have you forgotten yet?

Things from westerosorting

1916returning — Sat, 22 Sep 2012 01:12:16 GMT

My very Dornish results:

Still waiting on one more stamp, which I'll edit in.

ASOIAF drabbles.

1916returning — Fri, 14 Sep 2012 02:20:30 GMT

While reading ADWD, I suddenly found myself not hating Jon Snow anymore, which is a story in and of itself. Anyway, I started thinking, and then drabbles were born regarding the young men of Winterfell.

Jon + Robb

Jon suspects that Catelyn isn’t pleased with his friendship with Robb. If things went her way, the entire family would treat him with the same iciness she reserves for him.

It might’ve worked if they hadn’t been introduced as children—Robb was excited to have a brother, too young to know why his mother always seemed to frown at the new boy.

By the time it became clear what the problem was, the damage had already been done. Jon might not be Robb’s true brother, but the love and friendship they share suggests otherwise, whether Cat likes it or not.

Robb + Theon

Theon comes to Winterfell as a scowling, unhappy boy. Robb tries to understand, but it isn’t until after his father talks to him in private that he notices the young Greyjoy is only trying to hide how scared he is.

Robb has never had a reason to feel truly scared—he’s been worried, startled, and lonely, but his family has always been there to fix it.

He doesn’t really like Theon at first, but he tries to be nice. He’d want a friend, situations reversed, and so he makes the effort.

(It means more than Theon is willing to admit.)

Jon + Theon

Jon and Theon are well aware of their status as outsiders. They should get along—they aren’t Starks, as people enjoy reminding them.

There’s resentment, though.

Theon has what Jon never can. Theon is a trueborn son, heir to the Iron Islands. He’s a lord, and therefore receives more honour than Ned’s bastard does.

Still, Jon has the one thing that Theon doesn’t. Jon lives with a father that loves him, and brothers and sisters that care for him. He has a family, and for every complaint that he makes about feeling left out, it’s still more than Theon has.

1916returning — Sat, 01 Sep 2012 04:31:30 GMT

Forgot that the spacing works differently on LJ than it does on every other civilized website. I cry now because I have to go and edit each and every fic post. ;__;

In Vino Veritas [Sherlock/John] Chapter 3

1916returning — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 18:57:09 GMT

Title: In Vino Veritas - Ch3

Pairing/Character: Sherlock/John

Rating: PG13

Summary: John Watson was used to new schools. Very few, however, had felt so permanent. Boarding school AU.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sherlock and John aren't mine. Most of the other characters aren't mine.

Author's Notes: Nothing new to add here.

Initially, John had been nervous about the fact that this was the kind of institution that even hosted such formal events. It wasn't the type of thing that he was used to, and at first he'd felt stupid in his suit. Sherlock hadn't put up a fuss, though, and that had helped to calm John's mood somewhat.

Of course, that moment of calm was shattered soon enough, as John found himself seated in the dining hall with Sherlock at his right, Charles and Sebastian across the table, and the boy who'd been drawing nudes in the garden that afternoon to his left.

He couldn't be certain, but he thought the boy sitting on the other side of the artist bore a resemblance to the subject of those sketches. Dorian, his name was, and John recognized that the boy was devastatingly good-looking.

He fit right in with the room's easily classic design; the walls were panelled in a rich wood, and portraits depicting (by John's estimation) former headmasters and dignified alumni looked down over the long tables.

Curiously, there was also a grand piano stationed in the front of the hall, but at the moment no one was sitting at the bench.

"Basil should show you his portraits sometime," Charles was saying. "They're far better than I could manage."

Basil (being the artist) only shrugged. "I'm still waiting for one piece that I can truly be proud of. Everything I've made so far isn't quite right."

"You and Charles are so modest," Sebastian sighed, cradling the singular glass of wine he'd been allotted in his hands. "I'd be quite happy to show off my talent, if I had any at all."

John couldn't deny that he'd been more or less keeping one eye on Sherlock for the duration of the evening, and he was surprised to see that Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease among the crowd of boys, as if he'd temporarily put his distaste for them aside. Still, his eyes were constantly scanning the room—a nervous habit, John would have thought, like someone searching for an exit, but that didn't match his otherwise calm demeanour.

As far as evenings went, though, this one wasn't so bad, if rather pompous. The food was quite good, John thought, but Charles informed him that the quality would be severely diminished in a month or two.

"But it's good now," John felt it necessary to point out.

"Your lack of cynicism is endearing," Sebastian told him.

"What are you looking for?" John managed to ask after Basil and Charles launched into a discussion of the art teachers (with Sebastian interjecting here and there and Dorian offering a polite remark or two).

"For?" Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing specific. I'm simply seeing what's changed over the summer for most of the people here."

"Anything interesting?"

"New pets, new girlfriends, a few broken limbs, and an exotic vacation or two. In other words, no."

"What would count as interesting?" Everything Sherlock had listed would have counted as exciting by anyone else's standards, and for a brief second John had thought it was an attempt at humour.

Sherlock smirked at John's question though. "Nothing likely to be seen among this crowd."

As far as ambiguous comments went, that one ranked rather highly. Unfortunately, before John could think of a suitable response, he was interrupted by Charles calling his name and leaning towards him.

"There's been a request from down the table—people want to know if you'll be playing rugby."

John blinked. "Oh. I suppose I hadn't thought about it."

"They're quite eager to know."

John followed Charles's gaze to a group of people not far from where they were sitting, all of them staring back with curious expressions.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt, could it?" he mused. He wasn't such a terrible sportsman, in truth; he'd played football here and there, but he'd always felt bad about leaving the team when he changed schools, so his participation had slipped somewhat.

"It's so brutal," Sebastian commented, but Charles had already passed the news of John's agreement back to the questioners. Their cheers of triumph reached their ears a few moments later.

"You'll have to be our liaison with that part of the student body," Basil remarked. "We're rather limited to the artists, I'm afraid. Even Sherlock's in music."

"Really? What do you play?" John regretted having failed to notice an instrument case back in the room.

"Violin." Sherlock's response was accompanied by a slight grimace. "Mycroft's idea. I mostly continue out of spite, to be honest."

"Oh. How so?"

"He thought I'd quit after a year of lessons. I enjoy proving him wrong."

"You enjoy proving everyone wrong," Sebastian corrected, which gained a few laughs from around the table.

They'd finished the main course of the meal when Dorian gently pushed back his chair, whispering something to Basil that the rest of them weren't able to catch (despite their efforts).

"Is this why he's been shut away in the music rooms all day?" Charles asked.

"They asked him to play," Basil explained. "Something to impress the new students."

Suddenly, the piano was starting to make a little more sense. When John glanced up a few minutes later, he saw that Dorian was seated at the bench, hands poised over the keys.

When they finally began to move, effortlessly gliding up and down, John understood why Dorian had been labelled as "impressive"—John couldn't claim to know much about music and its subtleties, but the sweet melody drifting through the room was evidence enough that Dorian had immense talent.

For a second, it made John feel guilty. He couldn't hope to achieve that level of ability, in music or in scholarship. What was he doing here, among these people?

In the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock move ever so slightly, and he was reminded that he didn't necessarily need to make an impression on everyone.

"Music you could fall in love to," Basil sighed when the song eventually concluded. John didn't miss the way he looked longingly at Dorian, or the way Sebastian and Charles locked eyes with one another.

Sherlock looked straight ahead, seemingly unaffected.

A couple of things were starting to make sense to John, and he felt his stomach turn. It wasn't that he was starting to understand a bit more about his new friends and their relationships, enlightening as that was. It was more that he recognized the high likelihood of himself ending up in that situation, nursing a growing infatuation with the boy sitting next to him.

One day wasn't enough to say for certain, but something about Sherlock Holmes was captivating. Of course it would have to be the emotionally guarded, borderline outcast.

John was suddenly glad that there was still a bit of wine remaining in his glass.

In Vino Veritas [Sherlock/John] Chapter 2

1916returning — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 18:55:19 GMT

Title: In Vino Veritas - Ch2

Pairing/Character: Sherlock/John

Rating: PG13

Summary: John Watson was used to new schools. Very few, however, had felt so permanent. JohnxSherlock, boarding school AU.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sherlock and John aren't mine. Most of the other characters aren't mine.

Author's Notes: I've been posting this on FF.net, but since that site is in fact a morass, I thought I'd let it shine on LJ too.

"How charitable are you feeling at the moment?" John hazarded to ask. There was one more thing he would like before he could consider himself well-adjusted; although in that brief visit months back (when coming here had barely even seemed a reality) he'd been given a tour of the school, he was hard pressed to remember exactly where everything was.

"I never feel particularly charitable," Sherlock answered.

"Okay." John paused. "All I need is a quick tour. I can ask Charles if you'd prefer not to help me."

"That won't do," Sherlock said, springing to his feet with surprising ease. "He's an art student."

John wondered if he meant it as some kind of insult, but Sherlock said no more of it, instead gliding wordlessly out into the hallway. John hurried after him.

"The student rooms are much the same on all three levels," Sherlock said as they approached the staircase. "The cleaning staff leaves supplies in the room at the top of the stairs. They used to lock it, but a few of the boys paid them to leave it open in the evenings."

"Why's that?" John didn't see how a storage closet could be that interesting.

"It's the only way to get onto the roof of the building. I'd show you, but with people still arriving, it's best not to go up there now."

It was apparently the only noteworthy part of the dormitory, and the two proceeded outside in a more-or-less companionable silence.

Between the school building and the dormitory was an expanse of well-tended gardens, through which a wide path carved its way. The area hadn't looked nearly so appealing in the damp and frost of February.

"This is nice," John had to comment.

"It's quite popular among the poetically inclined," Sherlock replied. Sure enough, a glance around revealed more than one person sitting amongst the flowers with notebooks.

It was pure curiosity that made John glance surreptitiously at the first artist they passed, though his attempt at subtlety was lost as he registered that it wasn't flowers that the boy was drawing. John couldn't be certain, but he thought he saw the boy cast a dirty look in Sherlock's direction as he tilted his paper away.

"He's only bitter because I corrected him on his knowledge of art history last year," Sherlock explained, before they were really out of earshot (to John's embarrassment).

"So are you an artist too?" It would make sense, since he'd also mentioned that Charles was an artist.

"My brother had something of an interest in famous pieces of art. I couldn't let him know more than me, so I did a bit of studying of my own."

"You have a brother?"

Sherlock cast him a sideways glance, and John realized it was a somewhat useless question. "His name is Mycroft. He used to walk these same paths."

"Do you get along well?"

Sherlock chose not to answer. John thought he could guess what that meant.

The school building was something of a relic, made of imposing dark brick and ornamental carvings placed around the doors and windows. It was at least clean and well-kept, though it did little to lessen the menacing effect.

"They've given you your schedule, I presume," Sherlock said, trying the door and finding it unlocked.

"I haven't looked at it that closely," John admitted.

"Memorize it tonight, or you'll be mocked for carrying a slip of paper around."

The inside of the building was nothing out of the ordinary; the interior was certainly plainer than the exterior, with thin corridors and smaller doors. It was nothing like the sterility of the newer buildings John had previously experienced. He was relieved to see a lack of inspirational posters taped on the walls; those had never left him in a particularly good mood, harmless as they were.

"The rooms are numbered simply enough," Sherlock explained, motioning for John to follow him down the hall to the left. "There are no surprises, so it's essentially idiot-proof."

"So if I mess up, I'll be the first?" John guessed, wondering if he should be relieved or stressed.

"No. You won't." Sherlock smirked. "If you're lucky, you won't ever find yourself in the same room as Anderson. It took him two entire weeks to learn his way around last year. I was starting to hope that he'd stay lost forever."

"Do you get along with anybody at this school?" John asked, hoping Sherlock could hear the joking tone in his voice.

"You." Sherlock looked away as he said it, and John frowned.

"Well, I'm flattered, but besides me. We just met, I don't count."

"Why should that make a difference?" Sherlock asked. "If you must know, I don't consider most people here to be my friends, nor do I want them to be."

"But you said that we…" John hesitated, wondering if he was misreading Sherlock's words. What he thought he was hearing was an offer—you'll be my only friend, he seemed to be saying. On the other hand, Sherlock could just as easily have meant that he was perfectly happy being alone.

"You're nowhere near as insipid and pretentious as the rest of them," Sherlock said calmly. John noticed he was avoiding eye contact.

So. Being friends with the strange-yet-genius boy who could claim no other friends of his own. John wondered if that was really how he wanted to start out the term.

In the end, though, it wasn't really a question—of course he did.

"I try my best," he told Sherlock. "Do all these maps mean this is the history hallway?"

"Thank you," John said when they eventually stepped back outside. "I guess you can go back to… meditating, or whatever it was you were doing before I interrupted."

"And I suppose you had other plans?" Sherlock replied.

"Well, not exactly," John admitted.

He was going to say more, but he found himself distracted by the sight of a delicate (but undeniably handsome) boy wandering their way, a teddy bear dangling from his hand. For a second, John thought he must have imagined it, but the scene failed to change.

"Is that…" His voice trailed off as the boy casually strode up to someone else, sliding their arms together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And that was Charles, from across the hall.

"Sebastian," Sherlock said quietly. "One of the more interesting people around here, you'll find." There was no warmth or excitement to his voice, though.

"There's a new man in the kitchens," John overheard Sebastian saying to Charles. "He's too old to invite, so something shall have to be done about him."

"Dorian will know what to do," Charles answered.

Fate had it that their two paths crossed, and Charles grinned as he recognized John.

"I see you two are getting along nicely," he commented. John tried not to feel too irritated by heavy curiosity in his voice. "Sebastian, this is John Watson."

"Sherlock's been showing me around," John explained.

Sebastian glanced between the two of them curiously. "You're Holmes' new boy, then? You must join us one evening and tell us everything."

Everything about what? John wondered. He nodded and forced a smile, though.

"And you ought to sit by us at the dinner tonight," Sebastian added. "I hear it's going to be particularly grand—do you know they've agreed to give us each a cup of wine? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing."

"Which dinner is this?" John asked, realizing he must have missed something rather important.

"The school puts together a formal evening at the start of each year, welcoming the new students and discussing all the important things we're set to do," Charles explained. "You have brought the right clothing, I hope?"

Fortunately, John had, though he hadn't expected to use it so soon. Perhaps he should have examined all the papers he'd been given a little closer. "Yes. Of course."

"We'd better hurry along," Sherlock interrupted. "Things to be done, aren't there, John?"

"I suppose." John gave Charles and Sebastian an apologetic smile, then hastened after Sherlock's already retreating figure. Things to be done. He nearly laughed.

In Vino Veritas [Sherlock/John] Chapter 1

1916returning — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 18:52:36 GMT

Title: In Vino Veritas - Ch1

Pairing/Character: Sherlock/John

Rating: PG13

Summary: John Watson was used to new schools. Very few, however, had felt so permanent. Boarding school AU.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sherlock and John aren't mine. Most of the other characters aren't mine.

Author's Notes: I've been posting this on FF.net, but since that site is in fact a morass, I thought I'd let it shine on LJ too.

John Watson was used to new schools. He'd been to a fair share of them, with mum moving from job to job while dad was away with the military. Very few of John's old schools, however, had felt so permanent.

"Boarding school will be good for you," mum had promised. "It'll be like having a proper home. You'll get such a good education—and you'll make such good friends!"

She seemed a little sad when she said it, though.

John tried to be positive about it, partly for her. There were the obvious downsides: strict uniforms, bratty rich kids, and no girls whatsoever (John was of a particular age). When they'd toured the grounds back in February, though, it was hard to deny that it was a nice place.

Of course, it remained to be seen whether or not it was the kind of place that could substitute for a proper home.

John had been a little concerned to find that he'd only filled a few bags when he was packing. Was that really all his life came down to? He supposed he'd stopped collecting useless trinkets after the second or third move, finding them too difficult to carry from place to place.

At least it made walking to the second floor of the dormitory easier. Room 221, he'd been told, though he shouldn't worry if he forgot. As the administrators had mentioned, on the door to each room was a pair of brass nameplates, with the surnames of the inhabitants engraved on them.

John's previous schools would have used index cards.

He took the time to read some of the names, wondering what kind of people they belonged to. Kirkland, Jones, Edwards, Doherty. There were a few of these boys bustling back and forth between rooms, but they paid no attention to John as he made his way to the end of the hall.

That much was to be expected. They'd had a year to make friends, alliances, and enemies; John was a latecomer, perhaps even an intruder.

As the numbers on the doors grew higher, John took care to pay closer attention to the names. The second to last door on the left—Room 219—bore the names Hallward and Gray, while the last on the right (220) proclaimed its inhabitants as Ryder and Flyte.

And there, the final door on the left. John looked at the delicately engraved Watson, eyes drifting above it to the other nameplate. Holmes, it read. That sounded normal enough.

John reached out a hand to knock, in case Holmes was in at the moment—he didn't want to start out by being rude. However, before his hand was even fully raised, the opposite door burst open in a rather dramatic fashion.

"Are you going to stand there and wait—" The young man who'd opened the door stopped as he registered John's confused face. "Good heavens, you're not Sebastian. I'm terribly sorry."

"That's… that's quite all right," John replied, hoping he didn't look too surprised.

"Holmes's roommate, are you?"

"That's me." John offered a quick smile. "That, er, isn't a problem, is it?"

The other boy shrugged. "Depends. Most people can't stand him, but in truth he isn't so bad—there's worse types. The name's Charles, by the way. And you are?"

"John. Watson, that is."

"We guessed that much from the door," Charles laughed. "You seem all right, whatever they might say about your friend over there. You'll have to stop by later—Sebastian is desperate to meet you."

"It's very kind of you to offer," John replied. "I'll see what I can do."

"Excellent." Charles gave John a friendly pat on the shoulder, glancing back at the closed door across from them. "And best of luck to you."

With Charles back inside the room on the left, John returned to the task of alerting Holmes to his presence. His home and surrogate family for the next two months—certainly no pressure or anything.

Still, John managed a confident knock, which he had to feel slightly pleased about.

"Open," came a muffled voice from inside. John took that to mean that the door wasn't locked, so turned the doorknob and nudged it open.

Holmes was lying on one of the two simple beds, hands folded on his chest and eyes fixated on the ceiling. It made it difficult to get an idea of his appearance, but John could tell that he was tall, with dark curly hair.

"Hello," John greeted him. It seemed strange that Holmes was making no move to acknowledge his presence, but maybe his had been asleep or something.

"Mind the door," came the response. John quickly closed it behind him. "That's better."

"I'm John." Maybe if he ignored Holmes's strange manner, things would work out.

"Sherlock." It took a moment for John to realize that it was the boy's name—it was certainly an interesting one, and he wondered if there was a story behind it. "That side of the room is yours," Sherlock continued, "and I would ask that you refrain from interfering with my own belongings. There are a number of delicate materials I've brought for study purposes, and I assume neither of us is keen on an accident."

"Right." John crossed the floor to the empty bed, depositing his bags on the flat surface. He had to unpack at some point, and though it seemed like a chore at the moment, it was probably best to get it over with now rather than later.

Everyone had bad days, he thought as he started removing his clothes from where they'd been neatly folded. He was trying to hide his own anxiety about moving in, and it wouldn't be unreasonable to guess that Sherlock was similarly bad with transitions.

"I apologize," a meeker voice said a minute or two later, interrupting John's thoughts. "It isn't entirely your fault. I was expecting someone of a more tedious nature—they run rampant in this place, you'll find. It gets dull."

"So I'm not dull, then?"

"Father in the military, a sister you haven't seen in at least a year, and numerous schools before this one. Infinitely more exciting than most."

John frowned. "Did someone tell you?"

"It's the lack of friends that confirms it."

"Excuse me?" John turned, anger briefly flaring up inside of him. It was strange enough to hear that Sherlock knew the basic details of his life, but that comment was uncalled for.

"I'd expect you to come with photos, or even notes from friends, but you've only brought the one of your parents—the army green is quite noticeable—and you and the girl, who looks far too similar to you to be your girlfriend." Sherlock turned so that he was looking at John, a certain kind of smugness in his expression. At the same time, it was curiously devoid of cruelty, which momentarily confused John.

"How… how did you know it had been a few years?" John looked down at the photos that were still in his hands, noticing the date stamp even as he said it. The room was small enough that Sherlock could've seen the numbers from where he lay, though it was astounding that he'd paid close enough attention.

"You see, don't you?"

John nodded. "All from two photos?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," Holmes agreed. "And the telling lack of more."

"That's… that's fantastic," John breathed. "You're a genius."

"An eye for observation, no more." Sherlock turned away once again, but John thought he saw a hint of a smile.

Maybe this wouldn't be so terrible after all.

As Luck Would Have It [crossover]

1916returning — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 18:30:46 GMT

Title: As Luck Would Have It
Fandoms: Thor, Doctor Who

Pairing/Character: The Master, Loki

Word Count: 800

Rating: PG

Summary: Loki's plan isn't to be saved.

Disclaimer: I own neither Doctor Who nor Marvel, nor any of the characters in this fic.

Author's Notes: I don't always like villains. When I do, however, I like them a lot.

Loki's plan isn't to be saved. He's content thinking that the last thing he'll ever see is the wounded looks on Thor and Odin's faces, and he even has time to imagine them living with crippling guilt for years to come.

It's a satisfying end, but when he closes his eyes, it turns out that it isn't for the last time. He collides with something and has the sensation of falling through a set of doors and the whole thing is thoroughly confusing.

It's probably for the best, then, that it isn't until later that he's left to comprehend the discrepancy between the small blue exterior of the vehicle that's collected him and the sprawling inside.

Loki opens his eyes to a shower of sparks and flickering lights. He takes a moment to look around, determining that this is some kind of machine (and one that doesn't appear to be operating at its full capacity, if the sparks are anything to go by).

"And people say I never do anything nice," a voice shouts. It's a bit ragged, like the owner isn't used to it.

"You saved me," Loki observes, assessing the short man who is currently dancing around the center of the machine, pushing buttons and pulling levers—there's a mad glint in his eyes and his clothes don't fit quite right, but aside from that he looks harmless.

"If you want to get technical," the man corrects, barely looking up, "it was the ship that found you. I opened the doors. Believe me, I wouldn't go out of my way to save a lost soul."

"I didn't want to be saved," Loki informs him.

The man lets out a laugh. "I didn't either. It was all rather accidental for me. But do you know what? I'm having quite the time of it so far. You see, I was a Professor until recently. I've since changed titles—I am a Master now. I am the Master."

He is neither Asgardian nor Jotun, Loki decides. He could probably be mistaken for human, but something tells him that there's more to the man than that.

"To what world are you headed?" he asks, hoping the answer might reveal something.

"This machine seems determined to return to a planet known as Earth."

Loki raises an eyebrow, recognizing the humans' name for Midgard. Perhaps the impromptu rescuing wasn't so terrible after all, if that is indeed where they are currently bound.

"And you go willingly," he observes.

"I have an old friend who's rather fond of its inhabitants," the Master says. "Personally, I find them dull-witted and tedious. I have a point to prove, however, and dull-witted and tedious may serve quite well under the circumstances." The mad gleam in his eyes returns—if indeed it ever left.

"You mean to harm them," Loki guesses.

"Not to harm them, exactly; to subdue might be more accurate." The Master looks up. "I know what you are, Asgardian; I've met your kind before. You fancy yourselves gods, if memory serves."

"They are not my kind," Loki corrects. He considers the Master's words, letting the pieces fall into place as he realizes what he is dealing with. "And would you deny that your people also believed in their own supremacy?"

The Master's face darkens. Loki meets his gaze coolly until the other man laughs.

"Then you know what I am as well."

"There are few who would dare name themself "Master.""

That receives another laugh in response. "There are many that would like to, but few who could live up to the name."

"Have you?" Loki has to ask.

"I intend to."

There's another violent jolt, one that locks them into place on a small (and for the moment insignificant) planet called Earth.

Specifically, it's a city called Cardiff, but the two men have yet to concern themselves with details.

"Join me," the Master suggests. Loki raises an eyebrow.

"In your plan to conquer such a pitiable and useless world?"

"Of course not. The victory's going to be all mine, you see. I was referring to something simpler just now—have you sampled the local dishes? I hear they leave much to be desired."

It's a start; it's all either of them have for the time being.

Saruman, Conjurer of Cheap Tricks [gen]

1916returning — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 18:24:19 GMT

Title: Saruman, Conjurer of Cheap Tricks

Pairing/Character: Gen

Word Count:1800

Rating: PG

Summary: Crack. "High school AU" doesn't quite explain it.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I just borrowed ~~and summarily ruined.~~

Author's Notes: I'm only partially sorry for this one.

Sam adores his biology class. Or, more accurately, he used to adore it, back when all they did was discuss plants and how plants grow and what makes plants beautiful. Those were the days of plant-based biology. These, unfortunately, are the days of animal biology.

These are the days of Sam's eternal unhappiness.

Even though he knows the old unit couldn't last forever, it still comes as a surprise when he finds himself looking at animal cells rather than familiar structured plant cells. He misses cell walls. And chloroplasts. Beautiful, lovely, green chloroplasts.

Sam is no artist, but he does spend most of class drawing frowning plants in the margins of his notes.

To make things worse, it's winter. He can't even go home and drown his sorrows in mulch and fertilizer, because there's snow on the ground. He isn't sure how he survives the winter.

Of course, Pippin tells him the reason he can't remember last winter is because he was drunk the whole time, but Sam is sure that isn't actually the case. Not for him. Still, it's not such a bad idea, is it?

These are dangerous thoughts entering Sam's mind, but he hopes he can't be considered responsible for any changes in his behaviour. He's not the one who thought it would be a good idea to learn about animal cells.

- - - - -

Frodo guesses people's reactions to him are split 50-50. Maybe there's a more exact measurement, and if he were mathematically inclined, he'd figure it out (but he's not mathematically inclined in the slightest).

Division One is those who say he's an outcast. They say he's weird, and his uncle is weird (they actually aren't wrong about that), and variations thereof. They're a negative lot, really, and Frodo would ignore them if they didn't make it so hard to do so.

"Don't listen to them," Division Two says. Division Two is mostly comprised of females, although there are exceptions - Sam, Merry, and Pippin being the main ones. Division Two seems to think that Frodo is constantly in need of hugs. Maybe he is, but he still isn't sure why.

"You could see one of the school counsellors," Pippin suggests one afternoon.

"But there's nothing wrong," Frodo reminds him.

"Is that why you spend all your time making anguished faces while looking forlornly out the window?" Merry asks. Frodo thinks he might have a point.

"That's because I'm trying to remember," Frodo explains. "I know I'm supposed to be doing something very important, but I can't remember what it is."

His friends roll their eyes. They've heard this excuse thousands of times. It still doesn't make any sense.

- - - - -

"I think," Pippin says as he sticks another greasy library book onto the shelf, "that we've probably spent more time in detention than actual classes." There is no embarrassment or worry in his voice. In fact, he sounds very pleased about this.

"We should have a party," Merry suggests.

"It's quite a cause for celebration," Pippin agrees. "Should we invite Frodo and Sam?"

Merry thinks about it. "Let's invite everyone," he decides. "Boromir will want to come, and Gimli. Best not invite Strider though. He's too uptight."

"What about Legolas?" Pippin asks.

"We'll need a few girls," Merry agrees. "If we invite Strider, he can bring his sexy girlfriend."

"Sssh," Pippin warns.

Strider's sexy girlfriend happens to be the daughter of the librarian. They'll be re-shelving books as punishment from now until next year if he overhears them talking about her. He'd suspect worse punishment, but after trying every form of discipline possible, the staff have decided that this is the most productive form of detention for the two of them.

"Isn't Boromir's brother dating that hot blonde girl?" Merry asks. "She could come along."

"We'd have to invite Faramir too then," Pippin points out.

"So you know his name now?" Merry frowns.

"Faramir's a very nice boy," Pippin assures him. "Actually, I hear he wants to assistant teach with Coach Grey."

- - - - -

Kids these days.

Coach Grey finds himself thinking this phrase very often. They're very lazy. And they complain too much.

"In my day," he tells them, "we had to run four miles each day - as a warm up - for physical education. It was uphill both ways."

About a third of the class believes him. Of the remaining two thirds, roughly half doesn't believe he was ever young, and the other half doesn't care.

Truthfully, Coach Grey doesn't care either. He wants to be teaching a Literature course. Or at least a foreign language; something a bit more intellectual than kicking and throwing things around a room, which is where Principle White decided he would do the most good.

Tool. It's a miracle this building is large enough to house his ego.

"All right, kids," he announces to the class in front of him. "You'll be running a mile in class today. If it takes you longer than eight minutes, you're starting over."

He ignores the complaints of 'again, really?' because he isn't here to entertain. He's here to coach, and he's going to whip these youngsters into shape if it's the last thing he does.

- - - - -

How Legolas manages to churn out so many hideous nature paintings in such a short amount of time is a complete mystery to Gimli, especially since the crowd of girls surrounding the guy is never smaller than flipping enormous.

"I feel such a strong connection to the forest," Legolas explains to someone as he painstakingly adds another leaf to the tree he's painted. It's an ugly tree. It's an ugly tree that looks like every other ugly tree he's painted for this class.

Gimli, for his part, feels like Legolas is full of shit, and that his fist would like to make a strong connection with Legolas's face.

He tries to stop glaring and continues working on the clay pot he's working on. It's a nice pot, thankfully devoid of leaves and flowers, and the number of compliments that he's received on it now totals at zero, even though it's so much closer to that whole idea of "one with the Earth" that Legolas likes so much.

Clay is the ultimate expression of the Earth - clay is Earth. Paintings can only represent the Earth, after all. Gimli wonders why Legolas doesn't just take up wood carving.

"That's a nice pot," a voice says. Gimli doesn't have to look up to know it's Legolas who says it, even though he didn't hear him approaching. "Did you make it?"

"No," Gimli says, because it's such a stupid question. He wonders who Legolas thinks made it, but he finds he's afraid to ask.

- - - - -

Boromir is a better sportsman than Aragorn. Yes. This is a fact. This is a fact that he is willing to prove time and time again, as many times as he needs to.

And yes, it's a personal vendetta. Boromir used to be the Big Man at school because his dad is a god in the corporate world, and everyone knows Boromir is set to inherit the company.

When Aragorn showed up, and with one sentence - "I'm related to kings" - recruited an army of loving followers, Boromir lost a bit of his reputation, through no fault of his own.

He's doing a nice job of gaining it back, though. He's kicked Aragorn's ass in gym class every day for the last two months, and it's been worth the reprimanding from Coach Grey. Very worth it.

Boromir doesn't like upstart people like Aragorn upstaging him. He hopes he's making his message clear.

- - - -

Aragorn once gave a very nice speech about responsibility in one of his classes. He received an A on that speech. Full points. Best grade in the class.

He'd left out an important part, though. He hadn't mentioned that being a Hall Monitor is all about responsibility. It's about preventing mistakes, stopping trouble, and steering miscreant youths towards a better future. It's quite a heavy burden on his shoulders, but someone has to do it.

It's a duty, but a duty that Aragorn loves. Sometimes he imagines that he's a real hero.

Well, his girlfriend likes to tell him that, which admittedly helps quite a bit, although he does wish she would stop with that "I'd give anything for you" rubbish. He's a hall monitor, she's the librarian's daughter. That's a bit too dramatic given their situation.

Aragorn doesn't like to get a big head, though. It's his ultimate goal to be "one of the boys," and he'll do what it takes to achieve that image rather than being seen as a power-hungry tool. He lets other people win sometimes.

Depending on the person, he might even let them win every time, if he thinks that's what they want. Having friends is important. Aragorn knows this well; after all, it's one of the things he frequently tells miscreant students.

And Aragorn doesn't forget his own lessons.

- - - - -

One by one the Fellowship wakes up. The gates of Moria are still closed, and for a second they're all confused by this realization.

"Thorin's beard, what was that?" Gimli exclaims, voicing what they're all thinking.

"Was that a vision of the future?" Pippin asks, sounding a bit too excited.

Gandalf frowns, deep in thought. "It was a vision of something, I am certain of that. I can't imagine what its purpose was, however."

"It must have been a trick of Saruman's," Aragorn suggests.

"That makes absolutely no sense at all," Merry replies, slightly less happy than his cousin about their collective hallucination.

"I would guess he sent that vision in order to demoralize us," Gandalf decides.

"Or to slow us down," Legolas adds.

"It was an odd choice," Boromir says.

"He is not without a sense of humor," Gandalf remarks sadly. "We must not waste any more time, however, for if his plan was to halt our progress, he has certainly succeeded."

The troubling vision is soon forgotten, as their focus turns to the firmly closed gates.

- - - - -

Meanwhile, Saruman laughs.

Reunion [USUK]

1916returning — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 18:16:15 GMT

Title: Reunion

Pairing/Character: USUK

Word Count:1600

Rating: PG

Summary: Sequel to Respite; Arthur gets a visitor.

Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine. I own nothing.

Author's Notes: Because the last one demanded more.

Alfred double checked the address on the slip of paper he carried. Yes, it certainly matched. The ink on the original paper was faded and the edges torn - it had been four years, after all. Four whole years since he'd found it in the field hospital.

He wished he could say the time had flown by. It hadn't.

Carefully, Alfred climbed the front steps of the house. It suited Lieutenant Kirkland, he decided; nothing too fancy, only a black and white townhouse, as intimidating as it was pretty.

Alfred rang the doorbell, stepping back to wait for someone to answer. He wondered if Arthur would have a servant do the job for him; somehow the thought bothered him.

But when the door did open - at first it was only a crack - it was Arthur standing there with a look of mild annoyance and poorly disguised shock. Alfred was just happy that he had found the right place.

"Jones? What are you doing here?"

"Stopping by for a visit, of course." Alfred grinned.

"All this way, for a visit?" Arthur frowned.

"It's a long story. You wouldn't mind if I came in, would you?"

Arthur didn't answer, but he stepped aside, which Alfred took as an invitation to follow him inside.

"Nice place," he commented.

"It was in better shape when the servants were still around," Arthur replied. "The butler was killed in the war, though, and I didn't have the heart to keep the maids employed while I was away, so I dismissed them."

"Does it get lonely around here?" Alfred asked.

"Nothing I can't handle," Arthur answered. "Would you like a bit of tea? I'd make it if you wanted."

Alfred considered asking for coffee instead, but it seemed like a risky choice. He nodded, too afraid to say that in all honesty, he hated the taste of tea.

"I'll be right back, then," Arthur said, disappearing to attend to the unwanted beverage.

Alfred took the opportunity to examine the room he'd been left in. There was numerous portraits on the walls, presumably of family members; the figures all seemed to share Arthur's blonde hair, and to Alfred's amusement, the bushy eyebrows as well. The various artifacts of Arthur's- jars and small sculptures from the Far East - were neatly arranged on the mantelpiece, and nestled behind a small cluster of them was a framed photograph featuring Arthur and three other boys of around the same age.

Cousins, Alfred guessed, if not brothers.

By the time Arthur returned, Alfred felt he knew the man much better. It was unfair, really; there wasn't any way he could give Arthur the same opportunity right now. He could have even learned more, if he'd wanted to - Arthur had left what was clearly a journal or diary next to one of the lamps. But Alfred wasn't rude enough to read it without asking.

"Why are you in London?" Arthur asked, setting a cup of tea on the table next to the chair Alfred had selected for himself.

"I wanted a change," Alfred answered.

"So it isn't because you wanted to see me? Pity." Arthur settled into a chair across from Alfred, miraculously managing to keep the tea in his own cup from spilling everywhere in the process. It was clear that he was fishing for compliments.

Alfred couldn't bring himself to indulge the other man. "How are things here for you?"

"Oh. Fine, if boring." Arthur paused. "This isn't some kind of medical follow-up, is it?"

"Not unless you want it to be," Alfred answered. "I see your arm still works. That's good, isn't it?"

"No, I was perfectly distressed to find I'm fully functional," Arthur replied dryly. "Not that there's been many people around to notice either way."

"Don't people visit you?"

"One of my brothers stopped by last year."

Alfred briefly congratulated himself on his detective work. "Only last year?"

"Last year was only a few months ago," Arthur reminded him.

"That's a few months of you hiding away," Alfred pointed out. "You're not becoming a hermit, are you?"

"So what if I am? People aren't so nice to talk to anymore. You know how it is; no one wants to talk about the war, but what else is there? Everything else seems so … pointless." Arthur said, resting his head in one his hands.

"You think you've got it bad?" Alfred scoffed. "At least people here accept that it happened and know how bad it was. Back home, no one really understands. It's like they think it didn't happen at all because they didn't want to be involved."

"Both terrible excuses," Arthur replied. "So that's why you're here, isn't it?"

Alfred nodded. "I didn't know where else to go, though, other than here. I hope you don't mind."

"It's fine."

There was a pause. Alfred tried to swallow his tea, hoping Arthur didn't see his grimace. He wondered how an entire nation could depend on the stuff when it was so foul.

"I'm assuming you haven't found much to do with your life, since you're here?" Arthur finally said.

"I was a horrible doctor, and I don't know if I could continue with that even if I wasn't," Alfred answered. "What about you?"

"Haven't done much," Arthur admitted. "I've written a couple of rubbish poems and started a novel, but it's all terrible." He paused. "I made an ink drawing as well, but it was awful enough that I had to burn it."

"Could I read some of your stuff?" Alfred asked.

Arthur blushed. "No. They're nothing worth reading, I promise."

"How do you know, if no one's read them?"

"They're not … for reading," Arthur desperately tried to explain. "They're not even about the war, properly…"

Alfred wondered what they actually were about, and why it had caused Arthur's cheeks to turn such a dark red. Clearly he was hiding something. Something embarrassing. Something to be embarrassed about around Alfred…

"They're not about anyone in particular, are they?" Alfred grinned.

"No. Of course not."

Their eyes alighted on the journal next to the window simultaneously. Arthur had the disadvantage of still having his teacup in his hand, and by the time he sprung to his feet, Alfred had already opened the book to a page covered in writing. Alfred half expected an attack from the smaller man, but it never came, perhaps out of respect for the furniture.

"I don't read your personal things," Arthur snapped.

"If I had any with me, I'd let you," Alfred reassured him. "For we can call this a medical review. Mental health, you know; it's a growing field."

"Are you always this insufferable?" Arthur asked.

"Usually," Alfred agreed. "But only towards people I like, if that helps."

"Not really."

"Ah, too bad." Alfred looked down, finding a neatly written passage on the page. "What's this about a heroic pilot?"

"Don't you dare read that. Anything but that."

"Oh, it's poetry too! I like it. Shame this pilot doesn't have a name. Oh, what's this, he has a knowledge of medicine, too?"

"Now you're making it up. I didn't write that. Now stop." Arthur glared.

"If you didn't want me to read it, you wouldn't have left it out," Alfred teased.

"Might I remind you that I wasn't aware you would be visiting?"

"You had time to move it, though."

"I could send you out," Arthur warned. "Or call the police."

"You'd send me out into the streets? Alone?" Alfred added a pout for good measure, but he lowered the journal back to its place next to the lamp. He hadn't read much, but from what he had seen, he could guess the nature of the rest of the content. It was flattering; he wasn't entirely sure that he deserved it.

"You must have somewhere to stay," Arthur sighed.

"Ah. I was wondering if you might help me with that."

"Please tell me you have money."

"I have American money." Alfred hung his head.

"Did you come here counting on the fact that I would be here waiting for you?"

"On the fact that you'd be here, sure, though I never said anything about you waiting for me. I'm happy to hear it though."

"What if I'd died? Or moved? Or simply gone for a walk when you arrived and missed you completely?" Arthur at least looked more exasperated than angry at this point, which Alfred took as a good sign.

"You didn't, though," Alfred pointed out. "I take that to be a good sign. Maybe this was supposed to happen."

"Are you saying I have to put up with an American boarder now?" Arthur crossed his arms over his chest.

"It's not exactly 'boarding,' since I don't have money. Yet," Alfred added. "You might enjoy the company, though. What do you say?"

Arthur considered it for a moment, biting his lower lip. The result made him look more shy than contemplative, and Alfred found it oddly endearing.

"If you promise not to read anything else that I don't want you reading, then fine. But you're going to get a job, and you're not going to bother me or get in my way. Is that clear?"

Alfred nodded. "Thank you, Arthur."

He chose to wait before admitting that he'd left his belongings outside the servants' door, sensing that might be a deal breaker. He didn't want to seem presumptuous, after all.

Respite [USUK]

1916returning — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 18:12:51 GMT

Title: Respite

Pairing/Character: USUK

Word Count:1500

Rating: Somewhere around PG, PG13

Summary: WWI. Arthur is injured.

Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine. I own nothing.

Author's Notes: I wrote this a while ago and posted it on FF.net; it probably could have used more editing. Oh well.

Arthur didn't remember much of the attack. He remembered the shells flying overhead, his men rushing forward, great plumes of earth shooting skyward as the ground was struck repeatedly by exploding missiles.

Arthur hadn't made it very far before something struck him down.

To be honest, he was rather surprised to find that he was alive. However, something wasn't quite right with his shoulder, which he could tell as feeling gradually flowed back into his limbs. It was possible that more of his arm was damaged as well, but Arthur was afraid to move. Even though he could feel that someone had covered the area in bandages, he knew as soon as he tried to change the position of his arm, he'd no doubt feel pain shooting through his body.

Things smelled awfully clean, too, and Arthur knew he'd been removed from the trenches. He lay still for a moment longer and wondered whether or not he was happy about this development; if his wound wasn't too serious, perhaps it would be a nice change. On the other hand, a wound was a wound.

"Ah, you're awake!" a voice exclaimed.

Arthur's first instinct was to assume that they weren't talking to him, but the smiling face and cheerful blue eyes were definitely turned in his direction. He scowled.

"Is there anything I can get for you, uh, Lieutenant Kirkland?" the man continued. He was young - too young to be working in a field hospital, Arthur thought, but then again weren't they all? - and seemed to be a surgeon, but whatever duties he was here performing weren't exactly the same duties that Arthur would have predicted for a surgeon. The man seemed to be acting more as a nurse. It was confusing, but since it seemed that he wasn't about to perform any unauthorised surgeries, Arthur relaxed somewhat.

"You could get me a tea," He suggested, realising his mouth was rather dry.

"I was referring to morphine, actually, but I'll see what I can do," the man replied.

"Should've said as much, then." Arthur grimaced in his attempt to sit up. "What's that accent?" He knew he should have been able to place it, but his head hurt, and everything felt a bit fuzzy. Someone had probably already injected him with painkillers. That someone had probably been the young surgeon.

"American. You can't tell?"

"No." Arthur frowned crossly. "When do I get out of here?"

"You aren't the most serious case we have to worry about, so it might be awhile for you," the doctor answered. "Look, my name's Alfred. Alfred Jones. If you need anything, and there's a nurse nearby, ask her to find me."

"Is that a privilege you give to all your patients?" Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"No," Alfred admitted. "So don't abuse it, Lieutenant."

"How about that tea I asked for, Jones?"

Thankfully he left Arthur alone after that, giving him time to sort out his thoughts. Annoyingly, the details regarding his wound were all very muddy, and he found he couldn't say for sure what had happened. He couldn't decide if that meant it had been an utterly forgettable and common type of situation leading up to it, or if it meant that it had been horrific enough that his mind had chosen to block it out completely. He'd heard stories about that happening - that, and much worse.

Bugger it. It wasn't fair.

He was surprised when a few minutes later Alfred returned, actually carrying with him a small cup, over which a tendril of steam curled.

"It's not going to be very good," he apologised, "but it's all I could get for you."

"It hasn't been anything marvellous in the trenches either," Arthur pointed out. "Thank you all the same."

Arthur raised the cup to his mouth, thankful that it was his left arm and not his right that was injured. This way it wouldn't interfere with important activities like drinking tea, and writing if the mood ever struck him.

"So are you going to stand there and watch me drink tea while there are men to attend to?" he asked after a moment. "Surely there are enough nurses to do this job for you?"

"Not exactly," Alfred replied. "We're a little understaffed as it is, and a few of the nurses have caught some kind of sickness from being here. Those of us that are still healthy have to cover for them while they're out."

"So you drew the short stick, did you?"

"I don't mind," Alfred insisted. "I'd rather carry blankets and tea than stitch up some of the wounds in here, to be honest."

Arthur stared. "Why the bloody hell did you choose to be a doctor, then?"

"Long story." Alfred waved a dismissive hand. "Uh, I guess I have a few things to do. We can talk later if you want."

"What about my arm? Is anyone going to take a closer look at it?"

"Once we're done with the more urgent cases," Alfred promised.

Arthur was going to ask if he might find another blanket someplace that he could use - it was awfully chilly. But Alfred left before he could get the words out.

- - - - -

Alfred returned later - with a desire to chat, which was at once both endearing and frustrating.

"Sorry," Arthur said, " but why me? There's probably plenty of more interesting people to talk to here."

"You're all interesting to me," Alfred answered. "I don't see many Brits back home. And..." His eyebrows knitted together behind his glasses. "Well, some people don't look so great with their injuries, and I don't want to make them uncomfortable. Because I feel uncomfortable looking at some of them, even though I know it's wrong."

Arthur wondered if all Americans were so forthcoming. He suspected Alfred only needed someone to talk to about all this, and he was there to provide a set of (more or less) willing ears.

"What about that long story you mentioned earlier, then?" Arthur asked. "What are you doing here if you're afraid of injuries?"

Alfred sighed. "I wanted to be a hero."

It wasn't the answer Arthur had been expecting. "Oh."

"No, that's not the whole story," Alfred continued. "I wanted to be a pilot at first. I thought I'd come over here and learn to fly."

"What happened?"

Alfred pointed to his glasses. "They wouldn't let me. They said I'd be a danger to myself and others because my eyesight's not very good."

"That's rather harsh," Arthur replied.

"No, they were probably right," Alfred admitted. "I was upset at first, but someone told me that if I wanted to be a hero, there was always room for volunteers with the Red Cross. It's true that I've helped more people here than I would've if I was a pilot."

"You're a good man, Jones," Arthur decided after a moment's silence. The American's story was strangely endearing; if there were more people like him, he thought, maybe this war wouldn't be such a mess. But that was a lot to hope for. "You ought to convince the rest of your country to head out here."

"I would, if I could," Alfred laughed. "But I'm not important enough back home to decide that kind of thing. Anyway, you don't seem like such a bad person either, Lieutenant Kirkland. I wish we could have met someplace else, somewhere less ... distressing. I think we could have been friends."

The look on his face was slightly too earnest, too enthusiastic. It didn't look right in this place.

"Maybe," Arthur managed to say.

"I'll see if we can get your arm looked at soon," Alfred said.

- - - - -

They didn't have another chance to talk after that, although the two did manage to exchange a few greetings here and there. By the time Alfred finally had a chance to find his friend the next morning, Lieutenant Kirkland's bed was empty. For a moment Alfred feared the worst, but then he remembered that a good number of the patients had been taken away to be sent back to England for a full recovery.

Sighing, Alfred walked over to the bed, noting that the sheets hadn't been cleared away just yet. To his surprise, he saw that a scrap of paper was sticking out from underneath one of the blankets. He reached forward and gently picked it up.

He couldn't help the smile that broke out onto his face as he realised what it was. There was an address scrawled onto the paper - a funny British address that wasn't accompanied by a name. But Alfred knew what it meant, and whose address it was.

It wasn't much, and it didn't substitute a goodbye. But for now, it was enough for Alfred.

Intro/About/Hello etc.

1916returning — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 18:04:06 GMT

I thought I'd come back to Livejournal after taking a many-year break from it. Mostly I'm intending to crosspost some of my fanfics from FF.net, but I may end up using this journal for other things too.

Well, that's all. Cheers!