anghraine

And I think this is the last of the end (...lol) of the year stuff. I look on it as a sort of meme and borrowed the format from

lettered.

Year in Review

Favourite fic I wrote this year: The Adventures of Lucy Skywalker
Least favourite: Before the Storm

Fic I worked the hardest on this year: Revenge of the Jedi
Fic I worked the least hard on: Once Upon A Time

Most challenging fic to write this year: Revenge of the Jedi
Easiest fic to write: Anomaly

Fic I think the most people saw this year: The Adventures of Lucy Skywalker
Fic I think the least saw: Where Will Wants Not

*

List of fics I wrote:

January

Jedi Knight (LJ | DW | AO3) - Fandom: Star Wars | Pairings: none | Rating: G | Length: 530

The times have shifted, and today the most popular past-time among my colleagues seems to be inventing new and creative ways to blame the fall of the Empire on any one person who was present for any part of it. Alliance leaders such as Chancellor Mothma, Queen Leia of New Alderaan, and General Rieekan are common choices, as is the Emperor himself and several of the Imperial Navy’s more incompetent admirals.

Leia understands what Luke meant by the phrase, and responded appropriately, but she never speaks of real mothers herself.

Leia was drawn to Luke from the first, in a quiet, persistent way entirely unlike her attraction to Han.

She could never admire him again -- but an odd, reluctant respect continued to twist its way through her revulsion.

Luke’s resemblance to his father is always startling, but never more so than in these flashes of temper.

Thankfully, all fears were soon quieted: their lost prince was a quiet, mild boy, quick at his lessons, hard-working, and as little yielding as a fortress. In fact, anyone with eyes could see that he was far better suited for the kingship than wild, impulsive Corin, who — beloved as he was — caused far fewer headaches from the moment he ceased to be Archenland’s heir.

“We’ll go visit her, if you like,” he said, and Corin grimaced and muttered about the great silliness of Tarkheenas, having quite forgotten that Aravis herself was one. Nobody called her that at Anvard. So then they all quarrelled again, and had to make it up later, and Aravis had only her servants with her when she paid her respects to her friend.

Two earthwalkers and Shmi. That was all that remained of the anakyria, the chosen of the Force. She was the last skywalker in the galaxy.

Lady Vadé was both the pride and terror of the Empire: one of the greatest swordmasters in the world, a fearless, black-armoured warrior who fought beside her soldiers -- and a dark sorceress, driven half-mad by her own powers. To contradict her was to risk death; to defy her was to ensure it.

Her own officers didn’t know where she came from, or what she looked like, or even if she were human at all. Nobody had ever seen anything more than the helmet and armour, etched with incomprehensible runes; it was said that she wore them even to bed.

The inevitable lewd jokes always seemed to trail off uncertainly.

Mary stared at Lily's empty bed. Maybe she was on some kind of prefect business. Maybe she was off snogging that horrible Slytherin boy, even if it didn't make any sense. But it didn't make sense that Lily would stay friends with him, either -- she had to know what he was like to people who weren't her. Especially to Muggleborns who weren't her.

He admired women, after his fashion. Certainly he enjoyed the sight of handsome features or an elegant figure as much as the next man. Yet somehow that enjoyment had never transformed itself into anything beyond the pleasure he found in elegant architecture or a fine landscape, much less desire.

Lucy is petulant, gentle, impulsive, as fanciful as Camie is down-to-earth. She wears skirts half the time, keeps her hair long and never quite fits in, even when she starts tinkering with machinery and hurtling across Beggars’ Canyon. That makes it worse, in a way; it’s one thing to be shown up by a tomboy like Camie, quite another by dreamy, girlish Lucy Skywalker.

The truth, Leia came to realize, was anything but beautiful: it was ugly, ferocious, more than most people could bear, and now she thought she could forgive her mother for being one of those people, for being unwilling to let it crush her when the Republic needed her whole.

“We cannot spare any captains,” the Steward said, “let alone the Captain-General and Lord Faramir.”

“Of course,” said Biggs, laughing. He was three years older, nineteen to Luke’s sixteen, a great pilot who had earned the title with years of work. He never seemed to mind that Luke hadn’t.

August

He looked at her for a moment, then walked to the window. “Compassion is not deserved,” he said, almost to himself, and absently rubbed his hand.

His right hand, she realized. The one he always covered in a glove, as if it were something shameful, rather than a perfectly functional cybernetic that could hardly be distinguished from flesh. Padmé swallowed.

She knew what had happened. Mother and Dad and Uncle Luke didn’t like to talk about it, of course. But she’d gotten the story out of Grandfather, who was, if not eager, always ready to own up to everything he’d done, and the best storyteller in the family besides.

For a brief moment, she felt almost afraid of the grief-stricken man before her, had to repress the urge to clutch Luke against her, snatch up Leia, take them and run, far away, far from Jedi, Sith, politics, everything. Anakin had seen this coming, months ago. It was the only fear he’d been willing to admit to her -- that their child would be taken from them, by war or death or the Jedi or anything else.

It was at times like this that people most needed heroes. Instead, there was the Emperor, not a Jedi at all, just a man twisting his gifts into a tool of tyranny; Darth Vader, who was a Jedi and therefore still worse; and Obi-Wan, who himself insisted that he was getting old and weak. The others were killed before they could do anything at all.

Yet the Force kept granting its powers, to the wicked and doomed alike. And by some chance, she had survived.

He didn’t know what to think about anyone anymore. There was Leia, of course. Han, frozen in time. But they weren’t part of this world Luke had stumbled into, like Obi-Wan and Yoda and Vader. They couldn’t guide him. But Yoda had deceived him. Obi-Wan had lied to him. Vader had at least made his intentions clear; he wanted Luke as some kind of . . . of dark apprentice, to help him remove his last obstacle to ultimate power. That was all he wanted, not --

Together, he’d said, the mechanical voice ringing with sincerity. As father and son.

She glanced up again, white-faced and solemn, and dropped her hands on the book in her lap. From her, it practically constituted encouragement.

“I will tell thee aloud, ‘England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Harry B -- ” He turned a vivid red, Catherine’s eyes widened, and Charlotte Lucas smiled wryly at them. Nobody else seemed to notice -- “Plantagenet is thine.”

October

Change, Luke decided, came less in leaps and bounds than in waves, building, feeding on itself, until finally it rose up and overwhelmed everything in its path -- then he looked over his desk at a very small Tusken Raider, and smiled.

Acquainted as I am with the multifarious vagaries and vices of your character, I had never before believed you to want understanding. You must recall that you received three thousand pounds in lieu of the preferment, not as a personal gift. If not, then you are certainly not capable of the duties of the office, so the entire matter is academic.

Pray do not importune me on this matter again.

I'd only been back from maternity leave for two months, but it wasn't my fault. I was a Jedi, but I could only dodge and duck and there were too many and something burned and I screamed and everything went away, even the pain.

She had endured through long years of misery and drudgery, while Wormtongue haunted her steps and poisoned the very air of Meduseld. Duty had been her only comfort for all that time; she had served, and served, and she deserved this much.

He was a cyborg.

He is standing by a pool, and unsurprised to see another form reflected back: not young, not old, the face a little weathered, the hair a little darker, lines deepening about the eyes and nose and mouth. He stands tall and straight, and knows that it will not always be so. Not like the others, who define themselves by the moment of their death, or by some accomplishment, and fix themselves there.

“I assumed you would disapprove, Princess,” Nellith told her, “though I’ll admit I didn’t imagine you would take the trouble of coming all this way to denounce me in person.”

Three years ago, he'd been rather sorry to see the Rebel base blasted out of the sky, rather regretted the death of their sharp, fierce princess—he'd liked her, by the end. But it'd been something else for Lucy, who grieved as if she'd lost a lifelong friend, did her very poor best to hide it, and seemed as confused by herself as Han. Now they knew why.

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
				1	2	3
4	5	6	7	8	9	10
11	12	13	14	15	16	17
18	19	20	21	22	23	24
25	26	27	28	29	30	31

fic round-up

fic round-up

Profile

May 2025

Most Popular Tags

Active Entries

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags