
“A couple!” Tanis springs up from the ground and sets to rifling through his pack. “A couple, he says.”
They pile up on the desk; eight, nine, ten, he’s lost count. Tanis scrambles to keep the ludicrous stack from toppling.
“I keep telling you, the list is only suggestions, you don’t have to hunt down every single— Mara preserve me, how much did all these cost?”
“S’my gold, isn’t it? None of your concern.” Tanis sits across from him, jabbing an emphatic finger into the tabletop. “You’ve blown through every book in the temple, so I always get everything on the list, because I reckon you don’t read them, you eat them. Can’t have you starving.” He grins and jerks his head toward the east wing. “Speaking of starving. You eat yet?”
Martin smiles. “I’ll get bread started if you do the chopping.”
Tanis lolls his head back and groans. “I can’t take another step. You’ve got to carry me,” he says, and slumps against the table.
Martin rolls his eyes and plucks the top book from the stack— a treatise on mysticism that might serve to pass time while the dough proofs— and slings an arm around Tanis’s 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. “Gods, you’re heavy,” he complains.
“Just— just leave me, priest,” Tanis sighs, and sags further against him. “You’ve got to go on, for Tamriel’s sake…”
“Can’t you wait to go toward the light until after dinner?”
“Reckon I could eat first, yeah.” Tanis points to the book tucked under Martin’s arm. “What are we doing with that one? Saute, boil?”
“Boiled books are tasteless. I thought we’d roast it, actually, and finish with a butter sauce.”
“Oh, fuck, butter sauce,” Tanis whispers. “Keep talking about butter sauce. I can feel my will to live returning.”
“Well, we’ve still got half a jar of preserved lemon, and there’s rosemary and garlic…”
“Nei, nei, juli! My strength has come back to me.” Tanis straightens, relieving Martin’s shoulders of his weight, and crosses the remaining three feet toward the hearth. It’s late, and the cookfire is low, but warm embers still glow in the heart of the drafty wing.
“You’re a menace!” Martin laughs helplessly and looks up at the man beside him. A weathered, scar-seamed face in profile, fatigue settled in all its harsh hollows— 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 Dagon— he wonders as he mixes the flour, the barm, the saltwater— when a laugh is enough to chase his shadow away?
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