#vennorwrites

@gatheringfiki Prompt 55: A Murder Of Crows
(I’d like to apologise for this; I’ve taken liberties with both the prompt and characterisation here. Quite honestly, I have absolutely no idea.)

Considering he’s lived with the god of poetry since the day he turned twenty-one, it’s kind of disappointing that Anders can’t come up with anything a little more profound than—


It’s so white.


Not the white of expensive sheets, pristine hotel silk topped with pearl-skinned beauties all hungry for his cock; nor the crystalline white of blow, towering piles of purest powder all his for the taking. It’s not electric white like the stars that cloud his eyes in a Grey Goose haze, or the perfect white of a coconut beach, milky moonlight turning his sun-starved feet ghostly under the foaming shallows. It’s not even snow-white, frozen; no Nordic homecoming for Anders’ hitchhiker. 

Instead, he decides as he walks—


and walks, and walks; how the hell did he get here, anyway?—


that this white is the white of a landscape of absence, more the lack of any other colour at all than a shade in its own right. There’s no end to the vast plain beneath his feet, flat and desolate as the page of an empty book, scattered with treeless roots and cracks that run deep as his flaws. 


He’d shield his eyes but it’s not exactly too bright. Now that he thinks about it, it’s not too anything. He doesn’t feel hot, cold, tired. Perhaps he’s beyond those so-very-human limitations now. There’s just a vague sense of curiosity as he looks from the dust-blown ripples on the ground to the towering white—

 
bone white this time, picked clean; the white of frightened eyes before the light behind them goes out—


cliffs that rise up at the edge of his vision.


Perhaps what’s most surprising of all is how unsurprising it is. Seeing that he seems to have retained his capability for rational thought, he reckons he should probably be shocked, scared – something more than indifferent, anyway. Even for someone with morals as dubious as Anders, the idea of death has always left him cold. Perhaps it’s the constant, schizophrenic reminder of his own mortality, but being confronted by it had a habit of turning him coward, happy to give others a nudge in the back and watch them fall under the wheels to save himself. 


Frankly he’s surprised that he’s even lived as long as he has. If it hadn’t been for Bragi’s silver tongue licking around all the wounds that Anders tore open with his own, he’s pretty sure Dawn would have cut his balls off years ago and let him bleed out on the crappy carpet of JPR. Come to think of it, he isn’t even completely certain that he is dead. Bragi is still with him, crackling away like radio static. Anders had always assumed—


hoped—


that kicking the bucket would at least have the benefit of some peace and fucking quiet. 

“Are we related?”

“I don’t think so.”

Kili drops the picture. He wants to burn it, watch it turn to dust. His fingers feel numb, the trembling of his hands still evident in the fluttering paper as it drifts down onto the polished desk. He balls his fists to stop them shaking; into his pockets, out again. He should turn away, but instead he finds himself snatching the photograph back up again, holding it even closer to his eyes than before.

“Are you sure?”

“I can look into it for you, I suppose,” Thorin says. “Do some digging into his family tree. You still have family there?”

“I don’t know,” Kili murmurs. “No. No, don’t. I don’t want to know.”

Everyone tells him he looks like his father, his father’s side. Kili wouldn’t know for sure, having never met him, but he knows his dark, melting eyes are all his mother’s. He wonders if it’s possible, some cousin of a cousin, a genetic fluke giving him a twin that he’s never met; but it makes no difference. He might look like Trexler, but clearly their ideologies are as far apart as it’s possible for them to be.

Thorin watches him, quiet and thoughtful. “You understand what I’m asking of you?”

“You want—” Kili is only half aware that he’s speaking, his mind trying to find a meaning in the shades of grey between his fingers, “You want me to be him.”

I can’t say where this came from, exactly. I was always pretty sure that I didn't have a Fiki in me... but then this happened, this spiralled, and we’re in for a long one! (Surprise, surprise...). I’m so utterly honoured that the wonderful @linane-art​ has jumped on board to collaborate with me on this. How beautiful is her art for the first chapter? (see full-size here!)

Seven Bottles by Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee (@vennor)

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: The Hobbit RPF, The Hobbit - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dean O'Gorman/Aidan Turner Characters: Aidan Turner, Dean O'Gorman

Guys... guys. So I did a thing. Almost exactly twelve months (sorry!) and 104647 words later, I finished What the Water Gave Me. 

I’m sorry it’s been so long since I last updated, but the final chapter is available to read now.  To all of you who have come with me on this trip (whether you’ve been there since day one or have only found it recently) - thank you so much for all the love. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Chapter 28 | Yugen

Fic Update!

Chapter 3 | The Golden Floor

The golden Boy.