On all levels except physical, i am a wizard

thank you for tagging @hobbitwrangler !!! excited to see more of Miryeman!!

I am working on chapter three of brightest star, would I were stedfast as thou (detective Celebrian) which is, as usual, really fun. this chapter has an intense focus on Cel's own emotions surrounding the assassination attempt, as well as how she feels about settling into Valinor with this looming over her head. below, she's visiting Lorien and encounters her own strange dreams in the waters there.

The skin of her ankle turns a righteous cold, and slowly her foot within her slipper follows. She stands in a puddle, half a pace from where Lorien ends–the silver trees gather around her and their flowering buds seem to caress her nape, little white pupils peering down at her with sorrowful eyes that almost seem to understand. We see, they say from their small budding mouths–their leaves are slick like apples, and their limbs are long; lithe like the group ahead of her. We see. We know. We see.  When she looks down, for her slipper is wet and her foot is cold, the puddle she is in is no puddle at all; but a grand expanse of infinity. The pond seems to go on and on, so far she can no longer see the end of her leg, it is just distance and in the distance, she has lost a portion of herself. Though she feels it, she feels it keenly, cold and wet, cold and wet. Until–the chill is vivid suddenly and the distance turns its face to hers and leans in.  There is Fëanor, and there is wine at his lips. There is a fox at his feet, it laps the wine that has puddled there, from its white mouth comes a pink tongue, like when a root pops from the ground, and it drinks until its teeth are red. Then, it smiles; but Celebrían can see its fox teeth are not fox at all, the fox has the smile of a human child, half-there and half-not, and stained with joy. But Feanor’s hands are upon its scruff, and his smile is like that of a fox’s. When he moves, so does the fox–until he is as a puppet, moved when the one holding the strings so wishes.  It is a strange dream, and the lips of the white buds tickle her neck. Swiftly, Celebrían pulls her foot from the puddle and closes back into the group, seeking comfort in their fathomable oddity. 

Thank you for the tag, @hobbitwrangler! Have a sneak peak of an exchange between Isilmë and the Witch-king that I wrote last night in which she reveals her identity as Eärnur's betrothed and the Witch-king reacts Accordingly (this happens in a much later chapter but whatever)

She swallowed around a lump in her throat. “Well, there was one last betrothal arranged a year before the siege.” Although she expected it, his messenger was perfectly in place to check her king despite her castling, her pawns, and all her careful planning. It was over in a heartbeat. She clenched her hands in her skirts, stifling a frustrated scream that had been building in her chest since the game began. Victorious, the Witch-king leaned back in his chair and regarded her with amusement, his eyes glinting beneath the shadows of his hood. “Indeed? How tragic that thy city fell before thou and he could be wed, happily-ever-after.” “The prince will come for me,” Isilmë said. She hoped that she sounded more confident than she was and hated the way her words wobbled. The Witch-king was silent as if in sudden doubt or anger. When he did speak, her blood turned to ice at the rage in his voice. “The prince? Dost thou mean that thou were to wed Eärnur, son of Anárion?” “I am afraid so. Sorry to disappoint you. After all, princesses are such a basic choice of prisoner and always cause more trouble than they are worth. Her betrothed might come riding in at any minute on a white horse, his armour shining, to throw down the tower and slay the sorcerer holding her hostage. What a shame.” He thought for a moment, then hissed, deep and low and sinister. “The prince could not break the siege with the strength of his father’s armies nor the might of his sword-arm. How then dost thou expect thy beloved to breach the walls now when I have won the city and keep thee in my hand? I would break him.” “His heart is true and bold,” Isilmë replied. She lifted her chin. “No man in Gondor can equal his skill in combat, and I doubt that there is a warrior in the North, East, or South of Middle-earth who could best him in a duel.” "I can tell thee truly that he ran from me on the field of battle with his tail between his legs," the Witch-king said. He laughed in malicious amusement. "Thy prince is no braver than a cowardly dog! He is unworthy of his throne and undeserving of thy love. What hast thou to say to that?” “You are a liar." Isilmë remembered Silmahtar telling her about the last battle against Angmar and Eärnur’s confrontation with the Witch-king. She did not remember him mentioning the prince fleeing; only that his horse had been frightened and he could not control it as it carried him away from the field. Perhaps he had been mistaken or had embellished Eärnur's bravery to impress a foolish starry-eyed girl. However, she would not trust a word the enemy spoke since he sought only to tarnish Eärnur, and that enraged her beyond all fear. “The horse was to blame, not the prince! I am sure that Eärnur would have stood his ground and fought otherwise. It is truly a shame, for his triumph over you would have been glorious.” “He would have lost even if his horse had not thrown him,” he replied venomously, “for no mortal man may defeat me.” 

Thank you @hobbitwrangler for tagging me! I am SO close on chapter 12 of my super (book) canon compliant Houses of Healing Farawyn gap-filler, I brought the sun and stars, I can taste it! I plan to send draft 2 to my beta today and it should be on AO3 pretty soon. We're getting into some heavy stuff now, and this chapter has been difficult to write. It's also difficult to know what to share without giving away anything critical that I'd like y'all to experience in situ, but here is a little snippet that I am especially proud of. Here is Éowyn deciding to tell Faramir about Gríma:

He looked at her now with that same quiet patience. He was waiting for her to make her choice; he would not make it for her. She considered what she might say. In truth, she had never spoken to anyone of what had happened with Gríma, not in its totality. She had mentioned, in passing, to her brother and cousin and at times her closest handmaid, that Gríma intimidated her. She told them that he made her uncomfortable, that he leered at her like a gold object that one might covet in a market stall. But always she had used metaphors and vague language to describe her discomfort. She had recalled her feelings in a dispassionate, removed way; the way one might tell of an event that had happened to someone else. Éowyn had always told herself that it was better if she kept the details of these experiences to herself; that she she should not burden Éomer, that she should not share the fullness of her terror to avoid being dismissed as overly dramatic. But, in truth, she did not want to speak of these experiences because she did not want to give them substance. If anyone else knew the truth, then what happened to her would be real. But if she buried the memories within herself, she retained full control over them, and she hoped that one day she might compel them to disappear entirely.  But now, beneath Faramir’s sharp-eyed gaze, she could not deny that this plan had failed. She took a deep breath. Speak plainly, he had said. He would not coax the words out of her; he would not beg her for the truth. He would wait for her to say what she would. “I am sorry, lord, for misleading you,” she began, tremulously. “It’s just that I did not think that anyone would understand the truth.” “I will do my best,” said Faramir gravely. Éowyn swallowed and nodded. Somehow, she trusted him.

Thanks to @hobbitwrangler for the tag and the lovely look at your Miryeman! ♥️ Here is a bit from The Way is Shut, the Baldor and Aldor entry in my House of Eorl ficlet project. They’re (canonical) grandsons of Eorl and princes of the Mark.

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Even so, Baldor has no illusions that the men celebrating in front of him will seek to join themselves to the new quest he is about to announce. Indeed, they have never been especially eager to follow his lead. His pronouncements seem always to meet a muted response, tinged with an undercurrent of hesitation as uneasy eyes seek some sign of reassurance first from Aldor that a plan is sound, its details considered. It is not from dislike but rather the general sense that his brother’s is the surer hand. Aldor is bolder, more clever, more easy in the role of both commander and friend. If he were not the second son, he would make the better king, or so the whispers say. Baldor knows, for he has heard them.

He cannot stop hearing them.

If his life has purpose now, it is just to prove those whispers false. It is, he must admit, a daunting task. Most things don’t come easily to him as they always do for Aldor, and he cannot best his little brother as a strategist, rider, or craftsman. Even this newly built hall where they are now gathered is Aldor’s achievement, its freshly hewn timbers a monument to his sharp mind and creative eye. But Baldor has a plan to make his own mark. To stake his claim as first son by more than simple age.

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If Willa doesn’t come back, that’s fine, ‘cause I don’t need love. It’s like a superpower. And if she comes back and doesn’t love me, that’s okay, too, ‘cause I don’t need it.

it's okay to disappoint people

it's okay to work slowly

it's okay to let yourself rest

it's okay to drop projects

Stop treating yourself like you are the workers at a fast food franchise.