rosestream



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    There is no killing a deathless thing. There is no saving the man gurgling his last on the ground behind you. But you raise your sword in challenge. You are a shieldmaiden of Rohan and you will stand by your king. You are Eowyn, Theoden’s daughter in all but name, and you will defy this horror until the very end of you.

    But you are no man. They do not tell any stories of your end.

    So you do not end here.

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    09 May 2026

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    Even on the sweet walks of the Shire, things come along that sweep you off your feet—adventures, wizards, children. Bilbo came down, a month after he’d adopted this strange, quiet boy on a whim and a wonder, and found his whole (second) living room scattered with some unholy combination of paint, jam, and mud. Frodo sat in the middle of the mess, with dirty hands and innocence plastered all over his face.

    Bilbo leaned on the door because something in that bright grin had taken his balance from him. He went for a mop. He had not felt so at home since thirteen dwarves had tumbled through his round green door. He felt like Frodo had stolen something from him and then given it back better than it had left.

    Thievery, perhaps, ran in the family.

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    09 May 2026

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    When Sam came home, there was a feather in Pippin’s cap, a horn on Merry’s hip. All Sam had was a box of dirt with one large, smooth seed tucked inside. Even in Mordor, Sam had only been fighting for the Shire. He spent the rest of his life helping things grow.  

    Let’s talk about Sam crying over rabbit stew, because a brace of coneys had been a spot of luck, once; because even then, even when he still had his pots and his pans, when Frodo had not yet snarled at him and told him to go– Mr. Frodo had still been gone too far by then to ever come back again.

    Rosie, who did not cry easy, chopped onions so he would not be the only one with wet cheeks to scrub off. She asked him about herbs and spices, about stirring and cooking times, about what loaf would go best with it all. Sam said, “Rosemary, tarragon.” Part of him still rang against the greening metal of a copper pot dropped down a chasm and left somewhere on the edges of Mordor, but she saw him breathe deep and reach for thyme.  

    (a story for Rosie Cotton)

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    09 May 2026

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    littlebastardreviews posted the collected facts from the 2014 UK Editions of Harry Potter: and this fact caught my eye.

    'Only one non-magical person has ever managed to get as far as the Hogwarts Sorting Hat before being exposed as a Squib.'

    But, gosh it just makes me want a story where a squib did make it through. So here's a drabble about a squib with a quick mind and a hand-me-down wand, who refuses to be denied her birthright.

    --

    when the hat drops over her eyes it asks, 'well what do we have here?'

    she’s got a forged hogwarts letter with penmanship that’s perfect down to the ink splatter;

    she’s got a complicated string of owls, only half of them forged, from parents to administration to ministry that’s so complicated her name ended up on the first year roll call anyway.

    she’s got ten arguments, four pleas, and one smothered threat on the tip of her mental tongue for why the house that comes out of this hat’s brim better not be 'squib'

    she’s got a lighter up her sleeve and an eight and a half inch wand in her belt that will never, ever work for her.

    'well,' says the hat, 'better be slytherin then'

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    09 May 2026

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    When Hermione finds a way to bring Sirius back from the veil, her actions change the rest of the war. Little does she know her spell restoring him to life provokes magic she doesn't understand and sets her on a path that ends with a Time-Turner.

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    17 Apr 2026