lesya-writes

[lesya-writes]

seeking saviors has officially reached 110k words

#😬 #merthur #bbc merlin #merlin fanfic #i’ve been working on it #i’ve added some stuff to chapter 4 #also apparently once your work gets to a certain size you have to keep notes??? #and constantly go back and reread??? #i need a fucking wiki for my own fic it’s driving me crazy

[lesya-writes]

Seeking Saviors ch.5 excerpt

The green grassy field stretched out before him.  He felt the sun upon his face, less warm now though no less bright. The sounds that greeted him were familiar; grunts of pain and struggle, the clang of dull steel upon steel, and the heckling of bystanders.

From Merlin’s lateness to Morgana’s womanly worries, he thought he’d never get to see the training yard today. Merlin had finally dressed him, then ran off again to gods know where. He was acting quite suspiciously, but Arthur paid little mind. He had more pressing matters than his foolish manservant’s antics.

The boys on the field were no better today than they were yesterday. No, that was not entirely fair. The twins, Oswyck and Eswyck, were quite skilled. They were no more than sixteen and had not seen a single battle save for the ones fought on the tourney field. Still, he could see they had some potential. They chose each other for a partner and Arthur watched them for a moment. They were equally matched, neither yielding to the other, so he ordered them to part. To Oswyck he gave a larger partner and to Eswyck, a smaller one. Their opponents were seasoned knights, unlikely to be bested. Still, he was curious to see how they would fare. What will you little sirs do, I wonder.

Oswyck was clearly unused to fighting a much bigger man and so he struggled to find a way to land a hit. The knight, Sir Harold, had a bigger reach and bigger swing. Oswyck did not move away fast enough and suffered the ordeal of meeting his attack. Beneath the helm his face was scrunched in pain as he struggled against Sir Harold, shield arm shaking with the strain. Eswyck, on the other hand, had adapted to his opponent quickly. He saw that Sir Gyles was much quicker than he and caught on to the man’s strategy of tiring him out. Sir Gyles moved about Eswyck, striking out from time to time, but Eswyck never moved on the offensive. He only turned when he needed to and put up his shield to block any attacks. Sir Gyles had seen that he was figured out and changed his strategy again and again Eswyck met him. On and on they went, neither giving in to the other, though that was most like due to Sir Gyles not giving his all to prolong the fight. He was enjoying himself.

There were a few others which had caught his eye and he made sure to note their strengths and weaknesses. He’ll have to write a proper report to see what he could do with this lot. Perhaps he can dictate to Merlin, instead of writing himself; the lad does have a much neater hand than his, though how that came to be he could not say. Everything about Merlin seemed scratchy and thin, but his script was neat and flowing, careful rivers of ink upon parchment.

He blinked and pushed the thought away. Movement caught his eye, just beyond the field, and he saw familiar figures approaching.

Speak of devils and they shall find you.

Lancelot led the lot of them, shining in his armor. Beside him walked Morgana, though she did not seem pleased about it. Her maid Gwen trailed them both and there he was as well, Merlin. Lancelot made his way to the fence and stood watching. His attention was singular and if Arthur wasn’t mistaken, curious.

Arthur left the men and boys to their fighting.

Guinevere had come closer to Lancelot and stood with him. They spoke of something, he could not tell what, but they each seemed to refuse to meet the other’s eyes, instead looking out at the field. Lancelot seemed to drown in the armor, though for all intents and purposes it looked like the right fit. His hands were restless on the fence. Restless for a fight? Or were nerves getting the better of him?

Morgana kept her eyes on the field as well, scanning the grounds. Looking for her next meal, it seems. Suddenly, striking green pierced his eyes and he paused. She could not have heard. That would be absurd.

Arthur let his unease go and continued his march on toward the lot. They all straightened as he approached them and silenced their gossiping.

“Lancelot. I see you’ve recovered well. Well enough to don armor and come out here to train.”

“Yes, my lord. I’ll be glad to train amongst such fine knights.” Arthur almost snorted. 

“I’ll need to see your seal.”

“O-of course, my lord. ” He passed on his carefully rolled parchment, held together by red wax. Arthur broke the seal and looked at the sigil, a white star above a white lake on a black field. Du Lac. A minor house, barely considered noble, but still noble enough that Lancelot had every right to stand before him and attempt at knighthood. Good enough, I suppose. He gave it back and said nothing against it.

Seeing that Arthur had not shunned him, Lancelot beamed and made his way into the fray. Arthur watched him and saw Leon approach. They donned their helms, raised their shields and swords, and began to dance. What sweet music they made, the steel clanging in a rhythm of its own. The others had paused their own fights, curiosity drawing their eyes. It was clear to all that this newcomer was a skilled fighter. A bit unrefined, to be sure, but he had good instinct. He kept up with Leon and even managed to surprise him a time or two. Spurned on by the sight, everyone else returned to their own fights with renewed vigor.

So the dances continued on and as the sun began to droop, Arthur decided that it was time, so he called the fighting to a stop.

All the boys and men put down their swords and shields as he made his way to the center. His voice rang out across, “Right, you jumped-up dung beetles, this is it. Your final test. Pass this and you’re a knight of Camelot. Fail, and you’re no one. You face the most feared of all foes, the ultimate engine of death.” He paused and stared out at all the faces. Some were filled with trepidation, others with exhilaration. Who will pass and who will fail. I know who I want, but do they want me? Well, it won’t be hard for them to lose.

“You face me.” No one was surprised save for Lancelot and his silly manservant.

“You?” he squeaked out, drawing all attentions to himself. “They must all face you?”

“Of course. How do you think I choose my men? They can’t all be accepted, just like that.”

“Then I shall challenge my lord gladly,” a pleasant voice rang out. It was Lancelot, who now stood taller than before, back straightened. He met Arthur’s eye without a fear and he was no longer drowning in his armor. No longer did he appear to be a frightened boy; he looked like a proper warrior now. Arthur even detected a spark of something, an excitement at the prospect of their fight. Arthur couldn’t deny his own eagerness to fight this man. Yes, this man enjoys a fight. But joy is not enough here. It won’t win him a fight, but it might make him last longer than the others.

“Well, it’s nice to see someone’s eager,” Arthur replied and all the others chuckled.

#this has not been edited yet lol #seeking saviors #merthur #merlin fanfic #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #lancelot

[lesya-writes]

If you are a fan fic writer and you're alright with people making fan art of your fic, reblog this 💚

[lesya-writes]

Vernadsky National Library of Ukraine, Kyiv.

[lesya-writes]

I hate you epitome of innocence being represented with blonde hair I hate you lightness representing goodness I hate you "angelic features" automatically being read as blonde hair and blue eyed with pale skin I hate you whiteness as the default for morality I HATE YOU I HATE YOU

[lesya-writes]

Writing References: Narratives

Writing Resources Masterlist

Balancing multiple main characters

Dramatic irony

Editing Tip: How to Speed Up or Slow Down Your Pacing

First vs Third Person narratives

Guide to showing vs telling

How To Write Saucy Betrayals

Internal Conflict and the Lie the Character Believes

Mundane scenes are important

Narrative distance

Pacing and show, don’t tell in writing

Passive vs active voice

Tips for Writing a Difficult Scene

Tips on Introducing Backstory

Using Flashbacks in Fiction

What Is Showing vs. Telling Anyway?

Writing fight scenes

Writer's Guide to Time jumps

Writing intimacy in a scene

Writing sexual tension: will they or won’t they?

Writing The Opening Scene

[lesya-writes]

A Private Conversation Between the Princess and the Queen

“Why are you so angry? What have I done? Have I displeased you?”

“No, you haven’t. And that’s the problem.”

“And how am I to take that? You’re displeased with my agreeableness?”

“Yes! I hate it when you’re like that, I told you! I hate it when you treat me like that. Like him.”

Stunned silence filled the room. Alicent actually reeled back a bit, eyes wide and open mouth unmoving now, whatever she had planned to say left to the ether.

“I’m not my father. I’m not your husband,” Rhaenyra continued as she stalked closer. Alicent did not move an inch. “I’m your lover,” this she said in a hush, close to her ear. “I’m your lover and your friend and we’ve known each other much too long to be acting this way. I know you and you know me. Why are you hiding now behind that façade of a dutiful wife? You are not my wife, or did you forget? Where’s that fire now?” Rhaenyra leaned forward and kissed her neck, opening her lips to get a taste. Alicent broke out of her stupor and pushed away at her and Rhaenyra let her.

She looked absolutely wretched, her mouth twisted as though in pain, but her eyes…Her eyes were full of fury. She was breathing heavily, staring Rhaenyra down like an angry dragon.

“And there it is. No more nice and complacent little Ali-”

A mouth crashed into hers and it hurt more than pleased. It felt as though someone had struck her, but the feeling passed as soon as it moved away again and came back much less violently. A tongue forced its way into her mouth and she took it with a moan. Hands wrapped around her, fingers digging into her scalp and her back and her own hands wandered on the body pressed against hers.

In her distraction, she hadn’t realized she was being slowly walked backwards until the backs of her legs hit something soft. Alicent let go of her and pushed her onto the cushioned lounge. Rhaenyra took her precious time admiring her work, the mess that she had made of Alicent. No longer was she the pretty, put-together little green queen that smiled beatifically and carried her stars wherever she went. Now, her careful hairstyle was coming undone and her dress was in a similar state. Her eyes were wild with want and her breaths were coming quick. Sweat beaded at her hairline.

They held their staring match but for a moment, before Alicent decided to take a seat in Rhaenyra’s lap, straddling her thighs. Her hands came up to her neck, gently holding.

“You drive me mad,” she told her as though Rhaenyra didn’t know. “I know you do it on purpose. I know it and I still let you.”

“You need someone to let you. You won’t do it yourself. You won’t let go.” Rhaenyra reached up and grabbed ahold of Alicent and then carefully placed her down on the lounge so she could be the one above her now. “But I can make you.”

Rhaenyra leaned down and kissed her, hungry.

“I love when you’re like this. You feel so much more.”

“I do,” Alicent told her in a miserable little voice, like she hated to admit it. “I do.”

“Is that really such a bad thing, my sweetling?” She brushed a hair aside from Alicent’s face and let her finger trail down her soft cheek.

“Yes. You know it’s bad. I’m not supposed to do this. Neither of us should be doing this.”

“I know. But we are. There’s a reason we are. I know as well as you do that you desire this. You may hide and you may run, but it will always be there inside you. And it will devour you before you know it and leave nothing left. I don’t want that. I want you, Alicent. I want you to stay. Don’t go away, somewhere deep inside where I can’t follow. You may pretend for the world, but don’t hide from me. Please.”

There were tears now streaming down Alicent’s face and Rhaenyra found her own burning in her eyes. She sat up and Alicent followed, the both of them wiping at their eyes.

Then they sat in silence, unsure of what to do.

“I want you, too,” a quiet voice broke the silence. “Obviously. But I feel I should say it. So you know. I want you, Rhaenyra. And I don’t think I’ll ever stop. I’ve tried to fight against it, to pray to my gods and think of my marriage. But you’re right. Doing it everyday is just so exhausting. I play my role and I think I get to stop. I go to my room and it’s over for the day, but it’s never over. Only when I sleep does it all become so clear. My dreams aren’t filled with masks and crowns and perfect things. It’s filled with…with this.”

“This?”

“Yes. With me. And you. And, well. Many things happen…” she trails off, voice going quiet. Rhaenyra blinked a few times before she finally managed to piece it all together.

“You mean you have sex dreams. About me.”

Alicent’s head snapped so quickly to her that she was surprised it didn’t break her neck. Her face, which had gone pale before, was flushed now.

“It’s alright,” Rhaenyra reassures her. “I get them, too. About you, I mean. Not myself.”

“Rhaenyra!”

“There’s nothing shameful about it!”

Alicent does not appear to agree.

#rhaenicent #rhaenyra x alicent #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #hotd #hotd fanfic #excerpt

[lesya-writes]

hey i made this fanfic writer meme. drop in my ask which one u think i am!!!!

(okay to rb!)

[lesya-writes]

Hello! Do you have any advice/resources on how to write sounds? Speaking and singing in particular but also maybe sounds at different volumes and sounds that could be considered "noise."

Describing Sounds Using Sound Words

Description of sound is all about knowing sound-related vocabulary. Here's a mini-list to get you started, but you can do some research to learn more. Also, be sure to look up these words before using them to make sure they're right for the context.

High Volume - blaring, blasting, booming, bray, din, deafening, ear-piercing, ear-popping, earsplitting, full volume, loud, pealing, roaring, sonorous, thundering, thunderous

Low Volume - buzz, faint, gentle, hushed, low, muffled, murmur, muted, peaceful, quiet, soft, subdued, whisper

Noise - cacophony, clamor, clatter, commotion, discord, disquiet, fracas, hullabaloo, racket, ruckus, uproar Pitch and Tone - atonal, discordant, dulcet, harmonic, harsh, high-frequency, low-frequency, mellow, resonant, sonic, soprano, tenor, timbre

Rhythm - beat, cadence, flow, lilt, lyrical, measured, melodic, metered, monotone, pulsing, staccato, stutter, tempo

Sounds - babble, bang, bark, beep, belch, boom, burble, burp, chirr, chirp, clack, clatter, clang, clank, click, clink, clip-clop, clomp, crackle, crash, creak, ding, echo, groan, gurgle, hiss, hoot, hum, jangle, jingle, kerplunk, howl, melodic, mewl, moan, murmur, patter, pitter-patter, peal, plop, pop, purr, rattle, roar, rumble, rustle, screech, shriek, sizzle, splash, splat, swoosh, squawk, squeak, strum, thud, thrum, thump, wail, whimper, whinny, whine, whir, whistle, whiz, yelp, yowl, zing How to Research Sounds - If you're struggling to describe the sound of a particular thing, like "thunder," go to Google and type in, "how to describe the sound of thunder" and look for inspiration. You can also search for things like "horse sounds" or "what sounds do cars make?"

Also, two previous posts specific to describing the sound of singing and music:

Describing Music How to Describe a Singing Voice

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[lesya-writes]

[lesya-writes]

Q & A with Joanna Volpe, head of New Leaf Literary & Media, Inc. and agent to Veronica Roth (Divergent), Leigh Bardugo (The Grisha), and Kody Keplinger (The Duff)

1. What does an agent do? Do I need an agent?

An agent is an author’s advocate, career partner, editor, negotiator, advisor and champion. But that doesn’t mean that every author needs an agent.  I will say that at the very least, every author should have some kind of advocate who is well-versed in the publishing industry, whether it be an agent or a publishing attorney.  But a lawyer’s job is much narrower: they advocate and negotiate, but they can’t give career advice, edit your manuscript or work on your publicity and marketing plans.  So it really just depends on what you need. 

2. Is there any way to increase your chances of having your query selected from the slush pile?

Yes, by writing a good query!  There are tons of resources online that can show you how to do that.  

3. What happens after the query is selected from the slush pile?

After a query is selected, I ask for the full manuscript.  And after I read the full manuscript, I decide whether or not I want to have a call with the author and see if we’re a good fit to work together. 

4. Have you ever passed on a ms. that went on to do well? If so, what went into this decision?

Absolutely!  I’ve passed on plenty of projects that went on to sell and some to sell very well.  Many factors go into that kind of decision, and the biggest one is: I don’t offer representation to a manuscript.  I offer representation to an author.  Sometimes I’ll love a manuscript, but as soon as I get to know the author, I realize very quickly that we don’t share the same career goals and vision for their work.  And in times like those, I don’t offer representation.  There are also a number of times when I read a manuscript and think it’s great, but I just don’t personally love it enough to champion it through the good times and the bad times.  So I pass, and watch it go on to sell with the right agent for that author.  There are a lot of reasons, and I have never personally passed on something that I regret.  

5. What are the top three common mistakes authors make? 

In queries, the biggest mistake I see is that they don’t talk enough about the project. They talk more about themselves and why their book is great, but not enough about the story itself.  It happens all the time. 

In revisions, underestimating how much time they’ll need to edit a book.  Particularly early on in their careers. They don’t want to displease anyone, so I’ve seen many authors set deadlines that they can’t keep. Even if something is going to take longer, just be realistic and honest upfront.  It helps everyone else plan around you!

After publication, they read the online reviews of their book.  Big mistake, and one that almost everyone makes.  I am a firm believer that constructive criticism is a crucial element in honing one’s craft.  But there’s no way to filter the constructive from the downright silly or mean things said online.  And every author I’ve ever worked with is not prepared for how painful that experience can be.  It’s creatively stifling, and very difficult to get over.  DO NOT LOOK!

6. How is querying for a picturebook different from a MG or YA title?

When you’re querying as an illustrator, you’ll include links to your portfolio and may include a full “dummy” of the picture book for review. You’ll still need a pitch though!

7. What is your favorite part of your job? The least favorite?

My favorite part of my job is when I get to read a new manuscript that I am enjoying.  It is one of the best feelings!  Even better if I have time to ruminate afterward for a while. Think on it. 

My least favorite part of the job is when I have to part ways with a client. 

8. What is a fun fact that few people know about you?

Popcorn is my absolute favorite snack.  Particularly movie theater popcorn. 

[lesya-writes]

Corvo Meets The Outsider

Did he want anything? Was he even capable of it? Those dark endless eyes betrayed nothing and made Corvo feel all the more naked. He wasn’t used to the feeling and did not welcome it. He was, however, familiar with the feeling of being unable to change a situation, entirely powerless in the face of the world. His sword slept by his bedside and comforted his hand with its weight in the waking world, but it did little to stop his Jessamine from dying. It would’ve done even less to help him here and now, if he’d had it.

“Is that what you desire? Power? How unoriginal,” the Outsider spoke with a hint of bored mockery. He would’ve fit right in with the noble lords and ladies of Jessamine’s court. They were all always so put-upon, entirely unlike Jessamine with her intense down-to-earth nature. She was direct, no nonsense. He always wondered why she wasn’t like the rest, what had made her so different. It’s what drove him to her in the first place, the curiosity. He’d wanted nothing more than to know her, to discover everything he could about her. He would’ve gladly done it till his dying day. Now, she will remain a mystery forever. He’ll keep those small pieces, but they’re all he has left.

That and our Emily. Another person I’ve utterly failed.

Corvo says nothing to the god. There’s not much need if he can hear Corvo’s thoughts anyway. Besides, he has little desire for speech. Words seem too difficult now, a chore not worth doing. Jessamine had complained before about how little he said, though he always made up for his lack of quantity with quality. He’d told Jessamine he loves her. That’s all that needed saying. Whatever the Outsider thinks of that, Corvo can’t know. His face is as unchanging as his deep dark eyes.

“Love. That, too, is unoriginal. But it has certainly created many interesting stories. Great loves make great hates. Revenge, betrayal, heartbreak. Chaos. All so wonderfully mixed in so many different ways. The same story told over and over, yet it never seems to get old. I wonder what you’ll do in your pursuit to avenge your love. Will you give up everything you are just to taste a small bit of victory? Or will you drown those raging feelings with duty? Will you be righteous? Or just?”

He paused his speech, a small smile slowly swimming to the surface.

“You’re right – I can hear what you think, can see what you feel. I know so many things, but I do not know what you will do, not truly. I see possibilities, but which one will play out before me? I wonder…”

He then put out his hand in what seemed to be an invitation.

“It is. Come to me, Corvo, and I shall give you that which you seek -  a means to an end. But how you use it is entirely up to you.”

#dishonored #corvo #the outsider #ficlet #dishonored fic #it's not gonna be a whole thing i just wrote this cuz im stuck in a different project #hopefully this will help me write other things #this was fun tho i need to write more short stuff like this #i just severely suck at writing short stories

[lesya-writes]

barduil wip

He paced behind his desk, only occasionally stopping to take a furtive glance at the missive, before resuming his tread.

He stopped again, in front of his large balcony window. His eyes took in the glistening snow, already melting in the noon sun, but his mind was elsewhere.

That little piece of paper burned.

It burned as his wound still sometimes did, a constant reminder. He knew he could not run, not anymore. He promised. Still, the paper laid on his desk, unopened and untouched. Was it really such a difficulty to read one letter? Yes. Letters don’t mean anything good. They did, once, many years ago. Thranduil would write, voraciously some may say, to his dear friend and fellow king. They ranged from purely logistical and political to friendly and mundane.

He would prefer mundanity, after all the so-called adventures he has faced. He’d long since learned that no matter the prowess or strategy, some battles simply could not be won.

So, it is with that pitiable acceptance that he finally turned back to pick up the paper. His eyes briefly caught on the wax seal holding it closed. The insignia stamped into it was burned in his mind, a bow with a single arrow pointing to the sky. On banners they were usually black, but this seal was red and unpainted.

Red as blood. I pray to the Valar the words are not.

His itching fingers ran across the wax. The muscles in his restless legs clenched, ready to propel him from stillness into swift motion. His mind wandered away, out the door and back to his rooms where an old familiar wooden box lay. In it are letters, numerous pages filled with the friendly and mundane, all stamped with the very same wax.  

Each and every night, he would open up his delicately carved wooden box and take the papers out, one by one, slowly and with care. He would run his fingers across the pages, over the inked words, both in Westron and Sindarin. He would think about the other hands that held those pages, the other fingers which rolled the papers and held them as hot wax poured over the ends to seal them.

He would torment himself with these fantasies every night as he had done so in the past. Perhaps he was a masochist. Or maybe, after an age of trying to forget his first love out of pain, he was desperate to remember the second for the very same reason.

He clenched his fingers, crumpling the paper. Not wishing to damage the message, he stopped and pushed one finger under the seal to finally break it.

There was no time for nostalgia and memory now; he could indulge in such things later, when night was fresh. He always told himself that it was foolish, that he should ignore it and simply go to sleep. One day, perhaps, he would be able to do so without even glancing at the box.

He doubted that day would be today and he doubted tomorrow would be, either. His own personal reassurances were always false. He always gave in to himself without much of a fight, so easily. He was lucky no one saw it, for how could anyone choose to follow such a king? Pathetic.

Thranduil felt he should not shoulder all the blame, however. It was all his doing, after all. His secret and quiet influence which opened Thranduil up and turned him into this. Each passing day it was harder, not easier, to hide his unease. He kept still, held his expressions blank and yet he still felt exposed to the world.  

As the seal broke, the words upon the page spilled forth and greeted him. His eyes ran across the lines of carefully written Sindarin, finally learning what it was that the Men wanted of him.

The words did speak of blood, but not the sort Thranduil had expected. There was no death nor violence here, merely a passage of time and power. The lineage of his dear late friend has survived and resulted in more than one king. This new one was to be named after him as well.

Bard the second, succeeding his father Brand, son of Bain.

Bain, that boy. Thranduil knew the lives of men were short, but his especially. His sisters had lived long lives, but Bain’s had ended at a round thirty. What a cruel injustice it had been, forcing a crown upon Brand at such a young age. Thankfully, Tilda had been there to guide him and make sure everything was all right. However, he knew the death had pained her, as it must have pained Sigrid. Thranduil had been there to witness it, shamed as he was to come forth and leave his meagre offerings of comfort. He had not been there when Bard disappeared and he hadn’t been there to witness Bain’s descent.

He did visit the grave afterward, though he had not been alone. Sigrid and Tilda had stood there and they had been silent. He had stood with them and they did not give him one word of reproach. Tilda had eventually broken down and wept, clinging to Thranduil’s robes like a child once more and not a woman grown.

He had let her.

He himself had not wept for he had long run out of tears, but that night, when he had finally left the grave and girls behind, he sang a mournful song. He had been pleased to hear his people’s voices join his, creating something beautiful out of something so tragic. In this, at least, he was not alone.  

At least Bard did not have to see his child die.

Bain’s son still lived. The reason for his stepping down was unclear, but Thranduil figured he would learn of it soon enough. He’ll need to plan accordingly; the trip was not overly long but he knew, similarly to elves and dwarves, the Men enjoyed their feasting and revelry. This coronation would last for days.

His thoughts were interrupted by a door opening, revealing Galion with a chalice of wine and some choice meats and fruits.

“Your wine, my lord,” he announced, rather pointlessly.

Galion moved to his desk and put down the platter and chalice, eyes skipping to the letter.

“Have you written your reply yet?” he wondered, his tone carefully neutral.

“No.”

“May I ask what it says?”

Thranduil took a moment, composed himself further and replied, “It says Dale is to have a new king. The coronation will happen in a week.”

This caused Galion to still, all the small movements giving him away as living suddenly stopping, giving him the appearance of a statue. He looked around, searching for what to say. Or, perhaps, how to say it.

Thranduil did not wish to see the pity on his face, so he turned to look out of the balcony window once again. The trees were once again springing to life as the snow thawed, new buds forming underneath the passing frost. This winter had been horrid and Thranduil was glad to see it finally go.

“My lord,” Galion said. “If you do not wish to go, you can-”

“I will go,” he spoke loudly, cutting Galion off. “This is an important matter and I cannot send some delegate. It would be demeaning and surely taken as an insult. At least, in this instance.”

Galion did not argue the point.

“Prepare my spring shirts and coats. I’ll wear my crown, but I’ll need my circlet for the ceremony.” Thranduil paused, but remembered an old lesson, spoken in a familiar voice. Be nice. “Please.”

Galion bowed to his king and said, “Of course, sire. I will leave you to your writing.” And he left without another comment.

The second the doors shut, he collapsed back into his chair, strings cut.

He did not dare to look upon the letter once more, so he instead pulled a blank sheet to him, got his pen, and committed.

#the hobbit #fanfic #fanfic excerpt #wip #thranduil #bard #barduil #i've had this in progress for years lol #idk when i'll write the whole thing out im still working on that merlin fic

[lesya-writes]

A Private Conversation Between a Princess and a Queen

She took a breath of morning air, the sounds of the keep wafting into her rooms through the open window. A sea breeze blew her hair. Rhaenyra sat hunched over on a chair, knees pulled up. She doesn’t know how long she’s been there, but it had been dark when she woke. The moon had been big and beautiful and the stars had sparkled. She sat and watched them, trying to name all the constellations she had learned so far. Once that had grown to be a bore, she sat and watched the keep and its inhabitants working so late (or was it early?). Before she realized, weak sunlight was streaming into her room, the dark sky transforming into many colors like a shiny dragon scale. She lost herself in the beauty and wondered why she had not simply sat and watched the sun rise like this. Maybe because I sleep so late.

That night, however, sleep would not find her in peace. It came viciously at her and the only way she could fight was to simply stay awake.

It was quite a change of pace as most of her previous days and nights had been spent in bed, leaving only to eat or relieve herself. The days bled into one another and she quickly lost track of time.

On the third day, or perhaps the fourth, she began to smell less like a princess and more like a dragon. So, she called for a bath.

The hot waters and flowery soaps worked to relieve some of her woes and bring her spirits up, but those feelings did not last. Her thoughts turned to the revelation and then turned back to her mother  and then back again. Round and round they went, like dancing dragons in her head.

With her body bathed and warm, she felt ready to fall back into bed and so she had. The waking world had simply become too much to bear so she slipped into the dreaming one. When she had been much younger, she played at being Daenys the Dreamer. Each night she would dream her dreams and each morning she would wake and quickly pen them in her small bound journal before the memory of them slid from her grasp. Then, she and Alicent would play at deciphering them. Most of them were utter nonsense, of course, as all dreams were. She was no Daenys, dreaming her family to safety.  

Rhaenyra did not dream of things to come, only of things which never will.

In her dreams she saw her mother, whole and healthy. She was beautiful and smiling with a babe in her arms whose hair was as pale as her own and eyes shining like amethysts. Her father stands beside her, smiling down at the babe. Rhaenyra had watched this perfect stillness for many nights, but it would wither with every coming morning. Dreams are only that and their sweetness does not last.

They came as they always did, bringing forth some still and perfect picture of her family. They were somewhere beautiful, full of greenery and flowers. The background twisted and now they were inside, the sun shining through the high windows. It was the only light in the Great Hall. When Rhaenyra turned away from it, she saw her father was gone. Her mother was all alone at the end while Rhaenyra stood by the throne. The doors opened and light flooded in and when they shut again her mother was gone.

In her place stood another and she began to walk forward. The hall, which had been empty and silent, now filled with sudden music. The candles were all lit and there were crowds of people shouting in glee.

Rhaenyra blinked and the bride was now stood before her. She wore a golden wedding dress marked with black dragons on the edges. Her veil covered her face entirely and the train ran on and on.

The large doors finally shut.

A septon droned on about something. Her uncle laughed from behind her. She turned and saw him on the throne and not her father. He was as smug as always, utterly unrefined in a sprawl as he had been that one day.

She turned back to face the bride and gasped. Her veil pulled away and revealed the face of her friend.

Alicent smiled sweetly and leaned in for a kiss, but it was not meant for her. Rhaenyra had never kissed anyone, but she was sure this one tasted bittersweet. Alicent pulled away, the veil dropped and her friend was no more.

#wip #something ive been working on though its extremely underdeveloped #more show based than anything #rhaenicent #hotd #fanfic #hotd fanfic #rhaenyra x alicent #excerpt #im still trying to get a better grasp on the voice of the character

[lesya-writes]

feel like i should post more content on here ya know. this blog is so bare dkfjgkjdfgbdfg

#maybe ill make some art for my fic or something #but i dont feel like it now #maybe post more excerpts?

[lesya-writes]

ok nvm maybe i didnt lose subscriber? maybe it was just an ao3 thing idk

#the number went back to what it was #is it some kinda glitch? #i know ao3 is weird sometimes #eh anyways

[lesya-writes]

anyways, here’s part 1 of chapter 5. finally updated after like a year of no writing lol

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326593/chapters/113476903

just updated my fic and lost like 20 bookmarks wtf 

#seeking saviors #merlin #bbc merlin #merthur #fanfic #merlin fanfic #wip