Oct 12, 2025
i think im funny
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i think im funny
They go to Lórien, for all that neither of them are hopeful. (Lórien, afterall, did not help Míriel.) But it is their son, and there is nothing they would not do for him. (They have never done well with inaction, and neither of them are given to giving up on something or someone they love easily.) They do not tell anyone, they can not bear to. They go and— Estë is sorrowful and gentle, even as she declares that their son's fëa is strong and his hröa unharmed, that he is far too young to feel any of the grief required to Fade, that there is no reason for this pain that has fallen upon them. “And yet—” her husband protests. ‘And yet,’ Estë acknowledges. “Do you not heal the weary?” Fëanáro demands, “do you not care for the hurt?” ‘He is not harmed,’ she tells them, ‘and this is a weariness I know not how to ease. I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do.’ Her husband looks as if carved from stone and fire as he whispers, deadly, “Just as there was nothing you could do for my mother?” Estë lowers her head in sorrow or shame or both, and does not answer.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A look at the General and Commanders of Green Company
(For @papookwrites for the windfall exchange!!)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"Of course," Neyo says, rolls his eyes and lounges in the corner as if it will hide the way he is digging his fingers firmly into his thighs, the tremors running through his body.
(or; Bacara returns.)
WIP Wednesday (because I'm tired and want to)
It is not a matter of wanting.
If it was up to Fëanáro he'd have so many children he would need to build a new house entirely to house them all. He loves children, and he'd love them so much it hurts to even think about it, those imaginary children he would cherish and adore. He wants more children, wants Nelyafinwë to have younger siblings, wants the sounds of elflings laughing and bickering and running around to fill the house until there isn't a moment of silence left. He wants it more than he can even say.
So no, it's not a matter of wanting, when he ignores Nerdanel’s hints and eventually her pleas for another child.
It’s simple really, the reason he keeps depriving the both of them of another child to love and raise.
It's this simple fact: of the two times there has been a child born when Fëanáro’s fëa is involved, both had ended with the other elf involved wanting nothing more than to Fade away, to stop living completely, to lay down and rest and never awaken. His mother, after bearing him, and his child, after being born.
He wants another child more than he can bear, he knows Nerdanel does too. But all Fëanáro can think about — when he tries to remember the joy that was molding a child's fëa, to imagine giving life to another child, when he tries to weigh if he even can for he can not picture that happiness first anymore, he can only think, hauntedly, if it will be worth it — is Nelyafinwë’s empty eyes and Ammë's empty hröa.
If he and Nerdanel have another child, and they end up the same way as Nelyafinwë, as his mother, then it will be proof positive, three for three, a one hundred percent ratio.
It will mean there is something wrong with him, it will be proof that Fëanáro is marred in some irredeemable way. Because once is a tragedy, twice is circumstance, but thrice? Thrice is correlation and causation both.
Thrice means that there is something about him that poisons them, that latches onto and drains and twists them. Something that kills them. As surely as if he had slain them himself.
And Fëanáro can not face that.
It is cowardice, plain and simple, but it is a cowardice born from necessity.
He can not face it, and so he ensures that he will never have to.
(If all problems could be mended so simply, he would still have a mother, would have full blooded siblings instead of mistakes, would have a son who did not want to fade.
But they are not, and he does not, and he does what he must in the face of that.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
He blinks, once to try and get rid of the sudden fuzz, and then again when it takes too long to go away.
And between one blink and the next, he’s somewhere he doesn’t think he’s meant to be.
(or; Lickit experiences his own brand of containment failure. Though he's gonna call it enrichment in the reports.)
“I want to work in Arkham,” is the first thing she says when he picks up the phone. “Why?” Bruce asks as she makes a cup of tea. “I wanna see what makes them tick,” she tells him. It’s been three years since Bruce dropped out of med school and fucked off on his world tour to find himself. They’ve kept in contact, as much as they can at least, which is admittedly still only once every blue moon. But Harleen is licensed now and she wants, desperately, to get inside some of the Arkham patients' heads and take them apart from the inside to understand how they work. “It’s dangerous,” Bruce warns her. And she laughs.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Kix is not bitter, he is enraged.
(or; Kix in the aftermath)