Unable to shut up

Patronus was invented by a transphobe.

Thank you for tagging me @winterbonesthings, @neeeeeeeeeklaus, @whateverthought, and @sharkboy305!

Tagging: @lady-of-imladris, @philtatosbuck, @crimsonlyinglilly, @frogs-are-bitchs, @freakazoidr17cr-5, @mariedemedicis, @samclownchester, @elena-mikaelson, @endless-natterings, and anyone else who wants to do this!

Originally I had fourteen and managed to get it down to eleven. You will have to be satisfied with that.

thank you @ffigwit @dancerinthestorm @kylobith @eilinelsghost for tagging me! I very much appreciate the love, I have just been criminally busy lately!

Finally had some time to myself today to work on a fic about Elendil I'm hoping to have done for Númenor Week. This fic is basically me answering the question: what if someone decided to climb that blessed-cursed-depressed old man like a tree? It takes place when Elendil is having a crisis in the aftermath of Anárion's death and summons a seer to tell his future. The seer in question is from the White Mountains and so has the seedlings of Dúnedain scepticism which Duinhir will be exhibiting at full force three thousand years later. She takes one look at the mental health disaster that is the High King of the Realms in Exile and is all: Well, the racial superiority rhetoric is clearly bullshit, the only special thing about him is that he wants to die so damn bad. I need to fuck him.

She was a brown creature. Brown-haired, brown-eyed, brown-skinned. Even her clothes were brown, although more of a russet shade. A brown cloth bound back her hair, red runes patterned along it with stars about its edges. Beads of amber glowed at her wrists and gleamed about her neck, one heavy drop of it, some insects trapped within it, hung between her breasts. He was momentarily tempted to attempt to work out what species exactly muddied the golden stone, but quickly looked away. She was slight, the faintest traces of a glare between her eyes and around her mouth as she craned her neck to look up at him. He had the impression that she resented him already and he had not even opened his mouth. "My lord," she said. "You have ordered a fortune-teller and I am here." Her Adûnaic was fluent but heavily accented. He wondered if she struggled to shed the accent of her birth or simply refused to. "I did," said Elendil, indicating for her to sit. "And I am glad that you have come." She did not sit. Instead she stared at him, neck still craned to look him in the eye. "You truly are monstrously large, do you know that?" Elendil wondered if that was a fault of the tongue, before seeing the gleam in her eyes and realising that the word was purposeful. Most Middle Men were awed by Númenórean height and beauty. Some, however, mostly in Harad, saw them as unnatural, an abomination, stretched and sanded to proportions unnatural to the human form. Elendil had spent his life looking down at people, but since Númenor's fall he found himself looking ever lower, faces tilted up in awe and wonder and distrust. He tried to gauge how old she was—that was another metric that he had had to get used to recalibrating upon his arrival in Middle Earth—and suspected, judging by the wrinkles on her forehead and about her mouth that she was in her forties. Old enough to have grandparents who remembered a time before Gondor's founding. "My ancestors would have been taller," he said, because he did not know what to say. She raised an eyebrow, whether in doubt or surprise, and said, "I did not think, with their long sight and powerful minds, that the Men of Westernesse would have need of a humble augur from the White Mountains." She was prodding him for weaknesses, he realised, working out exactly where she stood. "I have not my father's gift," Elendil admitted. "I see a little, but all is uncertain in this hour." He did not say that with every year the burden of Númenor's memory became heavier. The future, the minds of others, he could not reach them, blurred as they were beyond the ever-expanding darkness of his own mind. He wondered if it was death, or living death, senses blurred and mind leaden, dreams dark and twisted, half-remembered nightmares that left him uneasy and unrested in the morning. Bed was no longer a respite. Maybe you should ask her for a sleeping draught as well.

Thank you for the tags: @whoreallyevenknowsanyway, @lady-of-imladris, and @klelijahotp.

I am tagging: @theabditories, @whateverthought, @crimsonlyinglilly, @emmathefanficgal, @endless-natterings, @neeeeeeeeeklaus, and anyone else who wants to do this.

A snippet for the Henrik ending of WRTG. Spoilers under the cut for those who are interested.