Chapter 11
I AM SO SORRY!
I am seriously so, so sorry! I don't know what happened yesterday, but I just completely forgot to give you guys your next chapter! I had my first driving lesson yesterday (in England, you aren't allowed to drive until you are seventeen, and though I was 17 a few months ago, what with exams, I haven't had a chance to start until now) and I just forgot.
To make up for it, have a slightly longer chapter :) And all Legolas and Aragorn this time!
Slight warning: the beginning of this starts off as what is basically a nightmare- this might be triggering to some people, but there is nothing too graphic at all, and it's only brief.
As an aside, I would like to say that my thoughts, however ineffective they may be, are with the families of the nine people murdered in a church in Charleston. The news seems ever more depressing recently, and whilst I could plumb the depths of what happened in Charleston, the huge problems of racism and extremism that we seem to ignore whenever it is within our own borders, I will not do so here. I am not American, and I make no slight against anyone reading this who is American- the problem is global, and if you are a decent human being who is as saddened by this as I am, then there is no blame on you from me.
I do not wish to get into the intricate and tangled details of racism, or extremism, or terrorism. It is a muddled quagmire, and not something I believe I am qualified to talk about with any confidence or depth. I can only speak my personal opinions, and I will not do much of that here. Anyway, my thoughts are with those families, and anyone who has been a victim of crimes such as these. You will most likely never read this, but even so, I am deeply sorry.
Disclaimer: see Chapter 1
0-o-0-o-0
He was running. Sprinting through the shadowy trees. Fallen leaves littered the ground, and he could hear them crunching under his feet. For a brief moment, he was confused. It was summer. There shouldn't be any leaves on the ground.
But the strange thought spiralled away from him as he heard the clash of steel up ahead, and his aching legs yearned to sprint faster, to fly over the ground and reach the battle up ahead. But he could not move any faster, could not speed up what seemed like such a slow run towards where he so desperately needed to be.
His sword was heavy in his hand, and the grip was slick with sweat. He was sure that he shouldn't be able to hear his heart pound so easily in his ears, but then the sounds of battle became louder, and he burst through the undergrowth to a clearing.
Instantly the surroundings morphed into somewhere he recognised, and his heart jumped into his mouth when he recognised the rocky ground and steep slopes of those lands surrounding the Argonath and Amon Hen.
The Uruk-Hai were there, but this time it had not been the clear call of a horn that had drawn him. He had just known. And now his sword felt so very heavy in his hand as he watched. He couldn't move his legs, for all he had been running before. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything.
Still, he started trying to shout, the words hoarse and silent in his mouth, as he watched his friend try and avoid the blows from curved, black scimitars, desperately dance around the looming figures that seemed to grow larger with every second passed.
Aragorn tried to shout again, call out for Legolas to warn him, to tell him to get out, to run, to just run and save himself, but he could only whisper an ineffective warning as an Uruk-Hai stepped up behind Legolas and a scimitar came whistling around.
It was then that his voice was loosened, and Aragorn shouted, screamed Legolas' name with all the power that he could muster, but he was too late. Legolas spun around at the last minute, his blond hair that Aragorn swore never seemed to get dirty swinging around his shoulders. But he was too late. Legolas' eyes briefly met with Aragorn's, his expression wide, before the blond elf jerked forwards.
A large dark stain began to spread across Legolas' chest as the elf's eyes widened, still locked onto Aragorn's. As if a spell broke Aragorn found himself suddenly able to move, but the grief crushed him even as he sprinted across the ground, because he was too late. He was too late.
In front of him Legolas seemed to get further and further away, the blood spreading across his chest. He fell down, like the strings holding him up had just been cut, and Aragorn could hear the sound of what he knew was a lifeless body hitting the floor.
The image of Legolas, lying slumped on the ground, flickered, and then was suddenly replaced with Frodo and Sam lying side by side, just as Aragorn had seen them after the eagles had found them outside Orodruin. But this time, as he reached out a shaking hand towards them, he knew he was too late, and that they were dead.
Frodo and Sam disappeared and Aragorn choked back a pained sound as first Boromir lay there, his eyes staring at the tree canopy, and then Merry and Pippin, staying together even in death. The image flickered again and then it was Gimli lying there, his axe still held in limp fingers. And then Eomer, and Faramir, and then one person after another, again and again. Nausea began to rise in Aragorn's throat as he just watched everyone who he cared for, who he loved, lie dead in front of him.
It switched back to Legolas, his blond hair still not dirty even with the blood covering his chest. Aragorn couldn't seem to move from where he had fallen on his knees, couldn't even speak as Legolas' eyes stared at nothing.
And then Legolas was gone. Not gone as in dead. Just gone as in gone, not there anymore. Aragorn was left standing on his own in the midst of the woods surrounding Amon Hen.
His gaze flickered over to a patch of the ground that was exactly like all of the other patches of ground that made up the forest floor, but he knew that it was the point where Boromir had died, his chest filled with arrows. That was where Boromir had breathed out his last few words to Aragorn, where Aragorn had promised him he would not fail his people, not fail Gondor.
But now that was making him confused, because hadn't Legolas died, and not Boromir? Or perhaps both of them had died. He didn't know.
He didn't know.
The trees blurred around him, and then everything turned to grey smoke and fog. Aragorn spun around, but all he could see was in the corner of his eye, flashes of steel swords and armour, the coloured shields of the Rohirrim. All he could hear was the screams and shouts that always accompanied battle, the sound of people dying and people killing other people.
It was strange how they left all of that out of the tales and songs, thought Aragorn absent-mindedly, in the part of his mind that was observing from a distance. The songs don't mention the screaming of dying men, the horror when you finally stop and realise just what you have done.
Snapshots of images started to filter through the grey fog, too brief and vague for Aragorn to really see, but enough for him to go to his sword, to unsheathe Anduril. The blade gleamed briefly, the runes on the steel standing out in a cold white fire, but soon the fog swallowed up the light, and though Anduril gleamed still, the light couldn't pierce the smoke.
More splintered imaged filtered through, and Aragorn felt himself fall into the place in his mind that had become so familiar to him, where his focus narrowed to what he had to do to keep himself and those around him alive. A shape moved through the grey fog, and Aragorn tightened his grip around Anduril, the blade almost seeming to leap forwards in his hand.
And then a tight hand closed on his wrist, tugging him away. Aragorn didn't even think. With his hand still clutching Anduril he lashed out, his other hand tugging away from this person's hand and reaching for the dagger he had tucked away somewhere. In a moment the dagger was in his hand and he lunged forwards, the small steel blade dimmed by the fog.
A soft voice suddenly pierced through the fog, and Aragorn froze. He recognised that voice. But why was she here? She shouldn't be here. It wasn't safe.
He didn't know exactly what it was, but something, maybe a soft grip on his arm or a voice or just something in his head screaming at him this wasn't right, jolted him awake. Aragorn sat up with a strangled shout, going from asleep to instantly alert in less than a second. His grip tightened on the arm he was holding onto before suddenly realising he wasn't in the middle of a battle, but sitting in a bed he didn't recognise.
"Meleth-nin," said Arwen softly, sitting up beside him and trying to free her wrist from his hand. "Aragorn."
Aragorn's widened, panicked gaze shot to Arwen, and she could see the confusion in his eyes. "We're in Minas Tirith," she said clearly, slowly freeing her wrist from his grip and gently rubbing his back. "We're in Minas Tirith," she repeated. "It is May, a few weeks from midsummers, and it is a year after the war."
Aragorn sucked in a deep breath and then sighed heavily, one of his hands reaching around and gently grasping Arwen's. "Thank you," he breathed, rubbing at his eyes to get rid of the tear tracks and to try and regain some control. "And I'm sorry."
"You don't need to be," said Arwen. "You didn't even wake me," she said, glancing at the book that had been discarded in a rush when Aragorn had first started hoarsely shouting. A candle was lit on the bedside table. "I was reading." Aragorn had grown accustomed to such a light; given that elves needed far less sleep than mortals, Arwen needed something to keep her occupied.
"Where were you?" she asked, her voice low. Aragorn sighed, coming to sit up fully in their bed.
"Amon Hen," he said after a long pause, his gaze not meeting hers. "And then…I don't know. A lot of places and nowhere at the same time."
Arwen sighed softly, continuing to rub his back. She blessed the clearer and controlled dreams of the elves that meant she rarely had to suffer through the agony of those splintered, jagged memories that Aragorn had once tried to describe to her.
"I will be fine," murmured Aragorn to Arwen, running a hand through his tangled hair. He felt hot, and his under tunic was sticking to his body with sweat. He could still feel his heart racing. "I will be fine."
He ran his hand through his hair again, and breathed out deeply. After a few minutes, his heart had stopped beating so hard that he could actually hear it, and his head felt somewhat clearer. Arwen was sitting behind him, one slender hand on his shoulder.
"Estel," she said softly. Aragorn wasn't looking at her, but he could tell that her mouth was open and she was about to say something, but was hesitating. Eventually she sighed slightly.
"Scars mean that you have survived," she said, her voice strong. "Don't forget that."
Aragorn smiled, and turned to face her. He looked weary, but as he smiled something fell away from him and he seemed to straighten, light bleeding back into his gaze. "I know," he said. "We survived it all. We are still here. That is something to be proud of." He swiftly kissed Arwen, before standing from the bed and pulling off his light tunic.
"It's nearly sunrise," she said as Aragorn shrugged into a tunic and jacket, not bothering to change the soft leggings he was wearing. "Legolas hasn't seen the sunrise from the top of the citadel, has he?"
Aragorn smiled as he pulled on his boots, well aware of what Arwen was suggesting. "Thank you, meleth," he said, kissing her on the head. He left silently, and Arwen knew that as soon as he crossed the threshold of their rooms, his face would bear no sign of those things that still haunted all of them in their sleep and waking day.
0-o-0-o-0
Aragorn briefly considered getting into Legolas' room through the balcony. The thought came to him unannounced, something left over from his childhood days when he would play in the safe haven of Imladris, creep into his brothers' rooms as soon as the sun rose over the valley. It brought a strange, bittersweet nostalgia with it, the memories of times long gone.
But the thought was soon discarded, and Aragorn left his rooms through the door, nodding at the guards stationed down the hall. The sun was rising, but the ornate windows of the citadel were too high for the first rays to shine through, and still the corridors were fairly dark.
He reached Legolas' room fairly quickly, and nudged the door open quietly, slipping inside. His footsteps were near silent, even on the stone floors- again, something left over from hide and seek within the grand halls of Imladris.
The room was lightening, the curtains thrown back from across the balcony entrance. As Aragorn stepped in Legolas met his gaze from where he was sitting on the bed. His leg was propped up on a pillow in front of him, and a book was on his lap. A few pieces of parchment were scattered across the covers of the bed, that didn't look at all slept in.
"You're early," said Legolas with a slight smile as Aragorn let the door swing shut behind him. "What is it?"
"Nothing pressing," said Aragorn, moving into the room and sitting on the end of the bed. "What are you doing?"
Legolas pushed one of the pieces of parchment on top of the bed towards him, and Aragorn picked it up. "What is this?" he asked, his eyes tracking through the neat, flowing script covering the parchment.
Legolas waved the book that was on his lap, and Aragorn noticed another one to the side of the blond elf. "Translating," he said. "Faramir gave them to me yesterday. He said they have a number of old scrolls and books in Sindarin in the archives, from the earlier days of Gondor. He asked if I could translate some of them into Westron." Legolas chuckled. "I think he knew I would get a little bored."
Aragorn smiled, skimming through the parchment in his hand. It was an old account, written by one of the Numenoreans who had returned to Middle Earth when Numenor was destroyed. Aragorn guessed the Sindarin had been recopied many times by the archivists of Minas Tirith, but in the early days of Gondor nobody had seemed to translate it, and then the language was slowly forgotten as Gondor's might waned.
Legolas sifted through some of the other pieces of parchment before pulling out a piece and handing it to Aragorn. By the amount that was littered around him, it was evident he had hardly slept at all, but Aragorn didn't mention it.
"Faramir had copied that a while ago from a faded scroll," said Legolas. "By the looks of it it's an old record from Elendil's time. Nothing vitally important, but I thought you would like it."
Aragorn smiled. "It's an old description of Gondor, of Isildur and Anarion's first few years here. Where did Faramir find it?"
Legolas shrugged. "Have you actually been down into the archives here?" he asked. Aragorn had the good graces to look sheepish, and Legolas laughed. "There are thousands upon thousands of scrolls down there, hundreds more books. I'd wager you could construct a complete weekly timeline of Gondor from the beginning of the Third Age to now using the works in there."
Aragorn shifted, sitting more on the bed than the footrest, and handed the piece of parchment back. "How is the leg?" he asked.
"Healing," said Legolas, shifting on the bed with a slight grimace. Aragorn spied a tray sitting on the table across the room, and stood up to collect it. Legolas sighed.
"You have an entire house of healers at your call, Aragorn," he said with a smile. "You don't have to do this."
Aragorn shook his head. "I am here. I might as well." He set the tray down on the bed, careful not to jostle the rolls of white bandages or the pot of salve. He was quiet as he carefully unwrapped the bandages around Legolas' calf, piling them on the tray.
"It looks good," murmured Aragorn, examining the stitched gash. He grinned. "You're going to live, anyway."
Legolas swatted at him, half-heartedly hitting his shoulder. "I could have told you that without your expertise," he said, but he was smiling.
Aragorn chuckled, and he shifted the tray to one side as he began to bandage Legolas' leg. His gaze caught the smouldering remains of the fire in the grate, and a thought of last night occurred to him. He turned to Legolas. "Why does Belhadron not like a roaring fire?"
Legolas hesitated, and Aragorn instantly held up one hand. "My mistake," he said. "I was prying. Forget it."
"No, it is alright," said Legolas with a half smile. "He would probably tell you if asked, but since he is not here, I will. You ought to know, anyway." He winced slightly as Aragorn pulled the bandages tight around his leg, before settling and continued.
"It's rather simple, actually," he said. "Large swathes of Mirkwood were burnt in the fighting by the orcs, as a way to push back the elven lines. Belhadron hasn't told me much at all of it, but I think he was there, and at the very least he watched Mirkwood burn. At the most…" Legolas sighed. "By the time I returned, any physical scars were long since healed."
Aragorn nodded. "I would say I am sorry, but there is little point," he said with a wry smile. "I think we both know how ineffective those words can be." Legolas chuckled like that, and made the effort to think of other things. He smiled softly, letting Aragorn know the subject was over, and turned to the man.
"Why exactly are you in my rooms before dawn?"
Aragorn hesitated slightly, and then his gaze reluctantly met Legolas'. "I envy Elven dreams," he murmured. Legolas shifted, nodding slightly in understanding and a little sympathy, and Aragorn shrugged, but a smile was on his face as he put the tray back on the side and sat back down on the edge of the bed.
"You've been sitting here all night, haven't you?" he asked with a wry smile. He doubted that Legolas would have slept at all this night. As an elf, he didn't need to, and Aragorn could guess that sleep would be an elusive thing for him.
Legolas looked slightly sheepish. "Maybe."
"Your leg will cramp if you do that," pointed out Aragorn. "You should really keep it moving."
And that was how the two of them ended up leaning against the wall surrounding the courtyard on top of the citadel, watching the sun slowly rise over the mountains to the east. Two guards were standing either side of the White Tree, and another was at the doors to the citadel, but other than that, they were alone in the courtyard.
Legolas was far more used to the presence of guards than Aragorn. After all, though Aragorn had grown up in Rivendell, he had spent the majority of his life living in the wilds, as a Ranger. Legolas had grown up in the stronghold of the Woodland Realm, the son of the King. He was used to guards standing in the corners of rooms.
They stood together in silence as the sun slowly rose over the Ephel Duath, the long fingers of light reaching down on Ithilien first, and then slowly creeping to Osgiliath. At this moment, Faramir and Belhadron and the rest of the men would be somewhere south of the road running to Minas Morgul. After a few minutes, Legolas jumped up to sit on the top of the wall.
Aragorn winced. "I wish you wouldn't do that," he said. "It's a very long way down."
"You know I won't fall," said Legolas with a laugh. "It is a flat, level wall, and I am sitting on it. To suggest that I would fall is, quite frankly, an insult to my race."
Aragorn chuckled, and leant on the wall next to Legolas. "My apologies," he said. "I forgot how such a thing could be so insulting to a wood elf. After all, it is not like I have ever seen you fall from, say, a balcony?"
Legolas glared pointedly at Aragorn. "That was once. It was wet, and dark. You pushed me."
"It wasn't a push," said Aragorn. "A nudge, at the most. Besides, I have tried such a thing many other times, and it always failed. I have only managed to make you fall once. Let me enjoy my one triumph, mellon-nin."
Legolas laughed, and then fell silent. His gaze was east, watching the sun, but as Aragorn watched him the elf's gaze seemed to find the Anduin, the river just beginning to glint in the morning sunlight. Legolas' gaze followed the Anduin down it's course, and then strayed further and further south.
Aragorn shifted and gently nudged Legolas. "What is it like?" he asked softly.
Legolas blinked, and pulled his gaze away from the south to look at Aragorn. "What is what like?" he asked, but his tone was guarded, and Aragorn suspected he knew what he meant.
"You know what I mean," he said. "The sea-longing." He waved a hand in the general direction of Pelargir and the southern shores of Gondor, as if he could expand on the term by such a gesture. "I want to help, in any way that I can."
Legolas hesitated, slumping slightly where he sat. A small part of Aragorn's mind envied the fact that even when the blond elf slumped as if in weariness, he still looked far more elegant than a mortal ever could.
"I don't know," said Legolas after a while. He chuckled wryly. "It's not exactly the easiest thing to describe. It's not a hurt, as such. It's not like something is missing, or has been taken away from me. It's just that I know that I now belong over there. Across the sea."
Aragorn opened his mouth to say something, and Legolas smiled, and shook his head. "Not yet. Definitely not yet. But it's still there. And it's not going to go away."
"What makes it worse?" asked Aragorn softly. He was not an elf. He had no idea what the sea-longing felt like, what it was like to know that not only where you somewhere where you didn't truly belong, but that you had a simple enough way to get to that place, if leaving behind everything and everyone you loved was simple.
Legolas chuckled wryly. "I have no idea," he said. "It's not like it ever goes away. I guess it becomes more present when the wind is blowing from the south, but honestly, I have no idea, Aragorn. I don't know."
Aragorn frowned, and Legolas laughed. "Don't look so worried," he said, nudging Aragorn's shoulder from where he sat on the wall. "I can handle it. I am handling it. It is not too bad. It could have been far worse, and you know it."
Aragorn did know that. For many of them, it could have been far, far worse. For some of them it had been.
Aragorn had received the news of the Shire from Gandalf about a month ago. It had been saddening to know that the peaceful, somewhat oblivious realm had been torn up so much by Saruman. Aragorn had stood guard over the Shire for so long, watching and protecting its borders, and so he couldn't help but feel a little bit of guilt, that he was not there to protect them once more, even though he knew he was being unreasonable with himself.
Evidently Legolas' mind was on the same track, because he turned to Aragorn with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Do you think Frodo will sail?" he asked softly.
Aragorn nodded. "I think so," he said. "Such a thing as he did cannot leave you unchanged, and some scars never fully heal." He sighed. "I just hope he finds peace. He truly deserves it."
"He does," said Legolas with a sad smile. "He truly does. The other hobbits will be devastated, though. Especially Sam."
"Aye," murmured Aragorn. "Especially Sam. But they will move on, I hope. They can rebuild the Shire. Pippin might come back here for some time in the future. After all, he is still a soldier of Gondor. And Merry is still an Esquire of Rohan as well."
They would all move on, he hoped. Maybe moving on was the wrong way to put it, because it implied that they would forget, and that they would no longer be reminded of it all, or if they were, that they would not pause and bow their head in grief.
Of course they would. It was absurd to think that someone could simply be forgotten like that, that some things could fade out of their memory over a number of years. It became easier to deal with, sometimes. The pain would become less raw. It would be wrong to call such a thing a burden, such a memory of people lost, but the thought of them wouldn't weigh so heavily on their minds after a while. But it would never fully vanish.
That wasn't how grief worked.
Both of them fell silent, their gazes becoming distant as memory surfaced with a bittersweet tang. Legolas' gaze drifted to Ithilien, the sun beginning to fall on the green of the woods, and despite being surrounded by stone he could feel the quiet murmur of the forest.
"I was meaning to ask," said Aragorn after a few minutes, his gaze briefly leaving the view and glancing over to Legolas. "Did Gimli ever end up liking Fangorn?"
Legolas chuckled. "It certainly took a little while," he said. "I think for the first day he was simply humouring me. But he came around to the forest pretty soon, I think." His smile became softer, his gaze a little distant.
"Ai Aragorn, I had just one taste of the great woods of Beleriand, the wilds of Ossiriand and the deepest reaches of Doriath. A glimpse of what it could have been like!" Legolas turned to look at Aragorn, a smile playing across his face.
"What I might give to have seen it, Aragorn," he said wistfully. "And not just the height of the Noldorin, not just Menegroth and Gondolin. The pure wilderness of it all, the woods of Doriath and Ossiriand, the river Sirion in full flow, all of the furthest reaches, touched by elven hands but free. Lothlorien was something, Aragorn, Thingol's kingdom frozen in time, but Fangorn was wild, and untouched save by the darkness that has grown in some places."
The blond elf sighed softly. "But those places where the darkness was held at bay, where light reached the forest floor and the trees were growing and talking, ai Aragorn, it was as if I had stepped back to Beleriand." He sighed again, and shook his head. "Now I am more patient with Gimli when he speaks of such things he considers to be marvels."
Aragorn laughed. "I am glad to see that Gimli did not become too irritated with you and go for his axe. I think the forest would take offense if Gimli threatened you with his axe in their midst."
"Maybe," said Legolas with a smile. The two of them stood, or sat, in Legolas' case, in companionable silence, their gazes drifting out more often than not to Ithilien. The Rangers would be moving through the woods as they were sat here. It was a slightly strange, and unsettling thought, that at this moment they could be fighting in Ithilien and Aragorn would have no idea until messages arrived, which could take days.
The sun had fully risen over the Ephel Duath when Aragorn spoke again. He was still leaning against the wall, half resting on Legolas' leg where the blond elf was sitting on the wall.
"It's been a year," Aragorn said softly. "A little over, actually." He paused, trying to sift through the things in his mind before saying them. "It feels so strange."
Legolas hummed in agreement. "I know," he said. "It feels sometimes like it never happened at all, and at other times like we stepped into a strange dream, and are terrified of waking up to find that all of this, all we paid was just that, a dream."
Aragorn sighed. "This does all feel like a dream. A good dream, not a bad one, but a dream nonetheless." He sighed slightly. "It's strange, though," he said, his voice quiet. "Our dream is a world where thousands of people died so that we could triumph, where people are left covered in scars, no matter if they were hurt or not. We must be so…damaged, if a good dream is this."
Everyone who had survived the war bore some of that weight on their shoulders. It was impossible not to. After all, other people had died, and they had stepped over their corpses, in order to win what they all had now. Something like that, as with everything else, could not be easily forgotten.
But Legolas shook his head. "Do not take that guilt upon yourself, Aragorn," he said, his voice filled with a sudden conviction that had risen as soon as he had heard the grief lacing his friend's voice. "Every man who fought knew what was at stake. They chose to be soldiers, Aragorn, knowing full well what times they lived in, and what might happen. Do not take away the dignity of that choice."
Aragorn nodded. "I know," he said. "Truthfully, I know you are right." What he didn't voice, though he suspected Legolas knew full well, was how sometimes he felt like waking up would be a relief.
In some ways it would be easier if this truly was a dream. Before the Quest, before the great battles that heralded the final year of the war against Sauron, things had, in a way, been easier. They knew what they had to do, and they knew that they would most likely, at some point, die from doing it. As Belhadron had put it, they had had a purpose. And now they didn't, at least not the same purpose they had spent their entire time living.
Both of them stayed quiet for a moment, before seeming to visibly shake off the cobwebs and breathe in again. And as the sun rose over Minas Tirith, glinting off the white stone, the sound of life rising from the streets below, their conversation turned to lighter things, shared memories of the rare moments when they were together and there was quiet, a roaring fire in a grate in Mirkwood, a book under the shade of Rivendell's trees. But they did not forget, just as anybody who had fought in the war, or had lived through it, forgot.
Dying in war was remarkably easy. It was surviving the peace that was hard.
To Be Continued...
I PROMISE that the next chapter will be up on Tuesday :) Promise! The part about Belhadron's thing with fire will not be explored more- I am leaving that up to you as to what exactly happened. Some things people don't want others to know, no matter how close they are. Next chapter will be exclusively Faramir and Belhadron- I'm going to skip between the two locations for a few chapters, depending on how the word limit falls out.
PROMISE! The next chapter will come on Tuesday! If I forget (which I swear I won't) then I will do something like take fic prompts and write them exclusively for people (or something- no promises made for this!)