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sweetteaanddragons · 2 years

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Body-Swap AU

(This is a snippet from a potential AU where Scion of Somebody Probably!Gil-Galad wakes up in the body of Rings of Power!Gil-Galad. He has questions.)

His best guess for what had happened was some kind of head injury. A fall from his horse, maybe, that had knocked the past . . . who knew how many years . . . out of his head.

But if that was what had happened, he would have expected to have woken up surrounded by worried healers, Elrond almost certainly among them.

Instead, Gil-Galad had woken up alone in a room that was almost, but not quite, like his own.

For one thing, he had entirely different paperwork waiting for him than he had the day before. More of it, not less, more’s the pity.

His second guess was that he had unexpectedly developed foresight, and that Elrond had done an unexpectedly terrible job of describing the experience.

Also unlikely.

Which left the last and final guess, which was that Gil-Galad had been captured by some remnant of their Enemy, and this was all some kind of horrible trap.

If his first guess was correct, he really needed to tell someone what had happened.

If his third guess was correct, he needed to play along until he understood what was happening and how to stop it.

“My king?”

He looked up from examining the letters on his desk. He couldn’t find any from Numenor, which was concerning. “Yes?”

. . . He didn’t recognize the woman hesitating in the doorway in the slightest. Hopefully she was his assistant and not his wife.

Hopefully he wouldn’t have a wife that would insist on reminding him he was the king at all times.

She was also veiled, which was fine, but very much not the fashion in his last trustworthy memory.

Just how much memory had he lost?

Assuming, of course, he’d lost any at all.

“Have you an answer to Elrond’s request?”

Elrond, not Lord Elrond, so the two must be close.

. . . and that was the only clue he had. He was either going to have to confess everything or make this decision blind.

He had never in his life decided to confess everything, and this was Elrond; acceding to his requests would rarely lead him too far astray. “I have decided to grant it.”

She appeared slightly startled.

He hoped rather desperately that he hadn’t just approved a three year mission to go hunting down Maglor. If he was going to manage this juggernaut, he’d really rather have Elrond beside him.

“I will tell him to prepare for the meeting, then, my lord,” she said and curtseyed before exiting.

A meeting. Good. There was certainly no harm in allowing Elrond to go to a meeting.

. . . why had Elrond felt the need to apply for special permission to attend a meeting?

Or, well, good manners, probably. Elrond was good about those.

But why on Arda would anyone be surprised that he had approved said request? Gil-Galad was of the firm opinion that most meetings were improved by Elrond’s presence, since it ensured there was at least one sensible person among the lot, and he conducted his invitations to meetings accordingly.

There were a few issues it might be awkward to have Elrond present for - if, for instance, they were declaring war on Numenor - but he couldn’t imagine justifying the decision to exclude Elrond to anyone. If they were going to war with Numenor, Elrond was certainly going to want to have his say, and there were at least three major factions among the elves that would aggressively back his right to have it, and they’d be right to; awkward or not, Elrond was their leading expert on all things Numenor, and Gil-Galad would be a fool to disregard his advice.

Also, under no circumstances was Gil-Galad declaring war on Numenor. If they wanted war, they could very well go and declare it themselves.

. . . for once, his paperwork was actually looking appealing, considering that it was his best potential source for answers that wouldn’t judge him.

A dedicated search revealed that he was apparently planning to withdraw forces from the south, to host a feast tonight, and, for some reason, to get personally involved in the welfare of a tree.

He could still find absolutely nothing about Numenor, which at least meant they probably weren’t about to go to war with them but did raise some other concerning questions.

At the very bottom of the stack, he found an outline for a speech that was apparently meant to be given before the feasting tonight. Small notes to himself were scribbled in the margins. Unfortunately, the full speech was nowhere to be found, but he had done more with less before. A quick skim would -

He stopped.

Reread.

Reread a third time because surely he was misreading this.

Apparently, he was sending Galadriel back to Aman.

Given the tone of his notes to himself, this was despite the fact that she was not at all inclined to go.

That the Valar could have retracted their ban in the untold amount of time he had forgotten, he could believe; but this -

It had never been policy to send elves west against their will. Even if it had been, he certainly wouldn’t have tried it on Galadriel; he was king, certainly, but there was no power so absolute that you could afford to be monumentally stupid about it.

New theory: his future self had gone crazy, and the Valar had sent him into the future to prevent another kinslaying among the Noldor. They certainly hadn’t gone to such trouble before, but it was a new age. Maybe they were trying new things.

Alternatively, he really had been captured by some remnant of Enemy, and said remnant had a truly warped view of how Noldorin politics worked.

Which was almost reassuring, except in how very horrifyingly plausible it was. Why would a former servant of Morgoth’s know what it was like to live under a king of the elves who had to balance the competing claims of a half dozen fractious factions? Why wouldn’t such a servant think that casting out a political player who had been causing waves would be a perfectly plausible thing to do?

Right. So.

He’d almost certainly been captured. His captor almost certainly had no idea he knew this. The goal of this little game was unclear; maybe his captor was hoping Gil-Galad would reveal information, maybe he was just hoping to keep Gil-Galad trapped in a dream while he was being transported so that he wouldn’t fight.

Regardless, Gil-Galad’s duty was clear: find a way out.

And, in the meantime, give the performance of a lifetime.

#silmarillion #Rings of Power #Fic #gil-galad #body swap #to be clear #what's going on here really is a body swap of unknown origins #but gil-galad has no reason to conclude that #so he doesn't #yes this DOES mean ROP Gil-galad is in Scion 'verse #he gets caught much more quickly

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little-peril-stories · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023, Day 24: "I thought they were with you."

Whumptober 2023 Masterlist

Read at your own risk! They're only snippets of a larger story, with no resolution that will be posted online anytime soon; they are being posted out of order; and the characters don't have names. Enjoy!

Contents: angst, unknown fate of another character

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Word count: 880 || Approx reading time: 4 mins

"Watch out!"

Teaser: The plan, meticulously thought out: he would go to her, read the letter, give to her every carefully composed word.

“How will they tell my story? / How will they tell my tale?”

Chasing sleep proved to be a futile effort, and so the scholar passed the night at his desk, staining his skin as he had so many times before with ink—splatters and whorls of black sinking into his fingerprints and burrowing beneath his nails.

He didn’t mind the ink stains. He barely noticed them. It was no different, he told himself, from writing a thesis or preparing for an examination.

Except, of course, that it was different in every possible way, save for the scratch of his pen against the page.

As he rose from his chair when sunlight crept across the sky, he knew he’d neglected to sleep at all, and yet he didn’t feel tired. He did feel strange, though—dizzy, far away, distant from the walls and floors of the palace as he passed unsteadily through the halls like a half-drunk hooligan.

He clung to the letter he’d sunk deep into his pocket, wondering if the dampness on his palms would smudge the ink and imprint the words themselves right onto his skin.

The plan, meticulously thought out: he would go to her, read the letter, give to her every carefully composed word. He wouldn’t stumble or lose his place when he looked up and their eyes met. Well, he might. But he’d get through it. Brimming with courage, he would read it and tell her and then the truth would be between them, free for her to take or not as she wished.

He could do it. He wasn’t such a coward.

The rap of his knuckles against the door was the loudest thing he’d ever heard, rattling his bones and aching through his flesh. When it was answered, he asked to see her, stammering on the lyrical syllables of her name.

He recognized the girl who opened the door—one of her colleagues, a friend, a girl with cool, appraising eyes. They usually regarded him with little more than curiosity and vaguely confused acknowledgement that her friend might choose to while away her hours of freedom with a lanky, bespectacled former royal tutor who staggered through most social situations with the grace of a baby elephant.

Now, those cool eyes were puzzled, but it was a harsh, snappish confusion. “She’s not here.”

He glanced around, doubting his navigation abilities for an instant before his surroundings confirmed that he was in the correct place. “She’s gone out already?”

“I thought she was with you,” the girl said, her gaze hardening.

“What?” He frowned, prickles rising along his skin even though the morning sun was beating through the glass windowpane with vicious strength. “Why would she be with me?”

“She didn’t come back last night,” she said. “And since you were the one who spirited her away into the gardens for a…walk…” The scholar noticed then how stiff the girl held herself, how tightly she bit out every word. “We figured she was with you.”

Suspicion, he realized. Suspicion was what lurked within that glare.

“I didn’t spirit anyone anywhere,” he said. “I went back in and she was still…”

It struck him fully then—what he was saying and what her friend was saying, burrowing in like something sharp-toothed and ravenous, eating away at his skin.

“Wait,” he said, his thoughts spinning backwards, “she didn’t come back at all?”

The girl shook her head, swallowing as if it pained her.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Why don’t you know? You were the last one to see her.”

Last one…

“No,” he said, “I went back in—she wanted to stay outside—”

“So you left her alone?”

The sheer negligence of that choice, the stabbing realization of how abysmally he had erred in his judgment—they both clanged toward him, harsh and accusing and true.

“The gardens,” he said, “did anyone look—do you suppose she—I don’t—“ He backed away from the door. “I’ll look for her.”

“I’m coming with you,” her friend said, disappearing for a moment while she shouted back, “Don’t go anywhere!” When she reappeared, she was yanking a pair of shoes onto her feet.

But they had to hurry, he thought. “What if she…” If she was hurt? If a strange illness had befallen her after he walked away? “I just don’t understand.”

“Is there something you’re not saying?” her friend asked. “Was she sick last night? Upset? At y… About something?”

“No,” he said, trying to keep his voice from clipping too sharply. “She was watching the fireworks.”

“I can’t believe you just left her alone there,” the girl said. “What’s wrong with you?”

She’d insisted. She’d been fine. She’d been content.

“Are you telling the truth?”

He stumbled to a stop, just for an instant, as the earth shivered and shifted beneath him. “Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know,” her friend said. “I’m just asking.”

He banished her question from his mind. Perhaps there was more she wasn’t saying. It didn’t matter, not at the moment.

All that mattered: making it to the gardens—to the last place he saw the girl for whom he’d written the love letter in his pocket—and what they would find when they got there.

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#whumptober2023 #no.24 #goodbye note #neglect #“I thought they were with you.”#oc #original content #fic #angst #unknown fate of another character

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lunarhorrors · 1 year

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i just posted a fic that takes place during valentine’s day across the many sunshipduo universes. it’s called “heliotrope (eternal love)”.

go read it and lmk your thoughts! reblogs and kudos/comments appreciated!

#sunshipduo #aimsey #guqqie #area unknown #ausunshipduo #guqqie arg #rats smp #origins smp #argsunshipduo #rsunshipduo #ssunshipduo #csunshipduo #fic #wlw #sunshipduo fanart

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trappednyourheart · 10 months

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Yeah I...Have you guys ever thought about Jason having an partner in crime that is actually an ai?

Like Imagine he just puts an normal looking Headphones on his head but it's actually him listening to His Ai which he just Mysterious Got from one of his patrols fighting some few Robbers or People just fighting each other,but the Ai has a Female voice you can imagine maybe it sounds like a 18 year old or maybe in there mid thirties and it just gives you Information not even oracle can crack or Tim or anyone! And Jason calls the ai by the given name Todd gave ( Jazzy or Jazz- and it's not related to Jazz from Danny phantom it just starts with a letter J!)

Then the batfam is like ???? Who's Jason talking to or there suspecting A normal headphones with interested thoughts in there mind since Jason starts to be Abit calm and always listening on his headphones!

*Jason and Jazz partners in crime*

(Jazz is an original Object character that if you may not know is actually a sentient being from another planet- which will be Revealed if I continue this cause I might have made a lore about it)- (there not Jazz Fenton from Danny phantom!!! I just wanted to start there name with a letter J and jazz was the perfect name cause it's so simple/ there also Genderless )

(possible first fic name for this Summary(Is it Normal that My partner in crime is an AI)

#BATMAN #batfam #new writer #sentient Being #Jason todd #bruce wayne #Damian wayne #tim drake-wayne #Dick 'richard grayson #alfred pennyworth #we all love alfred #just some Idea i just thought after i just took interested of a fic where a chracter which ever fandom gets a Ai from unknown Origins-

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writergeek · 8 months

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Unknown Origins - 56. Path To Healing

The path to healing is going to look different for everyone, and they'll travel it at different speeds. After all, what is “healing,” but discovering a new state of normality?

~~~

It's not as easily fixed as that, of course. Bruce knows very well that for all his money, he can't just wish he could fix things, and… it happens. There's no magic wand like that, not in his life, and especially not here in Gotham.

Especially not here in Gotham.

If he wants to fix something, he has to work at it. He has to earn it. Part of that earning is that he has to wait until Dick falls asleep to do anything.

It doesn't take that long. Not really. Actually, it's… kind of hard to tell that he is sleeping, really. With the ventilator regulating Dick's breathing, he can't rely on the sound of the deeper breaths like he usually does to tell him Dick's falling asleep. The only thing he can really do is wait it out.

For the record, patience is not his strong suit. He might be able to wait for hours at stakeouts, but that’s planned waiting, when he has distractions. This… this is different.

This kind of waiting… this kind he hates.

He waits anyway.

....

Continue on Ao3 or read the whole thing from the beginning...

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squirrelwrangler · 1 year

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Ingwë of Cuiviéven, (9/?)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Look. yes. I know. hasn’t been a real update in years. Didn’t think it was four years. Pretend it’s only been one or two. Oh god please I’m sorry just pick it back up.

Some of the delay was because this wanted to be the short pre-Road Trip chapter and I worried that it won’t be enough without starting to include Oromë ferrying to boys to Valinor. Final scene of family angst means I could delay the Maiar fun times.

Primitive elvish names and terms still left mostly untranslated, but context clues should explain them. More world-building in my mode from Klingon-Promotion-Vanyar and young bucks of Cuiviénen.

...

The earth tremors ceased, and as the duration of their absence lengthened so grew the easing of the Kwendî’s tension and fear. Such mollification was not universal. Enel, chieftain of the Third Tribe, monitored the volume flow of the waterfall beside his village with lingering trepidation, for the quantity of water had diminished in the shakes, and the song of the waterfall had altered. Nervously he awoke and listened for its roar, irrationally fearful that if the cascading water was ever silent, then he that was The-Third-to-Awake would no longer wake. In those first seconds of life, opening his eyes to see the bright stars without knowing what he saw, only their beauty, Enel’s ears had not yet opened as his eyes had. But in the irrational yet deeply emotional center of his mind Enel thought that it was music, not starlight, that woke him. He could not prove this thought, but he believed that when the first drops of water poured into the lake the beautiful sound that was created was the cue that awoke the Kwendî. He wished not to hear of logic establishing that the waterfall flowed over the rocks beside his village in a time before he awoke, because to Enel all time before his existence was null. The song of water hitting the surface of the lake only started when his lungs took in breath, and the working of his lungs only persisted with that song. Waterfall and wakefulness were one and same to him that was The-Third-to-Awake.

Enelyë, his spouse, chastised her spouse for his paranoia, dragging him away from the stakes that he had driven into the muddy bank to measure the water depth and fret over each shift in the watermark and change in color. She told Enel that he saw nothing more than the progression of tides, ignoring the evidence of the receding shore. The Great Mother Lake was eternal. Enel must be wrong. The hammer blows of lightning had not dislodged the stars from the black sky. Thus it followed that none of the earth shakes had touched the water. The shells and beads of her netted cap rattled as she shook her head. Her hand on her spouse’s arm, tugging him from the riverbank, her own ankles sinking deeper into the mud, her voice pleading with Enel to return to their village and attend his duties as leader of the Third Tribe - all noise of Enelyë, all pointless. “Something eats my lake,” Enel muttered. “Something drains it. Enelyë, release me. I must see it. See the proof. You must see it, too. My waterfall.”

Daunted by the ineffectiveness of her efforts to erode the stubborn stone that was her spouse, Enelyë returned to their village and her cold pillow.

Enel stood at that waterfall when the Vala Oromë rode out of the northern shadows atop the luminous silver Nahar. A piercing horn blast heralded Oromë’s arrival, so Enel was not startled when the rider pulled out of the mist. He did not care. The call faded into the darkness beyond Enel’s torch lamp, and silence hung over their meeting. Enel’s wide umber eyes met those of the Vala, unconsciously begging for reassurance but wary of what new missive might upend his world. Before the unseen war to capture Melkor Enel would have treated the arrival of Oromë with glad hope, most eager of the first awoken three to celebrate the Vala’s arrival and aid, but now after the earth tremors and lightning-filled skies he was chary of the Rider’s gifts. His trust had receded with the shoreline. Enel did not yet directly blame Oromë for all the ills that would follow, cursing the Valar along with their apostate Melkor, as they who would name themselves the Penni did. Those were the words of the Unwilling and the first division of the Eldar, a time that had not yet come to pass.

Nahar’s footsteps slowed, the horse reluctant to approach the waterfall, as if he sensed the doubt and coldness of Enel’s thoughts. “I know of your fears,” Oromë called above the roar of the water and the mist that hung above its churning wake, “and I bring a proposal that shall soothe it.”

Oromë’s proposal irrefutably did not.

...

Of the grave conference between Oromë and the first three elves: Imin, Tata, and Enel, little is known and details unspoken. Only Oromë’s words were recorded, his offer of the Valar’s own homeland to the elves, that the Children of Eru should relocate across the vast sea and be enriched by their protection and gifts, greatest of all being the light of the Two Trees. The reluctance of the three chieftains is known and their reasoning easy to guess at. The shores of Cuiviénen, the Great Mother Lake, was all of the world that they knew, and Oromë’s words alone would not cleave them from the site of their birth. The war against Melkor to lay Utumno to its foundations had fostered dread in all Powers that were not the familiar Hunter and his shining horse. Oromë anticipated their reluctance. “Let me choose three to bring with me to Valinor, one from each of your tribe, to see the truth of my words and return to you with their validity, as I myself tarried among you to learn your ways before I returned to my king and kin.”

It is said that Imin nodded first, and that Tata tapped his lips and agreed, and that Enel turned away to look at the waters behind them before he turned back to Oromë and said, “We know the three that you wish to take with you, the three boys that found you.”

“It is fitting,” said Tata, and Imin looked, it is said, to the stars above them as if seeing solace or sign.

“Those three I wish as the ambassadors,” Oromë replied. “They were the first to speak to me and speak on behalf of all Speakers, to inform me of your woes brought upon you by Melkor, of your lives and joys and sorrows, your needs and dreams. Let them speak again in the Maharaxë before the full council of my peers and let them see and hear of what we offer up to the Children of Our Father. They are the three that I choose.”

“Who else but them?” murmured the first leaders of the elves.

...

After their discussion with Oromë, each of the three elves mounted a horse and rode towards a village, leaving in one direction whereas they had rode in from three. To the village that Rúmil founded did Tata ride, and Finwë greeted the news of his task with loquacious delight. Praise flowed like a torrent from his lips, and Tata applauded himself for his wisdom. This orphan boy with his mountain of words and ingratiating attitude was the perfect choice to send to Valinor and bring back accountings of its land. Rúmil and the other Unbegotten adults of their village watched as clever Finwë charmed Chief Tata, nervous that the clever lad would tip the scales into an unctuousness of obvious falsity or his clever tongue edge into an offense. The villagers piled gifts onto their chieftain: beautiful items of metal and ceramic and salt. With loaded bags to weigh down his horse, Tata rode home, head full of new words and Finwë’s eager promises.

Further west at the village at the river’s mouth Enel beheld tall Elwë appoint his brothers as stewards to watch over their people, officially bequeathing their parents’ hut to Elmo. “I know we promised a telu celebration to build you and Linkwînen a new house in which to welcome your firstborn child, but if I am to leave to this land of the Balî, there is no time, and our parents’ house has space,” Elwë said as he clasped his youngest brother’s shoulder.

“I will help,” Olwë added with laughter in his voice to mask his fear. “And sleep in the house of Nôwê when the infant’s cries drive me to tears.” Olwë smiled at his brother, and Elwë rolled his eyes and pointed his knowing gaze to Nôwê’s comely sister. The teasing interplay between the three brothers amused Enel. The-Third-to-Awake regretted that his own son had no siblings, thinking that Nurwë would be strengthened by the support of a brother or sister. The shift in Enel’s mood -and the return of her husband’s attention to her- pleased Enelyë. Of this thought’s naivety one should not be quick to judge, for the third generation of Kwendî were yet unborn and dynastic struggles between siblings and cousins likewise nascent. And the sorrows that this began among the Nelyar Avari, grave as they were, paled to those of other tribes.

Only to his own village did Imin return, the sprawling singular Minyar home ringed by a mighty palisade and pasture pens full of horses and sheep. His son, Inkundû, was not at the gates to greet him and turn the horse loose in a pasture. His son’s absence neither surprised nor consciously aggrieved Imin, and Inkundû was found, as expected, in the cleared circle of the dueling ring, wrestling with Asmalô over leadership of the next hunt. A minor squabble, the bout lasted only to the first ground pin, and Imin watched his firstborn win the match. Inkundû failed to notice his father’s observation, preoccupied with crowing victory as Asmalô rolled his eyes and grumbled a final time about herds moving away from depleted grazing fields. Nor did the chieftain stay to congratulate his son. The dueling ring was a sour reminder of the one that never partook in the rituals. Imin asked if the young man that would be Ingwë was inside the palisade or once more roaming the darkness far from his people. “Skarwô-iondo, where is he?”

Feinting an ignorance of the peevish tone of Imin’s question, Elnaira bowed to her chieftain and answered, “Inside, as he has been since before the Nelya messenger came for you.” Imin turned to the approaching Iminyë and sighed in relief as his wife looped her arms through his and led him deep into the village. He poured his concerns over the meeting into her waiting ear.

“The scarred ones’ son is with Elnaira’s spouse, dutifully helping him butcher and dress meat. I decreed that we roast a sheep to celebrate your return. And if Great Arâmê graces us, a lamb we shall roast.” Iminyë smiled as she walked her husband to the large campfire prepared with grilling racks and beyond to where several elves knelt over animal carcasses with various stone knives. Two elves who were butchering a young sheep carcass, carefully separating the ribs into beautiful racks, lifted their heads at Imin and Iminyë’s approach, but it was the third elf still focused on the least-desirable offal that Imin wanted. “Skarnâ-Maktê’s son, attend us.”

Ingwë raised his head.

“Great Arâmê made a request for you and your friends. End this task and hear what you have been commanded to do,” spake Iminyë.

With blood-dried fingertips the young man answered Iminyë, “If the Great Hunter calls for me, I obey.”

Imin’s eyes narrowed. There was an insult buried in those words that he could not see, but Iminyë smiled. Imin trusted his spouse. Her judgment was his.

Judgment was not foresight.

Imin and Iminyë believed that there would be no danger to himself or his position as the chieftain paramount of all Kwendî in sending this boy to the abode of the Valar.

One person who slept in the finest house in the Minyar village was still doubtful. Inkundû returned from a disappointing hunt to learn the specifics of his father’s meeting with Oromë and the other two chieftains. He sulked through the feast repurposed into a farewell gift for the chosen ambassador. Imin’s son listened with growing alarm as his mother, already appraised of the details, saw no need to listen to a tale repeated and commentary made upon it, more concerned with the final food preparation. Iminyë’s displeasure with her son’s recent failures was subtle, but of its two most recent causes which had more weight was unclear: that his judgment on the hunting trip resulted in little quarry to show for the expenditures or that Inkundû had not been ready to greet his father at the village gate. Inkundû regularly disappointed Iminyë. This Imin knew and accepted, as he knew and accepted Inkundû’s jealous and untrusting moods. To his father alone did Imin’s son make his displeasure known.

“If to be sent as scouts to the homeland of the Powers is a task of great trust and honor, then why do we send Ûkwendô? Father, why not me?” Inkundû petulantly asked.

Imin framed the choice as one that the three leaders had come to independently of Oromë, and perhaps in Imin’s mind he had refashioned the decision as a debate that he had won, such that was his pride. Inkundû would have still protested Oromë’s decision had he known the truth of who made it. He would have argued that Imin should counter Oromë’s decree, as Imin had once done to a poor decision of Tata’s or his reprimands to Enel about the various Nelyar that ran free, like wandering Denweg or Awaskjapatô who lived out on rafts on the lake. Imin’s role was to rule over all elves, even fellow chieftains, and curtail their blunders.

Again the twinge of dissatisfaction with his first-born child bobbed to the surface of Imin’s thoughts before sinking once more, like one of the giant salamanders that swam in the lake.

“Ûkwendô can be spared, and if mortal doom befalls him, our tribe is not greatly harmed by his loss.” Disposable, like the Noldo orphan, the chieftain did not say aloud. Or that the third one, the Nelyar young chieftain, had two capable brothers as suitable replacements. Great Imin frowned. “I have decided that the scarred ones’ child has proven himself useful and able to fulfill responsibilities to his tribe that he has neglected. This is my test of the gift of my trust, as it is also a test of the Powers and if Their promises can be believed or honored.”

“And what if the Powers speak the truth of how wondrous their Paradise is? Do we believe then that Ûkwendô will return to us?”

Imin turned to stare across the village to where Maktâmê struggled to adjust the infant daughter strapped across her chest, shifting Indis’s head so that the small infant could nurse with ease. “He will return for his sister, even if the sullen boy has no sense of duty towards his tribe.” Inkundû scoffed at this evaluation of Ingwë’s motivation, how unbalanced the scales were if the home of the gods was half as glorious as promised. His younger sister, Ravennë, watched her father and older brother in keen, frownful silence.

...

With a leather satchel packed tightly with freshly smoked mutton, Ingwë waved a greeting to his two best friends outside the palisade of the Minyar village. To the west, under the dark shadows of the encroaching trees, Nahar shone brilliantly white. Oromë waited.

The travel kits of Elwë and Finwë were many parts: reed woven mats slung as rolled knapsacks across the hip, heavy bags full of tools, blankets, and food, belts hanging with more items like the fine pouches for flint and dried moss to quickly tinder a fire, and in their finest clothing. Everything spoke of their villages’ collective efforts to outfit these favored sons with the wherewithal to face every imagined possible disaster and a hope to impress the Valar. Finwë in particular carried the illusion that he had half his weight in borrowed beads and copper jewelry. Elwë’s hat shimmered with the iridescence of bird feathers, and this was not the only garment of his that played opalescent in the village light.

The Minyar dressed not their Ûkwendô in fancy garments. As a hunting party scout, he was given dried food and a filled water skin to carry him on the long trek. The only addition to his normal appearance was a line of ritual paint across his heart and outlining his jaw.

Before he joined his friends, Ingwë turned back around. His mother, standing a few feet away from the others at the gate, knew that her son would need this final farewell. Dried paint flaked off of her one good hand as she raised it for a gesture to beckon him towards the patiently waiting Oromë.

Strong hands caught those fingers and lowered them.

Stuttering, aware of the eyes of the First Tribe upon them, Maktâmê repeated the instructions that she had given her son before the feast started and Imin had dropped his world-shattering proclamation.

Ingwë gripped his mother’s shoulders and pulled her close to him, foreheads touching as he pleaded for the final time. “If I don’t return- if you cannot stay, Mother, if you cannot stay in the village,” and the young man could not articulate which dire outcome he feared as more likely, that his tribe force his family out by a formalized banishment or merely through the absence of communal aid or via the internal grief of his absence driving his mother to despair, “then you go to Rûmilo. You go to the Tatyar. The journey is quick. Is safe. You take the goods that I left for you, the knives, you trade. Phinwê left some pottery in your name. They will help, the Tatyar. And if you cannot settle in their village, go only as far as the river. The next village is Elwê’s. It is the closest. The braided river to the shore, the lights are easy to find, reflecting off the water. His brothers lead their village. Kind boys. Promise me, Mother. You take Indis to them. Do not stay in this place.” Years of negligence and cruelty from his people forced Ingwë’s whispered words in a cornered snake’s desperate hiss. “Go to them. Elmo’s spouse is gravid; soon their first child will be born. A new mother will welcome you and Indis. Someone to help nurse, if nothing else. They have food to share, a place at their fire. Please, promise me.”

Crying, Maktâmê kissed her son’s brow. “Stop. This fear, do not carry it with you to the land of the gods. We shall be safe, your sister and I. We are provided for. Go with hope, my son. With joy and excitement. Explore this new land that they have promised with the same wonder that filled your father and I when we first stepped away from the lake-shore. The beautiful light when we first saw the stars.” Her voice shook. “When Imin lit fire and gave us all warmth and light. The Powers promise greater than that. Go. See if it is true.” A thumb smoothed away the deep creases of his brow. The dried paint did not leave a mark. “Look forward, as a brave scout of our people. As Alakô’s son, fleet-footed light and sure, Star-beacon. A torch is for the unknown path before us. So look forward.”

Ingwë closed his eyes and willed his heart to steady and slow its rhythm. “I promise.”

#my fic #silm fic #ingwë #of ingwë ingwerion #young bucks of Cuivienen #imin #indis #high queen ravennë #vanyar aren't boring #I finally gave enel and enelyë screentime #they were very neglected #if you're wondering the Nelyar Avari get into some dynastic political shenanigans worthy of HotD #some direct callback to the second chapter #Ingwë's original name was this unspoken (unknown) secret for the longest time and it might finally have an answer #Inkundu is an asshole i love him as an author

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i-was-bored-so-this-happened · 11 months

Text

Second Star Chapter Twelve: The Mechanic

Fandom: The Mandalorian Wordcount: 3.4k Warnings: None

In need of repairs, the Razor Crest struggles towards Tatooine while Okan tries to nap. She, Mando and the child meet Peli Motto upon landing in Mos Eisley

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The Razor Crest is struggling more than usual on its short journey to Tatooine. The rattling normally reserved for light-jumps takes hold of the ship on a few seemingly random occasions, sending the passengers careening into walls. On one such occasion Mando had to lurch forward and grab hold of Okan before she fell down into the hull, seizing the hood of her cloak. He’d made a point of fitting a new control pad in her room once all of the bounties had been offloaded in the hopes that she’d spend more time in there, but it’s only half worked. She’s been studying the datapad again today. When she finds a word she doesn’t know - having admitted that reading Basic is far more difficult than speaking it - she pulls Mando away from his charts and repairs to sound the word out to her until she understands, the same way she’d asked him to spell for her when she and the child had been painting. Those walls haven’t been cleaned yet, though the colour has faded and begun to flake off. Okan’s saving that task for a slow day so she can bring the child into it. Not because he would make it easier, he wouldn’t, but so he would get used to water.

When Tatooine comes into sight, Mando lets the ship click into autopilot so he can find Okan. He’s learned that she’s good at holding grudges, and she gets really annoyed if she doesn’t get to see a planet before they land on it, but when he does find her she’s curled up on her bunk watching the child play with the wooden toys she’d brought from Arvala.

“How soon before we land?” Okan asks quietly, knowing what he’s come to tell her. She doesn’t move except to prop her chin on a fist so she can see Mando better when he answers,

“Just over an hour.” a wooden ball rolls towards him and he knocks it with his boot, hitting it harder than he’d intended and sending it bouncing into the back wall of the room. The child tumbles after it regardless.

“Will you wake me when we get there? I’m tired, and he hasn’t napped yet,” here she indicates the child even though she doesn’t really need to. The helmet tips, the questioning tip, “I know what Tatooine looks like from here. I know where I’m going.” Mando nods and she smiles. Small smile, tired. He crouches to catch the child as he runs to show him the ball he’s retrieved, collecting a handful of toys as he lifts the baby. “When we land…you’re going to let me out, right?”

“You’re not a bounty, Okan,” Mando reminds her. Okan shrugs, or he thinks she does, it’s hard to tell with the way she’s sitting, “Yes. Yes, you can leave the ship. But don’t draw attention to yourself.” He waits until she nods, showing that she understands, before he leaves.

Okan does not get her hour’s rest. She gets about fifteen minutes of lying still, wrapped in blankets, until the ship shudders. Something hot has hit a wing, she can feel it in her stomach. Another bolt of heat passes by the ship, a third, similar to the feeling of the walker firing on the farm on Sorgan. As each bolt passes it pulls a line down the side of Okan’s body. She has to keep her hands on the walls of the corridor as she makes her way to the cockpit, freezing in the doorway when the ship lurches to one side.

“Why the fuck are we being fired at?” she demands. The ship leans the other way and she grabs hold of a chair, falling into it more than sitting and pulling the belt across herself.

“We can be tracked when we travel sublight.” Mando’s not surprised she’s there. He must have heard her falling over in the corridor. Okan twists in her chair as though she’s going to see their attacker, and finds the child tightly strapped in his own carrier with his hands in the air.

“Imperial?”

“Imps wouldn’t risk hurting the kid, it’s another hunter.”

“What can I do?”

“Sit.”

The ship lurches again and Okan braces a hand against the nearest free space on the wall next to her, the other reaching back for the child’s pram.

“Why are we moving around so much?” she asks.

“Ask again later.” Mando answers. He’s never directly told her to shut up, but she knows when she’s being told to be quiet. A bolt passes the ship. The second one doesn’t, sinking into the back end of the Razor Crest. An echo of the warmth blooms at the base of Okan’s spine.

“Hit.”

“I know.”

Hand over the child, Mando- A voice over the comm system. Their attacker is linked to them. Can he hear them too? Both of his next bolts land. Okan squeaks. Sparks fly through the cockpit. An alarm blares and the walls pulse red -I might let you live. Another hit. Okan’s back prickles. The ship is rattling more than ever, shaking violently when the next bolt hits. On one of Mando’s screens there’s a diagram of the ship, an engine now outlined in red instead of white. Okan leans further and further to the side until she can actually reach the child, letting him grasp a finger with his hand and moving her pinkie over the crease where his ears meet the rest of his head. He’s not enjoying this any more than she is, not now it seems to be going wrong.

“Mando-”

“I know! Hold on!” They get this warning no more than a second before Mando yanks two levers all the way back, making the ship roll, roll, all the way round. Okan yelps, losing contact with the seat for a brief moment before she thuds back into it as the ship gets back to right-way-up. She can feel the heat of each individual bolt as it passes, sees them reflected, doubled, in the child’s eyes and Mando’s helmet. Everything is red.

I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold. Dead or alive, that’s what that means. Mando’s an exception to the usual rule: he’s more valuable dead, unable to fight for his armour. It’s blood they want from the child and Okan, she thinks, and they won’t chance wasting a drop of that. There’s a quick barrage of shots, the Razor Crest’s injured engine sputtering.

“Mando!”

“Hold on!” Mando shouts.

“No, I think I’ll fling myself out the window!” Okan shouts back. Levers are shoved forward, Mando practically lifting off his seat to put more effort into it. The ship skids to a stop, the straps of the seat catching Okan and pulling a short, sharp gasp that takes all her breath from her. The other pilot doesn’t have the same reaction times, his ship continuing to rocket forward, clipping the Razor Crest in an attempt to swerve up and away. The Razor Crest is knocked a little off-course, and Mando allows himself a moment to right the ship before he takes aim,

“That’s my line.”

He fires. A direct hit. The attacking ship explodes, a mimic of it spreading from Okan’s spine through her stomach. The Razor Crest just sort of…floats forward rather than really flying, listing while Mando quite calmly regains control over his ship.

“You just had to get that one-liner in, huh?” Okan asks, out of breath. Mando shrugs. The child gurgles before pushing Okan’s finger into his mouth, “Hey, sprout, no chewin’ fingers.” She pulls her hand away and wipes it on her cloak, but doesn’t quite dare to undo her belt yet. There are too many alarms blaring, red lights still swirling around the cockpit. The ship continues to list, turning away from the planet just a little. Underlining the alarms are the clicking sounds of switches and buttons. The ship is out of Mando’s control.

“Losing fuel.”

“Do we have enough to get to Tatooine?”

“Maybe.”

“We can work with that,” Okan nods, “just throw the baby out at the last second, he’ll land somewhere in the Dune Sea,” the damaged engine sputters once more, and then dies. Everything dies, all the alarms stopping at once, the ship fading to grey as the lights switch off. Mando tries a couple buttons. A lever. It doesn’t do anything, “Ah. Shit.”

“Okan, there’s a switch to your left, the one with the hazard tape on it.” She leans to the side, scrabbling along the wall to find the right funny-shaped bump.

“Got it.”

“Flip it.”

“Excellent, the eject button.” Okan drawls before she flips the switch. The red lights flicker back on. After a few more buttons and switches, Mando manages to get his displays back on and some of the regular lights before he tries to start the engine again. It works, and he shifts the Razor Crest back on course. The helmet twists in Okan’s direction, though Mando waits until she’s done yawning to speak,

“You get quippy when you think I’m going to get you killed.” He tells her. Okan’s eyebrows settle into a heavy line he doesn’t see very often, only when she’s trying to demonstrate to the child that she’s not very keen on what he’s just done.

“We’ll be okay to get to the planet?” she asks, her tone flatter than usual.

“Yeah, we’ll be okay.” Mando answers. He turns back around to check his charts while Okan rises from her chair and pulls the child from the carries in his peripheral.

“Okay. Let’s try nap. You’ve got to be tired, bud.” The cockpit door slides open, delayed due to being on emergency power, and Okan drops through the hole in the floor. She’s not going back to her room, but deciding to wriggle into the cubby. Her nose wrinkles when she lands in the hull despite the child’s giggle at his favourite activity - jumping. She can smell the leaking fuel through the metal walls. It’s not particularly pleasant. The cubby had been sealed so the smell hasn’t gotten through the little door yet. Okan settles the child in his little hammock and crawls in underneath him, hitting the door button with her foot once she’s in. The smell of fuel is blocked out by the door, replaced by a mix of other scents. Faint remnants of smoke, from the Sorgan blanket Okan had accidentally burned then taken with her when they’d left. She had pulled a pillow into the cubby last week, not wanting to waste a valuable blanket as a cushion, and it still smells of her own hair. Mando doesn’t take his armour off for his sleeps in here, as far as she knows. He leaves odd smears of grease, the smell of polish and rubber. It’s better than fuel. Okan finds her bandana in her pocket and ties it around her head to shield her eyes from the light in the hopes that darkness will help her fall asleep. The child coos, confused, and she can picture him leaning over the edge of the hammock. He won’t fall, Mando had tied it so he couldn’t tip it all the way over. Okan clears her throat and the baby chortles to himself quietly, knowing what comes next,

“Once upon a time, a long time ago…”

***

When Okan wakes, her mouth is dry despite its being closed. Dusty, even. A warm breeze lifts the edge of her bandana from her nose, tickling it. The cubby door is open. She pulls the cloth away from her eyes to temporarily cover her mouth as she sits up, reaching up with one hand to find the child. He’s not there.

“Mando?” Okan scoots towards the open end of the cubby. No reply. The child is gone, the cubby is open. More than that, the hull door is open, letting in light a little too bright for Okan’s tired eyes. Her feet reach the floor, retract at the gritty sensation of it, and then push into the flat metal. Sand underfoot. She knows this sand. She never thought she’d be back on Tatooine again. Never expected to make it off Tatooine in the first place. They’d landed and Mando hadn’t woken her up. She calls to him again, but doesn’t get an answer. The child hasn’t made a sound. Why is the door open? Rubbing the sole of her foot on her leg to get rid of some of the sand, Okan moves towards the ladder and climbs partway up it, just far enough to reach the gun of Mando’s she doesn’t know the name for, the one that disintegrates things. She’s managed to train him into hooking it on the wall so the baby can’t reach it. She decides to keep her bandana on, covering the lower half of her face.

Tatooine is so bright. She’d forgotten that, the full effect of the twin suns hitting the moment she steps off the ship door. Sand, finer than the more gravelly stuff from Arvala, her feet sinking a centimetre or so into it. There are small metal scraps scattered in the sand, she can feel the pinpoints of heat. It’s a cluttered environment, full of hot metal baking in the sun. A wall, encircling the ship. A hangar. They’ve landed in a hangar. For ship repairs. A mechanic. Mando could be talking to the mechanic. Okan doesn’t let herself say anything yet, keeping her movements slow. Tatooine is hotter than Arvala-7, she needs to adjust, especially after travel and being cooped up in the ship. The air is dry and dusty and it smells of hot rocks, without the tantalising dampness of the Arvalan ravines or sharpness of blurrg dung.

A voice. Not Mando’s, but speaking Basic. Beeping, droids. Gurgling, the baby. Reintroducing herself to the way sand shifts underfoot, Okan moves a little faster towards the sounds, going sideways in the hopes of remaining unseen for longer. Pit droids sit around a makeshift table, old rusty pit droids but pit droids. Manageable droids. A single humanoid sits with their back to Okan. They’re relatively small, and a chunk of their height is made up by tightly curled hair that almost-but-not-quite blends into their jumpsuit. The mechanic, it must be. Not working on the ship. Having lunch? There are bowls on the little table. Why not send the droids to work on the ship then? They all seem to be watching the mechanic eat. What kind of humanoid must they be, lifting their spoon not to where a mouth would be on a human but where the stomach is. A gurgle. The mechanic isn’t missing their mouth. They’re feeding the child. Okan raises the gun as though to hit the humanoid over the head with the butt of it, not trusting herself to try and use it properly.

“Give me the baby.” Either Okan’s managed to retain her stealth abilities or the mechanic wasn’t paying attention, because they jolt so hard they almost fall out of their chair, yelping aloud at the same time. The mechanic stands and turns to her, standing with a twisted stance as though to protect the child.

“And who are you? What are you doing in my hangar?” the human, for she looks like a regular human, demands. Two pit droids jump up from their own chairs. The third turtles, tucking its entire body into its headpiece.

“I work for the Mandalorian. I look after the child.” Okan answers.

“Oh. Okay,” the human relaxes as though Okan is an old friend, letting her see the child, who gurgles again at seeing Okan and reaches out to her, “Well, put down that disruptor-rifle before you vaporise us all, alright? You can have the kid.”

Okan steps forward, past the mechanic, to put the gun down on the table, pointing an accusatory finger at a droid who eyes it. The child manages to grasp hold of her cloak as she moves, and the mechanic gives him up. Okan lifts the child to her eyeline,

“Hi. Hi, hi. Okay, sprout?” He doesn’t seem distressed. Once he’s pulled down Okan’s bandana, sufficiently patted her face and baby-talked her through the events of the last while, he’s even wriggling to try and get down.

“He…he’s not the Mando’s then? Or yours?” the mechanic asks. Okan shakes her head, smiling goofily at the child to keep him at ease. “Guess I’m not going to get my babysitting surcharge…” she mutters to one of her droids. It shrugs, squeaking as it moves.

“He couldn’t afford you.” Okan says. This is the mechanic that’s going to work on the ship. Mando’s spoken to her. He’d left Okan and the child asleep in her hangar. She must be alright. She seems alright to Okan. Smart, and quick with it. A glance at the table shows Okan a game of cards with scrap as wagers instead of credits. The mechanic is gambling with droids. She’s Tatooine.

“Tell me about it. Five hundred Imperial credits he tried to pay for all a’ that with,” the mechanic gestures vaguely towards the Razor Crest, “Said he was goin’ to get a job. Wasn’t sure if I believed him, but now I’ve seen you guys…he’s got extra mouths to feed and a wage to pay out. I reckon he’ll find the credits.”

“He’ll get a job,” Okan assures her, shifting the child to a hip rather than letting him loose so she can free a gloved hand to shake the mechanic’s, “Okan. The minder.”

“Peli. Mechanic.” She’s wearing gloves too, but the kind with the fingers cut off. Her handshake squeezes once, quickly, and then she lets go, which is just fine with Okan.

“I figured. We’re in Mos Eisley, right?”

“Yeah. Hangar Three-Five.”

“Good.”

“Never heard that before,” Peli cracks a grin, folds her arm and wanders towards the Razor Crest. Okan moves with her, deciding to let the child down. The pit droids creak after them until Peli turns to mouth something at them. She fixes her beaming smile back on Okan when she asks, “You’ve never been to Tatooine, huh? It’s not as great as you’ve been told, I’ll be honest with you.”

“I used to live here.” Okan replies. She’s not really sure if she ever sounded like she was from Tatooine, but this woman does,

“In Mos Eisley?”

“Mos Pelgo.”

“Now, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. Thought that place had been buried under the Sea decades ago.”

“Not quite,” This is nice. A conversation. Okan catches sight of the child, “Ha’be, no, that’s not for eating!” He frowns at the piece of trash he’s found, gives it a tentative bite, and then decides Okan was right and drops it.

“He was real upset when he woke up and the Mando wasn’t here. Thought he’d been left alone, figured I’d look after him.”

“You’d put me out of a job.” Okan reciprocates the crooked grin, remembering how tight-fisted and hard-headed Tatooine people can be. Clever, too. She’d take every pocket from Mando’s pocket if she could, but she’d find a reason to come into ownership of every coin. “He’s been having nightmares,” she adds, gesturing towards the child, who moves back towards them when he notices Okan waving, “Thank you for taking care of him. He likes people.”

“Sure does, came right to me when he waddled outta that ship. He trusts easy, dontcha, bright eyes?” Peli crouches to pat him on the head, and the child coos.

“Yeah, we…we’re working on that.” Okan rubs the side of her nose. Peli’s words are a reminder of how badly this interaction could have gone. The child could have run to a hunter, to an Imp, a slave trader, an exotic pet merchant, any number of enemies looking to exploit and make quick credits. But Mando wouldn’t have left them asleep if it wasn’t safe. She has to trust that. Thinking of him she looks back to the Razor Crest. To her untrained eye, it’s hard to tell exactly what’s wrong with it, but the free-flowing fuel from broken pipes and black marks on the wings are a pretty good hint, “Uh, about the ship…how is it?”

“I can fix it, if that’s what you’re askin’. It’ll take time, the mando won’t let my droids near it.”

“Can I help?”

“Know anything about ships?”

“No.”

“You can try,” Peli concedes before shrugging, “If you make it worse I just get to charge him for extra repairs.”

#second star #star wars #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian oc #okanthe unknown #rae's ocs #baby yoda #grogu #mando #original character #rae's writing

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