Biweekly prompts for Realm of the Elderlings microfic, art, and other creative works! On a hiatus from prompt-making, but submissions are always accepted!!
Welcome to rote-microfic! This blog is dedicated to Realm of the Elderlings microfics.
I post a new one-word prompt every other week! You (yes, you!) submit microfics and other art inspired by the prompt!
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All submissions must feature characters, settings, or other aspects from the Realm of the Elderlings (crossovers, AUs are accepted)
Microfic, drabble, flash fic? The recommended word count is 100-200, but it's a recommendation only. Write 50, write 1000! As long as it addresses the prompt, it counts!
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That stupid bastard son of a stupid prince Fitz and his stupid magical Molly and his stupid fay Lord Golden and his stupid lovesick Fool.
I held my harp in my hands, ready to throw it across the room as I raged. A number of cups and bowls had seen my wrath already, and I knew in some silent cowering corner of my mind that this, this tantrum of mine was not going to help anything, that it hardly even felt good, but I could no more stop myself in my behavior than I could stop the men thatā
Like a fall into the ocean, all rage left my body, and I wound up clinging to my harp instead, a piece of driftwood in the dark crashing abyss that was myself.
I had tried so hard, over the years, to mend the broken bits of myself, with nails or glue or fraying pieces of rope, with always-conditional affection and the admiration of others. Sometimes I even convinced myself this pile of flotsam was a person. But it did not take much to reveal all to be a farce.
āMollyās, you stupid bitch. Always Mollyās.ā
Why was it that those words could take me apart?
They were pathetic, and I knew in the core of myself that they were a lie that he told himself much the same way I did: to bid up his broken mass of a being in the shape of a person. I had thought, early on, that maybe we could help each other, that over the years we could rebuild the other into something better, something a bit more stable. But all we had done had been to show one another where the most secret chinks in our armor were.
His Fool would understand, I thought. She and I had been friends for a little while, in the mountains. She had carved this harp for me, improving the pitch even after we had fought as bitterly as cats. Hers was another friendship I had thrown away in a misguided attempt to help. She had loved Fitz, that much was obvious, and I had become convinced that the only reason Fitz did not see it was because he thought the Fool to be a man.
And wasnāt a bit of honesty worthwhile in the name of the greater good? That Molly of his did not even know he lived, yet he hung all hopes of his future on the mother of his child who had left rather than tell him she was pregnant.
And I saw how he looked at his Fool. We all did.
But no. Fitz preferred to live his life of misery and lies, and I had lost the Foolās friendship in the bargain.
I felt most certain that she would understand my pain in this moment, my frustration. For, like me, she had competed for Fitzās affections with not Molly, but some idealized version of her in his head that he had conjured up. No real woman could win against the image a man held of his childhood sweetheart in his head.
But the Fool had flown with the Queen and I to Buckkeep, and thence I did not know where she had wound up. Somewhere far from Fitz, I decided jealously. For all that I was a minstrel, it was the toy maker who travelled the world and found the stories. My two crooked fingers had killed any notion of greatness.
And now the life I lived, the one Iād fought for and cobbled together and defended with the ferocity of a she-wolf? It too fell apart. My husband had eyes for another, and the Queen and Chade both preferred that idiot Fitz to my own company. Fitz needed only speak to them for me to wind up once more cast out with only my wits and what I could carry.
I wiped my soggy face and plucked the strings of the Foolās harp. It had been a broken thing from Moonseye, made beautiful by her knife and Skill-laden fingers. She would understand my struggle, I knew. If only she were here. If only I hadnāt pushed her away too.
For the @rote-microfic prompt āharp.ā 698 words.
For nearly two weeks, I waited for him in Prilkopās cave. He had promised to return, and Prilkop was readying supplies, and I needed desperately to heal for our return journey.
Had I angered him so desperately when I pried my Skill from his wrist, that he no longer wished to see me? Or had it been earlier, when I rejected his offer to join us as we went south?
Even exhausted as I was, I could not idle away the days as I waited for my body to mend. I wrote a poem, and Prilkop taught me the secret of imbuing to memory stone, though he was shocked when I revealed my silvered fingertips that made the work so much the easier.
I wanted to imbue the stone with a dozen memories, a hundred, so that even as the years grew long and Fitz grew old, he would still have these to comfort him. But the block was small, and there was room only for a few.
I selected carefully, choosing ones where we were at peace, ones he would know.
Once all was done, I slid my index finger over my little face. There was room, I sensed, for one more.
āI have never been wise,ā I murmured into the stone. A true statement, but also a promise. He would know what I meant, even if he wished never to see me again. I would hand them to Chade if Fitz refused to see me, though I doubted even my insolent catalyst would be so cruel as to refuse me.
I had not even said goodbye.
For @rote-microfic ās prompt, āmemory.ā 275 words.
Iāve decided to update the prompt schedule to every two weeks. Since Maddy and I are busy and behind, Iām switching to a more sustainable schedule. With that said, I have TWO REMINDERS:
Prompts donāt expire!
There is no submission limit!
So if you want to submit something for a prompt from months ago, please do! If you have three ideas for the same prompt, submit all of them!
Write a fic 100-200 words long (or make an art, moodboard, or other creative work), then post it to tumblr with its prompt and word count. Be sure to tag @rote-microfic!
Write a fic 100-200 words long (or make an art, moodboard, or other creative work), then post it to tumblr with its prompt and word count. Be sure to tag @rote-microfic!
fragments of lives (261 words) by ghostlywaters
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Realm of the Elderlings - Robin Hobb, Farseer Trilogy - Robin Hobb
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Burrich/Chivalry Farseer, Burrich & Chivalry Farseer
Characters: Burrich, Chivalry Farseer
Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, First Meetings, Drabble Collection, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Angst and Feels
Summary:
A collection of my microfics/drabbles written for the ROTE microfics prompts.
Write a fic 100-200 words long (or make an art, moodboard, or other creative work), then post it to tumblr with its prompt and word count. Be sure to tag @rote-microfic!
A microfic for the @rote-microfic prompt "enough" (770 words). Spoilers for RA. Crossposted on ao3.
Chivalry died, and Chade had done nothing.
āChivalry was an excellent rider! He wouldnāt have fallen off a horse!ā Chade argued with his brother, the king and Chivās father. Surely heād want to know.
Shrewd looked at him with reddened eyes. āWe all make mistakes, even Chivalry.ā He shook his head as though to clear it. āDesire sent some men to check. The horse had been behaving strangely that morning and Chiv had insisted on riding despite this.ā
Chadeās jaw clenched with words he could not say. He found a civil tongue. āSurely it would do no harm for me to check.ā
Shrewdās face went flat. āDo you doubt the Queen?ā
Chade had been trained to lie since he was a child. āOf course not, my king. It is onlyāā
āMy son is dead, Chade. Do not make it worse than it already is. He is dead and gone, and Desireās men confirmed the cause.ā The King turned away from his assassin, and Chade was dismissed.
Fitz had nearly been killed, and Chade had done nothing.
āThey are just boys. Of course theyāll fight.ā Shrewd waved away his bastard grandsonās injury as simple as that. A sour taste filled Chadeās mouth, and he could not help but wonder if Shrewd would behave the same way had Fitz been legitimate. If Regal werenāt the favorite.
His king was a husk of a man, but he was still his king.
The boy had not reacted well. Who would? A bastard, a kingās man, and a tool to be used. Chade had long since come to terms with his role, had found a sort of freedom in the cage heād been given, but the boy rattled the bars of his cage.
The boy wished to speak treason when Slink had been poisoned on Lady Thymeās meal, and Chade redirected his energy from aggression to protection.
And Chade hoped that would be enough.
Shrewd had died, and Chade had done little.
Chade had tried to arranged an escape, for the Queen-in-Waiting and his King, for the Fool and for the one who could best protect them. He worked from the shadows, with only Fitz and the Fool knowing the extent of what he had done to aid them.
But in the moment their escape would begin, the King refused. His brother, the one who had held Chadeās reins for decades, had died. Chade had been freed, and he had frozen.
The boy had too been freed, and he bucked and reared. He gave Chade orders, and Chade followed. He gave the boy the closest thing he had to elfbark, he took the Fool to Kettricken and ensured their escape, and he accepted that the boy would keep the Buckkeep guards distracted.
Chade should have known. Fitz had said it.Ā I did not kill him. I go to kill those who did.Ā He had heard, but he did not understand. There had been no one in the room: who would Fitz kill?
Yet Chade did not question his apprentice. He forgot that the boy was just a boy, and prone to impulsive actions.
The boy had paid for Chadeās mistake, and Chade had only his loyalty to hold him in check.
Loyalty to what?Ā The King he had devoted his life to was gone, and he was buried with as much haste as possible.Ā The Kingdom he had given up his life for was in the hands of a child determined to ruin it. The people he had sacrificed so much for did not even know who he was.
But his apprentice, his boy, his Fitz?
Had Chade not given enough?
He lived in the walls like a rat, freed only to kill. He gave advice that was not heard, and he could not speak of that which could be treason. What use was he?
Chade was scarred and old and tired.
He had given up enough.
He would not give up his boy.
He emerged from the castle, but not the darkness. He found the other man who raised his boy, and between them and a wolf, they came up with a plan.
They killed the boy so that he might live.
He would live, Chade told himself, as he held the lantern and Burrich dug up his grave.
He would live, Chade insisted to himself, as Burrich clutched the body, and the wolfās green eyes flashed with the light of his lantern.
He would live, Chade thought with satisfaction as they rubbed warmth back into the arms and legs that were lifeless but moments before.
Write a fic 100-200 words long (or make an art, moodboard, or other creative work), then post it to tumblr with its prompt and word count. Be sure to tag @rote-microfic!
This one is set somewhere in Assassin's Apprentice.
Morning cold air blew past my cheeks as I clenched my hands on the edge of the stone wall and lifted my head to scour the area for the Skillmaster who could not even take a jest from a fool! My ears rang like the bells from my new summer motley did every time they touched.
I took a breath. After Galen tired from stealing my juggling balls and throwing them at me, he must have tossed them somewhere in the Women's Garden.
Once I made certain the area was cleared and no servants' children had followed me from the hallways, I jumped over the wall and landed on my feet in spite of the throbbing ache in my forehead. The Women's Garden was empty except for a girl who was perhaps a year or so older than my Catalyst. Our gazes met and she did not become frightened or furious or ready to shout at me to leave. Nor did she grab a stone to throw at me. She smiled shyly, turning toward the daffodils and picking the weeds growing amongst them.
I glanced away, searching for the place where my juggling balls must have landed. They were, in the end, soaking in the pond, the red and blue ones a shade paler than the one I had painted them as. After I retrieved them, I passed by the garden girl who looked up at me with a welcoming smile. My King needed me but I could linger for a while.
I juggled for her and told her the story of the fisherman who thought that if he could catch one hundred fish in a day, the next one would be of gold.
She laughed and then I left the Women's Garden.
Later that evening, a bouquet of daffodils was at the base of the staircase to my tower room.
Iāve decided to update the prompt schedule to every two weeks. Since Maddy and I are busy and behind, Iām switching to a more sustainable schedule. With that said, I have TWO REMINDERS:
Prompts donāt expire!
There is no submission limit!
So if you want to submit something for a prompt from months ago, please do! If you have three ideas for the same prompt, submit all of them!
Write a fic 100-200 words long (or make an art, moodboard, or other creative work), then post it to tumblr with its prompt and word count. Be sure to tag @rote-microfic!
Write a fic 100-200 words long (or make an art, moodboard, or other creative work), then post it to tumblr with its prompt and word count. Be sure to tag @rote-microfic!
A microfic for the @rote-microfic prompt āflowerā (459 words). Spoilers for AA
It was beautiful the day Chade went to pick flowers.
He would become distracted every once in awhile, coming back to himself with his face turned to the sky, his eyes closed, just feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, the kiss of the breeze. Each time, he would shake himself free of it and turn his eyes toward the meadow.
He looked for dark green leaves, oval in shape, with bell-shaped flowers, purple at the opening and fading to greenish yellow at the base. He excised one plant, roots and all, and tucked it into his basket.
He looked for a shrub with silver-green leaves that were white and furry on the underside, with leaves that split into threes near the steam, to split again and again, terminating in rounded tips. The flowers were small bunches of yellow. He found one that still had a few buds and pulled it out of the ground. It joined the basket.
He went to the wetter part of the meadow, his eyes searching for different purple bells, for different partitioned leaves. The bells would be a deeper shade of purple and grow in clumps while the leaves had pointed tips. He squawked when he spotted it, and the sound startled him. He thought heād trained himself out of making sound without purpose, but perhaps he had spent too long in the sun. The meadow was far enough from civilization that, in the unlikely event someone saw him, they would think him an omen instead of a person. The Pocked Man was known to haunt these woods, after all.
Chade pulled this final plant up from the roots, and it too joined the basket. Belladonna, wormwood, and wolfsbane, all plants his apprentice would need to know from root to stem. It would be more educational if the boy joined him in these expeditions, but the boyās absence from his daytime duties would be noticed. Still, Chade would do his best to bring the meadow to the boy.
He turns back to the castle, his steps slow, and soon he had to pull up his scarf to cover the lower half of his face and his hood to hide the rest. Even so, he went on a hidden route back to the castle, avoiding the places people liked to walk and linger. He slipped between a gap in the guard patrols to make his way to the door to the castle, the only entrance he made use of anymore. It too was a secret.
He pressed the stone that granted him entry to the dark and dusty passage. He looked around once more at the bright sun and the blue sky in silent farewell. Then he went back into the dark.
Fitz's warm breath tickled my cold face and I wrinkled my nose at the wine scent that escaped from his lips. Fluttering my eyes open, I stared at how close he had come to me on the pallette, our hands intertwined in our sleep.
I heaved a sigh as I recalled what had happened last night: Jofron had brought me her grandmother's special wine recipe and left the cottage with "For you and your Catalyst. You didn't have time to celebrate your success yet, did you?"
"Thank you." That was all I could say to her without souring my smile with the weight of all the nightmares clawing at me every night. Jofron knew me well and I trusted that she wouldn't pry for answers regarding my sudden frail body or the way I would isolate from her for days on end. The journey to Buckkeep was long, endless even. Sometimes an impossible task. Fall had come on the way to Jhaampe and we had decided to spend our winter here as well. Travelling in my condition would be quite inconvenient and Fitz had insisted on me resting even more.
I glanced over at the empty wine glasses on the table, not looking at Fitz any longer, trying to escape the guilt eating away what was left of me, if anything I recognized at all. Shifting my focus toward the hearth, I noticed that the embers had no sparks. Then why was I so warm? It took me a moment before I realized that Fitz had given me his embroidered quilt. Was he trying to catch a cold while sparing me of my chills?
I drew in another breath, calming myself, and, without letting go of his hand, I pulled his quilt off me, gently covering him and hoping that his dreams were sweeter than mine had been.
for @rote-microfic prompt, flowers š· this is a draft of a scene from my withywoods au, in which fitz takes care of beloved after a nightmare, and here he's making him a cup of calming tea. post tawny man, but no major spoilers
I shut the door on my friend.
"Sir?" Revel called from behind me, and I turned out to find him in the small glow of the candle he held. Tavia and Mild were with him too, lingering on the stairs while Revel was above them on the landing. Anxious concern was written all over the faces and rendered them rooted to the spot, not knowing whether if to step closer or flee. I bitterly hoped the Fool's screaming hadn't woken up the rest of the estate.
"He's fine," I stepped away from the door, the sound of my feet, although bare, prominent in the fragile silence. "Just a nightmare. Please, go back to your beds."
With action being lifted from their wearied shoulders onto their lord's, the three broke from their spell, and fatigue crept to where alarm had kept it at bay. Revel shifted to hold his candle in both hands, and glanced at the Fool's locked door, but didn't say anything. As I stepped to the landing, Tavia ventured, "shall I make a cup of tea for Lord Chance, sir?"
"No, no, I will take care of it. Please, to your beds," I ushered them again. I longed to rush past them, but could not, and when the echoes of their footsteps vanished into the night within the mansion, I rushed the steps two at a time and crossed the hall into the kitchen.
Above the faded embers, a pot was quietly simmering, its faint steam rising to meet the hearthstones. A kettle rested on the workable, awaiting the morning tea. I filled it with an amount of chamomile and valerian I knew wouldn't be too bitter for the Fool's taste, and poured two ladleful of water the dried leaves. Like a tidal wave, the Fool's screaming had wiped all tiredness from my body, and left me with the sole purpose of caring for my friend. There was more I could do to ease him besides tea.
With nothing than my nightclothes, I stepped into the kitchen garden. The wind was gentle, but had the bite of winter, and the gathered clouds promised rain to come. I walked between the rows of raised garden beds of herbs and climbing vegetables until I reached the one I sought. Lavender, almost black against the night still standing tall despite the downpours it had endured. I snapped its stem, and suddenly recalled a different flower, in a very different room. The Fool's deadened eyes, then his sneer. The weight of him in my arms and I carried and deposited his body on the bed. My own words, pounding my mind like a war drum, so bitter I could choke on them. No amount of lavender could ever settle the memory of that tumultuous, ill-fated moment. It was a cataclysm, a shattering between us that I could not conceive of mending. But the Fool had let me. Like he had said, that moment would forever remain between us, but we could have many others. I had not given him flowers then; perhaps I could start now.
In the kitchen, I arranged a tray with the kettle, a cup of the tea already poured, and the lavender. I ascended the stairs again, and with a knock, slipped past the Fool's door.
