I really want to finish something
Nov. 16th, 2023 05:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anghraineSo I started half-a-dozen scraps of things!
Here's some early canon-compliant Darcy:
Here's a bit about my headcanon for Elros's wife, early on:
Ithíriel lived long for one born in Middle-earth, who had only come to Númenor as a young woman. In the new land, her years passed slowly and peacefully as she gathered what records she could find, and took down more.
She was one among six other archivists entrusted with recovery and oversight of the records of the Edain. It was a great task, and would have been impossible without the patronage of their half-Elf king. But Tar-Minyatur had a great value for lore, and withheld nothing from the archives.
Even on Númenor, though, time passed. By the point that Tar-Minyatur could pause his labors long enough to see the archives for himself, a decade after Ithíriel’s arrival in Númenor, she had more lines about her eyes than he did. She always would.
Here's some Mass Effect!Shepard!Elizabeth:
Elrond did not call the Council. He did not even foresee the Council: not in its entirety, and at first, not at all. None of those who arrived came at a summons. Only coincidence brought them together at one time, had he believed that such a thing could occur by coincidence.
He did not. And in one case, at least, a greater power than chance was unquestionably at work. Faramir of Gondor had arrived at Imladris with a prophetic riddle on his lips and his mind full of dreams sent by—who?
Speaking of Elrond, Elrond in Minas Tirith!
After Elendil’s death, Elrond did not return to Gondor the way he used to visit his kin in Númenor in fairer days. So by the end of the Third Age, he had not walked in Minas Anor for a long time—a long time even by his measure of things.
It looked very much as he recalled, though some of the banners flew from newer, higher towers, and fewer people seemed to dwell within than before. Many were undeniably of the kin of the Faithful: not so tall, but taller than the Men around them, with long dark hair, grave faces, and familiar bright eyes. Behind him, many whispered or called to each other in the Elven-tongue, their accents strange, but still the Númenórean Sindarin he had always preferred.
And only weeks after the siege, the walls of Minas Anor towered above the battered fields and farms of the Pelennor, still gleaming and strong, as near to impregnable as craftsmanship could make anything—as Elrond knew better than most.
Even here, the works of his people were made to last.
A shamelessly niche f!Rytlock+f!Logan Thackeray AU:
Rytlock hadn’t known many Guardians and she didn’t want to.
It was one thing to walk around in full armor with a good weapon or three. Even fire sorcery was something she understood, even if she didn’t like it much. But both at once? Very suspicious. It smacked of human mysticism, human folly. Even the norn Guardian she ran into in Lion’s Arch had a whisper of the humans’ gods about him.
Megan, though—
So, well, anyway
Here's some early canon-compliant Darcy:
The first time Darcy saw Elizabeth Bennet, he noticed almost nothing about her. He was in an ill humour that evening, and would rather have attended one of his uncle’s dreadful theatricals than a village assembly full of strangers. He disliked both forming new acquaintance and dancing at the best of times—and this was far from that. He heard the barely-whispered gossip about the Bingleys and himself, he felt the gazes of the sparse crowd fixing on him, and he saw few signs of sense, fashion, or beauty anywhere.
Bingley, predictably enough, gravitated towards the only handsome woman in the room, a young lady who looked like a painting and to go by her placid, unwavering smile, seemed about as interesting a conversationalist as one.
Bingley, predictably enough, gravitated towards the only handsome woman in the room, a young lady who looked like a painting and to go by her placid, unwavering smile, seemed about as interesting a conversationalist as one.
Here's a bit about my headcanon for Elros's wife, early on:
Ithíriel lived long for one born in Middle-earth, who had only come to Númenor as a young woman. In the new land, her years passed slowly and peacefully as she gathered what records she could find, and took down more.
She was one among six other archivists entrusted with recovery and oversight of the records of the Edain. It was a great task, and would have been impossible without the patronage of their half-Elf king. But Tar-Minyatur had a great value for lore, and withheld nothing from the archives.
Even on Númenor, though, time passed. By the point that Tar-Minyatur could pause his labors long enough to see the archives for himself, a decade after Ithíriel’s arrival in Númenor, she had more lines about her eyes than he did. She always would.
Here's some Mass Effect!Shepard!Elizabeth:
Just about everyone in the Alliance, and plenty of those outside it, knew what Elizabeth Bennet had done at Torfan. But they didn’t understand. Nobody did, really, not even Admiral Gardiner, who’d defended her to the tribunal.
Elizabeth knew what people called her behind her back. The butcher of Torfan.
She’d long ago resigned herself to that. When Elizabeth could do something about a problem, she acted; when she couldn’t, she let it go. And she couldn’t do anything about the past.
Least of all when she didn’t regret it.
A bit of a Rivendell AU:Elizabeth knew what people called her behind her back. The butcher of Torfan.
She’d long ago resigned herself to that. When Elizabeth could do something about a problem, she acted; when she couldn’t, she let it go. And she couldn’t do anything about the past.
Least of all when she didn’t regret it.
Elrond did not call the Council. He did not even foresee the Council: not in its entirety, and at first, not at all. None of those who arrived came at a summons. Only coincidence brought them together at one time, had he believed that such a thing could occur by coincidence.
He did not. And in one case, at least, a greater power than chance was unquestionably at work. Faramir of Gondor had arrived at Imladris with a prophetic riddle on his lips and his mind full of dreams sent by—who?
Speaking of Elrond, Elrond in Minas Tirith!
After Elendil’s death, Elrond did not return to Gondor the way he used to visit his kin in Númenor in fairer days. So by the end of the Third Age, he had not walked in Minas Anor for a long time—a long time even by his measure of things.
It looked very much as he recalled, though some of the banners flew from newer, higher towers, and fewer people seemed to dwell within than before. Many were undeniably of the kin of the Faithful: not so tall, but taller than the Men around them, with long dark hair, grave faces, and familiar bright eyes. Behind him, many whispered or called to each other in the Elven-tongue, their accents strange, but still the Númenórean Sindarin he had always preferred.
And only weeks after the siege, the walls of Minas Anor towered above the battered fields and farms of the Pelennor, still gleaming and strong, as near to impregnable as craftsmanship could make anything—as Elrond knew better than most.
Even here, the works of his people were made to last.
A shamelessly niche f!Rytlock+f!Logan Thackeray AU:
Rytlock hadn’t known many Guardians and she didn’t want to.
It was one thing to walk around in full armor with a good weapon or three. Even fire sorcery was something she understood, even if she didn’t like it much. But both at once? Very suspicious. It smacked of human mysticism, human folly. Even the norn Guardian she ran into in Lion’s Arch had a whisper of the humans’ gods about him.
Megan, though—
So, well, anyway