#and for THIS SHOW??? with THESE HARMONIES????

[sayanrougshaban]

In Tabula Rasa, Spike is without a soul-he did not show aggression. He didn't try to eat anyone, even though he's still basically a vampire. Without Angelus's upbringing, William would most likely have been like Harmony-an ordinary vampire with ordinary needs. A little angrier. but obviously not William the Bloody.

Ok, never watched much of Angel outside of s5, but I understand that the sort of thesis statement of the show/character is "If nothing we do matters, all that matters is what we do."

Explain to me why then, if this is the crux of Angel, everyone and their mother bitches about Spike getting his soul back? Implying that it's inherently selfish and because it was selfish, it means next to nothing?

This line presents the concept that action bears more weight than reason. It doesn't matter why you do good as long as you are doing it. Because to do good, regardless of why or what you may gain, is good.

You can never be perfect. You can never fix everything. But the things you do are your legacy. "If there's no bigger meaning, then the smallest act of kindness is the greatest thing in the world."

I personally believe that Spike got his soul for himself as much as he did it for Buffy because the concept of man vs. monster had been a Massive part of his character arc. Pre-soul he couldn't be either and therefore was nothing in his own eyes (not helped by being repeatedly dehumanized either.)

Spike made a choice that Angelus never would've. He chose the man over the monster.

Regardless, Love is apparently not a good enough reason to get his soul back, according to some. They argue that because he fought for it from a place of romantic Love that it doesn't matter. That the reason behind the action was selfish and therefore meaningless.

But the fucking point of Angel is that action is more important than reason. That the struggle, the fight is more important than the why of it. Essentially, whatever gets you through it is, and should be, enough.

Spike fought his nature because he had something to fight for. Love is not inherently selfless or selfish, it isn’t good or evil. It's a feeling that can be turned into a verb, to action. What you chose to do with Love is what codes its nature.

Spike in the past has done horrible things. Despite the constant "Spike fans kind of forgot about" bullshit, no one argues that he hasn't done terrible things. But this one action/choice was singular. No one had ever done it before. No one ever Wanted to do it before.

Whether you consider it selfish, the Love Spike felt drove him to be better. Because of that Love, he chose to be better. He took action and fought to be better.

If nothing you do matters, all that matters is what you do.

Spike made a choice to be a man and not a monster and fought for it. That Matters.

Regardless of the fact that anyone with a soul can do good or evil, we know Spike does good with one, which reflects back and makes the action of getting it good. It's cyclical goddamnit!

With a soul, he is selfless. He remains by Buffy's side, not out of an inability to let her go, but because she chooses it. He stands his ground and sacrifices himself to save the world despite Buffy telling him she loves him and to leave. He doesn't waver because it's the right, good thing to do.

Whether or not you think he was selfish in the lead up should not matter. He is the only vampire to ever make this choice. Spike got his soul back and did good with it, by the ethos of Angel, that's what matters.

[radioactiverats]

Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader (19/?)

Saw this post ^ immediately thought of seekers :,) Just a short thought about change

———

Starscream had come to notice a quirk of yours - your tendency to just… lie down.

It usually happened after solo training. A satisfied look on your faceplate, you’d lower your frame to the grass. There you lay, spread-eagled on the ground, staring up at the sky and drinking in your fill of blue. The only reason you weren’t still in the sky was your drained fuel tanks, and even then, you strained your frame until mechanisms protested just for another moment in the air.

Starscream had come to fetch you yet again, probably because you hadn’t showed up to refuel. It still surprises you that he would bother with something so inconsequential when you’d seen him tell others to just starve and leave precious fuel for others if they cared so little about their own maintenance.

“I’ve told you countless times that the chemicals in the Terran plants are a nightmare to remove from your paint. It’s almost like you want your wings to be splotchy.”

“I don’t,” You say, but make no effort to move, optics fixed on the wide, wide expanse of the cerulean sky. Similar to the colour of your paint. If you flew high enough, would you’d blend in with the sky? Allow it to hide you from the war below? The only thing keeping you tethered, really, was Starscream. Not that you weren’t grateful for your connections with other mechs - TC, Skywarp, Bee, Ratchet. But try as hard as you might to muster any modicum of emotion for them, it simply wasn’t coming today. That only compounded your guilt, weighing your exhausted frame further into the ground.

You wave a lazy servo in the general direction of Starscream’s voice, resigned to rejection yet hoping to make light of it anyway. Anything to soothe the ache of loneliness in your spark.

“…You could join me.”

Starscream’s emotive EM field prickles irritably. “Were you listening to a word I just said? The stains-”

“I’ll polish your wings so good after this. Promise.”

“…What could possibly be so pleasurable about… lying on the ground?”

“Join me and find out.”

A pause.

“…You’re vulnerable to attack, you know.”

“Not with you around.”

There’s another beat of silence and you think he’s just going to leave you there in a huff. Possibly with an irritated command thrown over his shoulder to be back in the next joor. And it would be more than you could really ask for, that he would allow you your moment of peace even if he didn’t quite understand it.

Unexpectedly, the grass rustles beside you.

“This is beneath me,” Starscream mutters, but he tentatively lowers his frame to the ground, next to yours. Feeling your gaze on him, Starscream tilts his helm to better study the expression on your faceplate, the apertures of his optics whirring quietly to focus on you. His optics glow brightly even in the daylight, and something unnameable in their ruby depths warm you even more than the sunlight on your plating.

You look at him for a klik longer before turning your optics back to the sky.

Blue. Blue. Blue.

You knew your optics had been changing colour and you didn’t know why.

Maybe later, when you were less… whatever this non-emotion was. Empty? When you felt less of whatever this was, you would be pleased that it reflected a growing harmony with Starscream. But right now, it forced you to confront just how much you’d changed without even realising.

Who had you been before?

How had you turned into… this?

Like this, the piercing blue of the sky reflected against colour of your own, you could almost imagine the pure cerulean that they used to be.

“Do you ever wish you could just… fly away?”

“I can’t,” Starscream says bluntly, but it lacks bite.

“I know, I know. But… just… do you wish you could?”

You can feel his optics on you, but you don’t turn to meet his gaze.

“…Why? Do you?”

“I mean, I won’t.”

You almost laugh, then. Sidestepping the question just as he had done.

“You won’t,” Starscream repeats, optics narrowing.

Finally, you turn your helm to meet those blood-red optics. Turning away from the blue of the sky to see the red of his optics reflected back in yours.

“Not as long as you can’t.”

His optics bore into yours. Searching. Even so, not commanding your attention as much as asking for it.

Unable to tear yourself away, you startle when you feel the warmth of his servo over yours.

The question on your faceplate must be clear, even as you grip his servo tight.

But it’s Starscream’s turn to avoid your gaze, his optics trained on the sky.

You trace the shadow of a bird in his optics as it soars over you both. Free. For a klik, his optics glow with a rippling sheen of cerulean blue, and you could have sworn you caught a glimpse of a mech who didn’t know he would become Starscream.

You squeeze his servo gently, and after a beat, feel him squeeze back.

If change is inevitable, then at least you’re changing together.

Previous /

And some more amazing art from @jackalackqwq !!!!!! Thank you!!!!

[honey-bitch]

♂ Mars in the Moon Persona Chart- Signs ♂

ᡣ𐭩 Please support me by liking reposting and following me. Mars in the moon persona chart can tell us where we've been intimately hurt and wounded, however it can also show us our inner drive and passion.

For 0° - it doesn't have a delegated sign and therefore it will take the qualities of the sign it's in.

♂ Aries (1,13,25°) - Emotional wounds often come from feeling ignored, rushed, or denied the chance to assert oneself. There may have been aggressive conflict or situations where personal boundaries were disregarded. This placement drives a need for independence, quick action, and personal conquest, emotionally fueled by the desire to take charge and lead.

♂ Taurus (2,14,26°) - Emotional wounds are tied to a fear of instability or being deprived of comfort and security. Hurt may stem from feeling emotionally neglected or having possessions or values disregarded. There’s a strong emotional drive to build material security, enjoy life’s pleasures, and seek comfort, all while resisting change.

♂ Gemini (3,15,27°) - Emotional wounds often come from feeling misunderstood or silenced in communication. Verbal arguments or gossip might have created emotional scars. The drive here is for mental stimulation, intellectual connection, and freedom to communicate, with healing found through exchanging ideas and thoughts.

♂ Cancer (4,16,28°) - Emotional wounds can stem from feeling emotionally abandoned, unprotected, or rejected by family or close loved ones. There may have been deep emotional vulnerability hurt by others. The drive is to nurture relationships and create a sense of home or emotional safety, often through protecting those we care about.

♂ Leo (5,17,29°) - Emotional wounds often relate to rejection or feeling unappreciated for who we are. Hurt feelings may arise from a lack of recognition, admiration, or affection. The drive is to express creativity, receive praise, and shine in a way that feels authentic and self-affirming.

♂ Virgo (6,18°) - Emotional wounds may relate to feeling criticized, inadequate, or unworthy of love. There could have been emotional hurt tied to perfectionism or feeling rejected for not measuring up. The drive is to be of service, improve oneself and others, and find value through self-improvement and meaningful work.

♂ Libra (7,19°) - Emotional wounds often stem from conflict in relationships or feeling unbalanced in partnerships. Emotional hurt can come from betrayal, neglect, or disagreements in love. The drive is to find harmonious relationships and fair treatment, with a strong emotional pull toward balance and cooperation.

♂ Scorpio (8,20°) - Emotional wounds are deep and intense, often linked to betrayal, abandonment, or emotional manipulation. These wounds run to the core, causing a desire for secrecy or control. The drive is to seek transformation, emotional depth, and rebuild from within, often by confronting fears or power struggles.

♂ Sagittarius (9,21°) - Emotional wounds often come from feeling restricted or confined, particularly when it comes to personal freedom. Hurt may arise from dogmatic beliefs or feeling trapped in narrow perspectives. The drive is for freedom, adventure, and the pursuit of truth, typically through travel, learning, or exploring new ideas.

♂ Capricorn (10,22°) - Emotional wounds can stem from feeling unsupported in achieving goals or not being equipped to succeed. Hurt may come from authority figures, responsibility, or failure. The drive here is to achieve, create structure, and work toward success through hard work, discipline, and building long-term security.

♂ Aquarius ( 11,23°) - Emotional wounds often stem from feeling misunderstood or disconnected from society or groups. There may have been experiences of alienation or feeling “different.” The drive is for independence, innovation, and connecting with like-minded individuals, usually in pursuit of progressive ideals or causes.

♂ Pisces (12,24°) - Emotional wounds often come from feeling overwhelmed, emotionally drained, or taken advantage of. Boundaries may have been crossed, leading to confusion or vulnerability. The drive is to seek compassion, healing, and creative expression, typically through artistic endeavors or spiritual practices that offer solace and peace.

©️ 2025 honey-bitch All Rights Reserved

DISCLAIMER: this post is a great generalisation and may not resonate with you. I would recommend buying a reading from a professional astrologer (me) to get more insight

Dm for Paid Readings

[letmeoutofthebasementt]

What it’s like to be loved by SKZ

Chan "Like being wrapped in the warmest, safest hug—except he’s also making sure you drank water, paid your bills, and know he’d die for you."

This right here is a true partnership. It’s balanced and harmonious, and filled with communication. You always have a shoulder to cry on and warm arms always ready to embrace you. His love is intense and deep. All-consuming, even. Once you have him, you truly HAVE him. This is a relationship built off a lot of trust. Hes also very adventurous and enthusiastic, and will want you to grow together. Though you’ll also be held to very high standards. Hes very critical, and a perfectionist. If you don’t meet his standards or expectations it’s a major issue. However, he likes practicality and expressing his love through acts of service. He likes being relied on, and having someone to care for. He also has a deep-rooted desire to nurture others, and wants a soulmate-level partnership built off equality. Being loved by Chan is harmonious, intense, passionate, free, full of adventure, and truly just so full of overwhelming love and connection.

Minho "A romance novel where the main characters are obsessed with each other, but also somehow in a dramatic love triangle with their own emotions."

He’s very intense and passionate. Very loyal and possessive. He wants you to be one, to the point where it’s honestly hard for you to maintain your own sense of identity, but he also withdraws and keeps a lot of secrets. Talking with him is very deep, and his love is truly deep-rooted within him. He’s adventurous, and loves freedom. He’ll share that with his partner. The type who loves to travel with his partners. He’s also very practical and detail-oriented in love. He also has a lot of hidden and dark desires, and needs a deep and soul-bonded commitment. He wants you to be wholly each other’s. Everything will be a new adventure, and it’d overall be very passionate.

Changbin "He loves you in 4K Ultra HD, but good luck deciphering his emotional subtitles."

He’s warm, generous, and loyal. He loves showering his partners with affection, and is just very practical and service-oriented in love. And just overall is a very kind partner. A built-in hype man, even. He’s practical, though, and another one who enjoys acts of service. He likes to be there and do things for his partners. But he’s also intensely passionate, and again loves deep connections. He’s also a definitely free partner, as well as nurturing, and wants his partner to be both a close friend and a lover.

Hyunjin "Like dating a genius, a poet, and a mad scientist all at once—passionate, chaotic, and sometimes you have to remind him that sleep exists."

Being loved by Hyunjin is very romantic and dreamy. He’s compassionate and sensitive, and definitely the type of romance that includes you waking up on anniversaries to roses, breakfast in bed, and a painting of you he’d been working on. He’s very empathetic. He also enjoys showing love in little actions, and acts of service. But he’s also very direct and assertive. Passionate and impulsive, showing the world his love while also not being way too much. But he also has a strong desire for control. He also has a strong desire for freedom, and wants a love that’s still spontaneous.

Han "Luxury treatment, acts of service, and spontaneous existential crises at 3 AM—true love with a side of drama."

His love is very practical and harmonious. He’s balanced and fair, while also very sensitive and empathetic and in-tuned with his partner’s emotions. Hes your number one hype man. Admiring and pampering you constantly. He’s warm and he’s generous, though he likes control. He still wants the relationship to be free and unconventional, something uniquely yours, and loves just being around his partner and yapping.

Felix "Like winning the emotional lottery, but also somehow starring in an action movie where you never know what’s coming next."

His love is a lot like Han’s. It’s practical and harmonious, but it’s also very enthusiastic and direct. Very impulsive and spontaneous, and just so independent. He’s warm and generous, and like Han likes hyping up and pampering his partners. Spending time and spoiling them, keeping them close to him. He loves a free and unique romance, and again just loves to yap to his partner and bask in their presence.

Seungmin "Equal parts best friend, worst influence, and biggest fan—if love could be a rollercoaster designed by a chaotic mastermind, it’d be this."

It’s very practical and harmonious. Highly domestic, even. He’s emotionally sensitive, and overall a very secure partner. He’s nurturing and protective, and loves looking after his partners and making sure they’re alright. He’s practical and detail-oriented, planning out the best most perfect dates catered to his partners likes. Making sure it’s all amazing for them. Another who likes free and unique love, and can have a desire for control.

I.N "Solid as a rock, protective as a guard dog, and occasionally judging your life choices with a single glance—love, but make it intense."

His love is very intellectual and independent. He’s not overbearing with it, and values the freedom and individuality of both parties. He’s warm and generous, and he loves having mutual admiration in his relationship. He’s also just very direct and enthusiastic. His love is strong and it’s passionate. It’s also very intense, and so so deep. But it’s also free and rebellious, and just very romantic and he almost idealizes his relationships. And he values strong mental connections.

[bouquetface]

Synastry Observations 10

Accuracy is influenced by ENTIRE chart.

Sun opposite Saturn

The negative: Sun person may find Saturn person’s attitude to be limiting and negative. Sun may think Saturn is at times controlling.

Saturn may find Sun to be arrogant as Sun may refuse to listen to Saturn on certain things.

This can cause the two feel stuck in the connection. They can progress in life without clashing with one another.

The positive: The two can learn from one another. If accompanied by positive synastry, this can indicate small bumps in the road. If the relationship is professional or not very close, this aspect may rarely be felt.

Sun conjunct Pluto

If negative, Sun may feel Pluto is forceful trying to control and change them. This can lead to clashing and power struggles.

If positive, Pluto can be a trigger for Sun to evolve.

Usually, this synastry can indicate a difference in power and status between two people. One may have the power to change the other’s life in some way.

Mars trine Venus

This indicates attraction - physical and/or personality. You may simply mesh well. You easily get into the flow with one another. A lot is simply understood btw you two.

The potential negative Venus person may feel Mars is sometimes insensitive, impatient or impulsive. Mars can learn to be more gentle through Venus. And Venus can feel motivated to take initiative in the connection.

Sun sextile Neptune 

Sun may admire Neptune - depending on the entire chart, this can be admiration for Neptune’s sensitivity, creativity or intrigued by Neptune’s mystery.

This is usually a subtle and soft synastry energy. There can often be a quiet harmony in one another’s presence. 

Venus trine Venus

You enjoy one another’s presence. You may have a lot in common. You may value similar things. You may easily understand one another’s needs to feel loved and supported. 

This is very positive synastry as it indicates mutual consideration and like (or love) for one another. It can help overcome problems encountered in the connection.

Venus square Jupiter

This can indicate a different in culture, background or mindset. As a result, you may think differently when it comes to matters such as  finances or religious views.

At worst, this can show an insincere connection. One may have ulterior motives. One can simply desire some form of pleasure - ex: relationship out of boredom, relationship for physical intimacy, knowing you don’t want a future with this person.

Venus trine Uranus

Venus aspect Uranus can indicate the meeting was significant. You may have had a strong reaction to other other - instant attraction. The person can stay at the back of your mind after meeting. Most likely Venus is intrigued but it could be Uranus too.

Venus square Neptune

This can be difficult. It can indicate a disappointing or insincere connection. Ex: No mutual attraction, one acts as a muse to the other, one loses a bit of interest after getting the other.

Neptune could feel Venus lacks interest in their creative pursuits. 

Venus could find Neptune’s behaviour confusing at some point. 

Jupiter trine Pluto

You can be very good friends. You may share a lot of memorable adventures and experiences. You contribute to one another’s growth and life path.

Pluto can benefit from Jupiter’s optimism and world view. It can allow Pluto the freedom and/or grounding to evolve.

Saturn sextile Mercury

This can make you two good at problem solving. Saturn can ground Mercury’s ideas but if negative Saturn can repress Mercury’s ideas.

Mercury may be able to verbalize Saturn’s situations which can make Saturn feel understood.

Neptune Opposite Jupiter

Be cautious of making promises you can’t keep. It can be fun to imagine a future together but there can be something fleeting about your time together. The entire chart can influence this.

[sh4nksslvt]

Hot Springs, Hot Tempers

You and King accidentally end up in the same secluded hot spring. Cue awkward tension, steamy misunderstandings, and fluffy chaos.

King X gn! reader | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, king being bad at flirting(?), ooc king, post-battle

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You had no idea the hot spring was co-ed.

Okay, to be fair, the old innkeeper had mumbled something about the “blessed harmony of nature,” but you’d tuned her out while ogling the steaming bath behind her. After all, after days of dodging explosions, clashing with marines, and nearly getting cooked alive by Kaido’s fire breath (which—honestly—should be illegal), you were in desperate need of a hot soak.

So, in you went.

Alone. Glorious. Gloriously alone. Or so you thought.

You sunk into the mineral-rich waters with a satisfied moan, stretching out your limbs like a boiled noodle.

“Finally,” you sighed. “Peace.”

And that’s exactly when you heard it—the sound of something massive stepping through the entrance behind you.

You froze mid-soak. Slowly turned your head.

And there he was.

King.

All 20-foot-something of him, broad shoulders covered in black scales and steam, towering at the threshold with his helmet already off, wings folded behind him like a damn mythical creature who forgot how personal space works.

He stopped, towel hanging over his shoulder, completely stone-faced as your eyes met.

“Oh no,” you said flatly, water sloshing around you.

King blinked. “...This is the private spring, isn’t it?”

You shot up, half-submerged. “I thought this was the solo spring!”

“You thought wrong.”

“You’re the one barging in here like some half-naked goth dragon!”

“I’m wearing a towel.”

“Barely!”

An awkward silence settled like fog on the water.

Then you noticed it—King’s expression faltering ever so slightly, as though realizing he had, in fact, just crashed a very vulnerable soak session.

“I’ll leave,” he muttered, turning on his heel with all the grace of a man who never once had to care about bathing etiquette.

“No, wait—ugh. Don’t.” You sighed, flopping back against the smooth rock ledge. “It’s fine. Let’s just pretend we’re two strangers in an awkward commercial.”

King paused. “A what?”

“Never mind.”

He stepped forward, water rippling violently with every heavy-footed motion, and settled into the far end of the spring. The opposite end. The farthest possible distance between you and his very large, very shirtless self.

Great. Now you had to pretend you weren’t occasionally glancing at his shoulders.

To be fair, you tried not to. But he was right there. With skin that shimmered like obsidian under the moonlight and muscles that made Greek statues look like soggy breadsticks.

And then he caught you looking.

You quickly looked away.

“I wasn’t—uh—I mean, nice... wings?” you blurted out.

His eyebrow raised. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

You groaned and covered your face. “I’m under pressure, okay?! You’re like—intimidating hot.”

King blinked. His cheeks, you could swear, colored faintly at the edges.

“Don’t call me hot.”

“Well don’t show up shirtless, glistening with steam like some overworked fanfic trope.”

A beat.

“…What’s a fanfic?”

“Forget it.”

Another silence.

Then, out of nowhere, King spoke. “I didn’t know you used hot springs.”

You side-eyed him. “I didn’t know you bathed.”

“I’m not a savage.”

“Well, jury’s still out.”

King huffed, turning his face slightly. For someone who once split a marine ship in two with his boot, he looked incredibly put out by your teasing. Almost pouty.

You smirked.

“Well, since we’re stuck here together… might as well enjoy it,” you said, leaning back against the stone and letting the warm water lull your muscles.

King tilted his head. “You’re not going to try anything stupid?”

“What, like seducing you with my wrinkly prune fingers?” you held up your soaked hands.

“…Yes.”

You snorted. “Please, you’d combust before anything happened.”

He grunted. “Fair.”

A few more moments passed. You dared peek again.

He was leaning back, steam coiling around his broad frame like silk, wings shifting with every subtle motion. You noticed he had a faint scar running along his collarbone—jagged, healed-over, and oddly… human.

“You have a scar,” you said before you could stop yourself.

King opened one eye lazily. “Observation. Noted.”

“No, I mean… I didn’t think Lunarians could scar.”

He was quiet for a beat. “I got it before the flame. Before I could heal.”

“Oh,” you murmured, eyes softening.

The mood quieted.

But then you, unable to help yourself, added: “...So you were a clumsy kid.”

He side-eyed you. “I fell from a sky cliff. That’s not clumsy. That’s survival.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m sure you looked very majestic doing it.”

“I did.”

You both cracked a small laugh. A real laugh.

And then—

SPLOOSH!

A wild monkey cannonballed into the spring.

You screamed. King leapt halfway out of the water with his wings flared.

“WHAT IN—?!”

The monkey screeched, flopped onto a rock, and began casually bathing itself with a smug little expression.

“…Are you serious?” you muttered.

King glared at the monkey. “It’s staring at me.”

You nudged closer. “Probably impressed by your wingspan.”

“Or your screaming.”

“Excuse me! That was a war cry of surprise.”

“I thought it was a kettle exploding.”

“You—!”

You were cut off by the monkey stealing your towel.

It yanked it from the side, chattered triumphantly, and bolted into the woods.

“HEY!!”

King, somehow, did not move to help. In fact, he looked… amused?

“Don’t you dare laugh,” you warned.

His lips twitched. “Consider it karma for calling me a ‘goth dragon’.”

You groaned and sank deeper into the water. “I’m gonna have to air dry now like a soggy noodle.”

“You’ll survive,” King said, voice warm with uncharacteristic amusement.

You both sat in steamy silence for a bit longer, the earlier tension melting with the mist.

After a few minutes, King shifted closer. Not much—just a foot or two. But it was enough to make your heart stutter.

“...You come here often?” he asked, in the most unintentionally awkward tone imaginable.

You blinked.

“…Are you hitting on me?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

You raised a brow. “That was absolutely a pickup line.”

“It was not.”

“You literally just asked, ‘do you come here often?’ in a secluded hot spring.”

“…Coincidence.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then—you burst out laughing.

“I can’t believe this. You’re terrible at flirting.”

King flushed. “I’m not trying to flirt.”

“Oh, no, of course not. That towel drop earlier was just an accident too, huh?”

“That was gravity’s fault.”

You giggled so hard you slipped slightly under the water, splashing like a drunk dolphin.

And then—you felt his hand.

Gentle. Large. Holding your elbow to steady you.

You froze.

He looked surprised at himself too, eyes wide like he hadn’t meant to do that.

But he didn’t pull away.

“…Thanks,” you mumbled, suddenly very aware of the fact that your face was burning hotter than the water.

King’s gaze softened. Just slightly.

“You’re welcome.”

You both stayed like that, too long, too close. Until—

“HEY!!” someone called in the distance. “Is the spring free yet?!”

It was Queen.

You and King jumped apart like teenagers caught making out behind the gym.

“I should go,” you said.

“Yes. Right.”

You stood up, realized you still didn’t have a towel, and groaned.

King turned his back with a surprising amount of respect. “Take mine.”

“…Wait, seriously?”

“You’ll catch a cold,” he muttered, ears slightly red.

You wrapped it around yourself, stunned silent for once.

As you left the spring, water dripping and heart racing, you dared glance back at King—still chest-deep in steam, gaze lowered, face unreadable.

But there was a faint curl to his lips. Almost like a smile.

You didn’t know what that meant. But you did know one thing:

You were definitely coming back to this spring.

And next time, you might just forget to bring a towel again.

[karmicbias]

Skeleta - what the fuck was THAT

I don't even really have the words. That was an incredible experience. What a gift. A gift to us, but also a gift that TF has.

It's going to need several (dozen) more listens but it's possible it surpasses Prequelle for me. Wow.

My main takeaway from this as I continue analysis - this is a HYMNAL.

Detailed notes jotted down below:

Peacefield

Didn’t make it past the end of the choral before I started crying

Love how the voices layer in, deepen, expand, swell

Hope - comfort for the journey we’re about to take

Cheesy but it fuckin works

Oh child, stay close to me - lyric of all time

This shit is so proggy

Love the arpeggio guitars and the soaring synth going into the solo

Spillways reference lol

Second part of the solo just ASCENDS

WE ARE LEGION. JOIN US.

Groovy synth solo

One less chorus might have been OK here really (Watcher in the Sky syndrome)

Also fewer “Peacefield” repetitions

Lachryma

Oh yeah we’ve listened a million times, groovin’ groovin’

Air guitar throughout

And singing along

I really love the rhythmic pick scratching in the pre-chorus

Choreography!

MARY GOORE WANTS OUT

That vocal flip is so satisfying, isn’t it

This duet gives me so many Feelings

Phantom’s finally “all grown up”

Growly slides yum yum

Resolve/determination

I love the long cymbal crash in the right ear at the end

Satanized

Aw yeah baby I remember not sleeping the week you came out

Same, dude.

I’m so excited to get to go in the confessional booth and make my best ‘oh shit’ face

SAVE ME

I love watching the mv for this and they’re really playing along

Freakin’ it sensitive style

Big fuckin’ bass gonna wobble some asses

This solo is OUTRAGEOUS

BIG BASS I LOVE YOU

White noise cymbal I love you

Tobias how long have you been waiting to put the word laicized in a song?

There’s a rising harmony at the end that fucks hard

Guiding Lights

Oh he really wants to be Erik Phantom

This low register is SEXY

Ohhhh I’m crying again

That acoustic guitar!

Orpheus and Eurydice again Tobias?

WILDASS CHORD CHOICES

This is a fuckin’ worship song

Is this album literally a hymnal you fucker?

All the solos on this album are just fucking beautiful

HARMONIES

De Profundis Borealis

This is GORGEOUS PIANO

WHA TTHE FUCK

I GOT JUMP SCARED

LITERALLY

Crying again because it’s so beautiful

WILD ASS CHORD CHOICES

Whoa

Anime credits music in the best way

PROG FUCKING METAL

Longing

Having trouble marking out the lyrics but I’ll look it up later

OH MY GOD CIRRUS AND DEW DOING THIS IS GOING TO BE UNREAL

Crying again

Cenotaph

Snazzy 90s fever dream

Whoa okay fakeout there

Mary, eh?

Um did y’all get Brian May while I wasn’t looking?

THIS IS A FUCKING QUEEN SONG

HOLY SHIT

Sorry I’m dead now

Crying again because Freddie would love it

(Crying on the second listen too, yay)

Brian Goddamn Fucking May guitar tone is unreal

Nice solo for Phantom too!

So many duo guitars on this album

Cool pulsing thing underneath

Classic Ghost chugging!!!

Back to Brian May holy cow 

IT’S QUEEN

I’m actually dead

Missilia Amori

Tobias you slut

Who hurt this man?

OH MY GOD TOBIAS

YOU CHEESEBALL

I cannot take this song seriously (this is the intended effect)

You better shake ass with this one for us

These lyrics are unhinged

Whoa wild harmonies “War is onnnn”

Key change!

SLUTTY VOCAL SLIDES HOLY FUCK

Oh my. Revenge.

Holy stank solo batman

The rhythm guitar countermelody!!

There’s gonna be some really INCREDIBLE burlesque and drag numbers to this

This one’s for the gays and the theys

I’LL SHOW YOU MINE TOBIAS

You really do have to do this one for us buddy

One less chorus at the end would be ok tho

Marks of the Evil One

Ohhh lovely and dark

Ooooh weird melody I love it

This is sexy

Four horsemen!

Sexy sexy bass

Flashbacks to TFIAFL future ghouls

Fear?

Getting a little bored

Rescued by the solo!

Sexy Baker Street

Ohhh fuck yeah the second solo makes up for being a little bored 

Sounded a bit like - Mummy Dust after the keytar solo

This hook is going to get its claws in me

f-bomb?

Umbra

Yessss finally I get to find out what happens after this intro!!!

Ohhhhh hahaha 

Cowbell!

Looooove this low register

This is DENSE

Sexy

Sparkly!

Oh the synth is back!!

Horny af

I’m gonna have to read the lyrics

VIBRASLAP WHO’S DOING THE VIBRASLAP ON STAGE

Wild ass chord choices!

Mounty must have so much fun with this one

The guitars are so far back!! A rare treat.

Thai is a fuckin’ hymnal

SICK ORGAN SOLO

WIZARD DUEL

I’M GOING TO LOSE MY SHIT WHEN I SEE THIS LIVE

DEW AND CIRRUS ARE GONNA LOOK SO FUCKIN COOL

Motherfuckin prog rock ass motherfucker

I love you

PHANTOM YOU GONNA NEED SOME STEADY HANDS AND A LOT OF STAMINA BUD 😏

Tobias just absolutely WENT OFF HERE

What the absolute fuck is this

We got some Karn Evil 9 for good measure

I am overwhelmed in the best possible way

I don’t even understand how this song works

Orgy of sound I love it so much

Excelsis

Instantly crying

He sounds so vulnerable

Wild ass chord choices!

Slowly building?

Acoustic!

I could see them swapping Monstrance Clock for this

Or He Is

I’m going to be sobbing the entire time

Like I am right now

This man cares SO MUCH

Also this man has gone to therapy holy shit

Gorgeous organ again

Been thinking about mortality much lately pal?

Actually no. I've decided it's actually shrooms. That would explain SO MANY THINGS ABOUT THIS ALBUM AND YOUR WHOLE DEAL THESE DAYS.

Ghoulettes are EATING this tour

Very Whiter Shade of Pale organ tone

Harmonies ;_;

Sobbing, choking

I have to sit up because I can’t breathe

Glockenspiel?!

What the fuck man I love how MUCH this is

Ohhhhh fuck me senseless

Dew is going to SLAUGHTER this. Phantom too.

Very Floyd

YOU’RE THE ONE HURTING ME TOBIAS

Curious to see how he could manage the emotion of the room on this one live - moving from grief to joy/carpe diem

Reminds me of the message at the end of shows - be more positive! And that’s the spot I think it’s gonna take.

FUCK YOU TOBIAS

This is a fucking mountain goats song and you will not convince me otherwise

[betterwithbooksthanwithpeople]

things that stuck out to me in The Outsiders musical at my third show (4/24/25 evening):

probably unneeded disclaimer that this is just random stuff my brain hooked onto from my standing room partial view spot - some of this might happen every time but I saw it differently with a different actor or just forgot about it since I last saw the show nine weeks ago

-Anna Ace I love you and I'm so happy to see you again, flipping people off and throwing a ton of gravel right in the first song of the show

-also someone (maybe Ace, maybe Two Bit?) threw SO much gravel at Marcia during Tulsa '67 that she visibly tried to duck out of the way

-right before the socs jump Ponyboy and Bob is throwing the football to all the guys, he looks at Paul and Dan fully went 🙂↔️🙂↔️ like "do NOT toss me that football" hahaha

-Dos Bit speaking Spanish when Dally asks if he has his grease

-Victor Soda, Henry Two Bit, and Anna Ace are a dangerous trio if you fear inappropriate dancing and that’s all imma say about Grease Got a Hold lollll

-actually I lied because during Darry's verse in that song after Ponyboy is like "what?" and tries to walk away Darry stopped him like always but also kind of hugged him into his side and kissed his head before letting him go back to the group? ugh brothers of all time. just wants to protect his baby for real

-Brent did some kind of different riff on “home” in Runs in the Family and it was beautiful

-give it up for Victor's comedic timing and just stage presence in general; the whole scene of Soda and Ponyboy talking on the bed before Great Expectations was immaculate

-hey Marbit shippers, Henry Two Bit fully put his hand under Marcia’s chin during Friday at the Drive In and she laughed and kind of reluctantly turned her head. Then as soon as they made eye contact again during the dance break he blew her a kiss

-Ace yelled “your dancing sucks!” during the drive in dance break like the absolute legend she is

-Alex Dally does the whole bit at the drive in with Cherry very differently but I don't know exactly how to describe it. he's kind of quieter and more playful somehow - lots of teasing/ mocking the others - which makes him seem younger than how some others play Dally

-Daryl Johnny and Josh Ponyboy at the drive in, you will always be famous. just the goofiest little guys just the bestest of friends

-During Darry’s talking part in Runs in the Family Reprise, Victor Soda was going “easy, easy, easy” meanwhile Josh Pony was full screaming his lines at Darry

-ok so someone in the audience was so shook by The Slap that they said “oh my god” but it was totally silent at that moment so everyone heard and laughed and pretty sure this is why Josh skipped the line “Darrel never hit me before”

-Far Away from Tulsa harmonies and opts were AMAZING dare I say best I’ve ever heard? Josh and Daryl doing the most for REAL

-yall the spit was visible from the back of the theater today Josh really did the most there too eww

-not Brent Comer making me almost cry about Darrel Curtis in a scene that he's barely in because why did he look SO shocked and SO scared hearing the news from Two Bit during Run Run Brother

-everything about Alex Dally is so interesting to me yall. the way he seemed so resigned to being arrested and so carefree with his answers to the cop like in a "you're not gonna believe me so why bother" type way? he gets it so badly

-also this is just something i did differently but i finally watched Ponyboy and Johnny extra close to see them "cut/dye" Pony's hair and how does it look! so! cool!

-someone's vocals were eating down in Justice for Tulsa. pretty sure it was SarahGrace but maybe it was Hailey from the booth

-I'm going to say this for every one of their songs but Daryl and Josh's voices go SO good together that I wish I had a recording of their Death's at My Door

-speaking of songs I need a recording of, Throwing in the Towel?! Brent is always amazing (plus just looked SO distressed gosh) and Victor was killing itttt. the way I could have listened to them just sing that on a loop for hours

-thank you Daryl Tofa for consistently feeding the qpr truthers by literally laying in Ponyboy's lap in the church every time you play Johnny Cade

-do Pony and Johnny always pinky promise after talking about who Ponyboy's hair makes him look like? they should if they don't it was adorable

-tiniest bit of Ace and Darry siblingism at the beginning of Hoods Turned Heroes - Darry was laying back on the car and Ace was sitting against his legs

-will never get over how Brent Comer gets Darry so badly. the way he snatches the newspaper and is so relieved to hear his baby brother's okay that he joins the greaser's little dance and almost smiles but has to read the article again like he can't believe it

-Emma Pittman Hopeless War = vocals. also Cherry really seemed to be pleading with Ponyboy not to fight like she was so desperate to stop it she was crying

-pretty sure Cole fell accidentally during the rumble because he slid way off to the side almost into the wings lol. they really turned that rain on it was pouring

-Darry picking up Ponyboy and spinning him around after the rumble is so. that's his baby guys

-also when they all run in to tell Johnny they won the rumble does someone always say "Darrel even fought with us!" because. ough.

-maybe this isn't entirely factual but I feel like more people tried to comfort Dally after Johnny's death - like almost every greaser said something to him or tried to get closer to him, especially Darry

-Alex's Little Brother is jaw droppingly good. I didn't even cry at that part, just stood there with my mouth hanging open

-however, try not to cry while Josh Ponyboy is sobbing through his monologue after Little Brother? impossible I fear

-Curtis brothers ending scenes so perfect I want to watch them over and over and over. Brent always hits the mark exactly and I was so blown away by Victor and Josh today yall

-why is the very ending of the show when the lights are going down but the sunset background is still lit and everyone is in silhouette the prettiest thing I've ever seen

-stage door party for real: Emma, Victor, Brent, Henry, Daryl, Josh, Alex, SarahGrace, Melody, and Devin all came out

-Henry asked if I had fun and I went "yeah, and it looked like you had fun" and he goes "oh yeah, it's just complete silliness the whole time I'm on stage" lol

-also not Devin asking if we've met before and me having to be like "well I've seen the show three times now but this is the first time you've been here" haha

if you actually read all this, hi. ask me about it and maybe I'll remember more or at least explain better because this has gotten long and made less and less sense I fear

[traveltobeprovedwrong]

Chicago Live Show Spoilers

I never knew I needed Robbie and Matt singing together in harmony but I am OBSESSED

[just-french-me-up]

For Jayce and Viktor prompts, “scrawled on calendars”? Something about them finally looking far enough into the future to get a calendar and then getting comfortable enough to scrawl notes on days far into the distance

OR it shows their past, that they’ve been happy and at peace for long enough to look back on the doodles and notes from the start of their post-canon life?

Honestly I will chew whatever you make, you write the lads so softly it is tooth rotting and it is Good

This tickled my brain deliciously!

Jayvik | 1.1K | Rated G | Domestic fluff, Trans Viktor, Pregnant Trans Viktor, Slice of Life | Cottage by the Stream (they're working on that four kids situation) Viktor stumbles upon Jayce's secret hobby This may qualify as over-indulgent. And tooth-rotting doesn't begin to cover it. Just so you know Read on AO3

Their home was many things. A safe haven. A field of experimentation. A makeshift lab, once all the items that held any sentimental value had been put away to safety. (Viktor did not mean to set the dinner table on fire that one time, but did note pine made for remarkably good kindling.) (Jayce cared little for this finding. He, nevertheless, carved its replacement out of oak.)

What their home wasn't, however, was extendable.

They had made the most of the space available to them over the years. Built nooks for books that never seemed to stop finding their way into their house. Fortified and secured the shed to store various projects and tools. Shared an office, Viktor's neat piles clashing with Jayce's organised chaos in odd harmony.

Jayce had suggested building a whole extension once, collapsing one of the living-room walls to make more space, add a room or two. Viktor hadn't been too keen on the idea. Engineering and masonry were two different beasts, no matter how beautifully Jayce's mind worked.

Besides, the whole thing would take months. More than the five they had left, surely. No child of Viktor's would sleep in a half-built, draughty nursery.

They had taken to emptying the office instead, clearing the space of its usual hodgepodge of books, sketches and notebooks, electing to stack boxes around the house until they figured out a new home for them. Viktor would pretend not to notice Jayce insisted on carrying most of the heavier boxes. His back was killing him anyway. More than usual, that is. He did carry a couple or two to the bedroom, just to prove a point, to Jayce or himself, he didn't know.

Busy with yet another box, Viktor leafed through a handful of notebooks, diaries and planners, sorting them into piles, his and Jayce's. The box was almost full to the brim when he opened another diary, stopping in his tracks, his fingers lingering on the page.

His own eyes stared back, laid on paper, drawn in minute details, unmistakable. The sketch was incredibly indulgent in its depiction of him, yet somehow strikingly lifelike. The Viktor on the page was smiling, something soft yet felt deep, little creases at the corner of his eyes. Right under it, written in Jayce's loopy handwriting, was a simple description :

First sunny afternoon of the season. Viktor lying on the grass.

Viktor stared at it, caught off-guard by the tenderness of it all. Then, carefully, he turned the page. And the next. And the next. They were little vignettes, everyday scenes, mundane at first glance. Their garden in bloom. The snow falling outside the kitchen window. A project they worked on a few years prior. All beautifully rendered on paper, care radiating through the whole collection.

He was, by far, the most recurring subject. There he was, lying on their couch, book in hand, his face focused. New book. House needs more shelving space. Another had him facing away, busying himself in the garden, his cane laid by his side on the quickly drawn grass. First harvest incoming. Viktor tending to the garden. Another only featured his mouth, drawn in a smile, the paper somewhat grainy from erasing and retracing the lines to get it right. Viktor smiled today. First real smile.

"Jayce?" he called absently, mesmerised.

"Yeah?"

There were footsteps, then Jayce's head peeked from behind the door.

"Oh," Viktor heard, tearing him away from the page. Jayce was rubbing his neck, something shy, almost vulnerable in the way he smiled.

"What's this?"

"A hobby, I guess? Something I picked up a while back."

Jayce had always been skilled at schematics. His designs and blueprints were clean and sharp, always with a little flair that made them distinctly his. But this... This was art, nothing less. How had he never noticed?

"When?"

"Says it on the page."

Viktor's eyes darted to the top of the page. His brow creased.

"That was... three years ago."

Not that long after they made the cottage theirs. Flipping the pages to the beginning, memories crawled back to him. The garden, all tall grass, weeds and wildflowers. The nearby village seen from the hill behind their house, covered in snow and shining with distant lights. His own face, a slight yet obvious sadness lodged deep inside his eyes. Viktor's heart panged, and he flipped the page to happier sketches.

"Jayce, it's..."

He didn't know what to say. What would fit. 'Beautiful' felt both too obvious or too understated. This was a whole part of Jayce, a window into his mind right there in his hands, and words didn't feel reverent enough.

"You never mentioned."

Jayce shrugged.

"It's just something I do."

Every day. Something he did every day. As the page followed one another, the seasons changed. The garden grew lush with tomatoes and lettuce. Viktor's guilt and melancholy grew into smiles. The cottage into a home.

When Viktor reached the end, he found himself wanting more. More of this ode to the life they'd built from ashes, to the little things that made it what it was. How beautiful they were, seen from Jayce's eyes.

"Are there more?" he heard himself say, his throat tight.

Jayce blinked at him, struck, before shaking himself into action, kneeling by Viktor's side, rummaging through the box. He took out a mismatched set of diaries.

"This was the second year," he tells Viktor, handing him a red-leather bound one, "This is last year's. And this is this year's."

The last one was thicker, better quality. Bought on purpose. Viktor opened it delicately, his eyes detailing each page with unconcealed eagerness.

"If I'd known you'd like them so much, I would have shown them to you earlier," Jayce chuckled, leaning back on his hands, looking at the sketches over Viktor's shoulder.

"Why didn't you?"

"We weren't talking much at the beginning. I just... kept at it. Didn't think to. Out of habit, I guess."

Viktor looked back, covering one of Jayce's hand with his own.

"I would very much like to see them. Every once in a while. If that's okay."

"It is more than okay."

Jayce rested his head against his shoulder, breathing Viktor in. They stayed like this for a while, with only the sound of turning pages between them, and comfortable silence.

"D'you think I'll get to finish this one, with the dirty diapers and sleepless nights of it all?"

Viktor chuckled softly.

"Get good at drawing dirty diapers, I suppose."

There was a light, playful nudge against his shoulder. Then, Jayce leant a little closer, pressing his lips to Viktor's cheek, before tipping his chin towards the open diary.

"I'll give you fifty more of those, one day. Maybe that'll get you to agree to the house extension. Gotta store them somewhere."

"Oh, so there it is. Your master plan."

"I'm way ahead of you, my love."

Send me a domestic Jayvik prompt? ♥

[rydoesartandstuff]

I just wanted to ask, what did the Funk Trolls think of the pop trolls before Cooper showed up? Also can you tell us a bit more about Cooper's reunion with his family? ( I'm just guessing that Queen Essence is the blood heir while King Quincy is more like King Consort Quincy.)

ABSOLUTELY I CAN!!!

So, the Funk Trolls keep mostly to themselves, like the other troll tribes. But they took it even a step further by building their ship, which like Queen Essence says, sorta keeps them “above it all”. Because of infighting, disagreements, and overall intolerance that grew between the tribes due to their isolation from each other, the Funk Trolls ultimately decided to build this place to escape it all. Due to this, they’re hardly ever seen by the other troll tribes, thus Hickory calling them “elusive”. But I will say they teach peace and harmony on their ship, and they aren’t as intolerant of other trolls as say, some of the Country Trolls.

They do have a good idea as to what’s going on, however, checking in on the other tribes every so often by chatting with sub-genre trolls who pass through their territory.

As to what they thought of Pop… They didn’t. The Pop Trolls going missing had become almost a Trolling’s tale amongst most Troll Tribes. Nobody really knew what happened to them, but at the same time… Nobody looked. Pop Trolls were thought to be greedy, sneaky, and a bit air-headed, and the fear was if they found the other tribes, they’d just steal their music again. So nobody went to find them.

Truth be told, if Cooper hadn’t reunited with his family BEFORE they spotted Poppy and them on the raft… They likely never would have found the Funk Trolls, because the Funk Trolls simply wouldn’t have interacted with them. But Cooper’s reunion and subsequent detailing of how the Pop Trolls saved and raised him, a Troll different from their own tribe, despite their own hardships at the time (maybe a year after they escaped from the Troll Tree), changed their hearts.

Their reunion was very heartfelt. It was Prince D who spotted his brother standing dazed in the Glittersand Desert, and made his parents land. And they were absolutely elated. Cooper and his father have very similar types of humor, immediately cracking jokes, and Queen Essence could not stop smooching him! Prince D was already planning out some twin pranks they could pull…

Cooper explained everything in the way Cooper would: Dramatically, and with a big smile on his face! His parents were horrified to say the least when they heard where Pop had been all this time. Queen Essence (who you’re right, is the blood Queen), was already considering going against her ancestor’s laws that preach staying out of other troll’s affairs, and going to find the Pop Trolls to help them, when Cooper spotted Poppy on the raft with Prince D.

All super fun stuff that I could not for the life of me try to find a way to tie into the story, so I’m SO glad you asked! Seriously, I got a whole WORLD in my head, it’s crazy in here!

[thyras]

→ of fatal attraction - one

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!oc

WORD COUNT → 7.1k words

SERIES → of fatal attraction

WARNINGS → fated soulmates, love, light angst

SUMMARY → Their love was as old as the First Song, woven into the music meant only for the purest of creations. But when the darkness crept into the melody, sorrow and grief were stitched into their thread, and their love, though radiant for a time, was destined to end in ruin. Love turned obsession, honesty to deception, and purity to ruin. Love in the hands of the purest beings can blossom, but in the hands of shadow it can be a chain one can never truly escape.

AUTHORS NOTE → So I have finished The Nature of Middle-earth and now I have begun the rewriting process. This is going to be a totally different story with a lot more angst, a lot more hurt and no comfort so be for warned. I have totally reworked the characters and dropped a lot of the original story with all this new information I have now. I am keeping up the original for y'all to still read it, but we are gonna get the ball rolling with this version. I hope y'all love it. I am going to be working on this as well as Twistedly Reincarnated so chapters may be a little slow at first.

"A love so dark it's a sin." Fatal Attraction - Reed Wonder & Aurora Olivas

When Eru’s first song breathed life into Eä and all that followed, he also sang a melody—pure and lilting—of two beings destined to collide in a firestorm of light and dark. For Eru knew many things, and he could see even when his Children would falter, temptation gnawing at their fëar. In this melody, he created she who would shine, or Ilmarátâ, as she would come to be known among the Valar.

Her beauty would be divine, her heart as pure as starlight. But in creating Ilmarátâ, he wove sorrow into her story—into her very fëa. She would not know the love and grace granted to the rest of his Firstborn. She would be bound to Arda, bound to know only the ache of a fëa unfulfilled.

Yet he would show her mercy. And when the time he had foreseen finally came, she would receive what had been withheld for ages. Her heart would at last sing in harmony with his, and through her, he would remember goodness.

For Mairon was the most beloved of Eru’s creations. He held the fire of the Eternal Flame within him—burning so fiercely that not even Arda could contain it. And so, Eru entrusted his most cherished Maia to Aulë, the great smith of the Valar, charging him with guiding that flame toward goodness.

And so Mairon was—for evil had never touched his heart. He toiled gladly for his master, delighting in the shaping of Arda, in the precision of craft, in the harmony of form and function.

Even if, unknown to him, the seeds of his fall had already been sown into the depths of his being.

For Eru made Mairon with a mind for perfection and a heart for order. And Mairon would ever strive toward that vision—an Arda radiant, flawless, free from the weight of chaos and the stain of unmaking. In beauty and structure, he found his greatest love. Yet deep within his fëa stirred a yearning he could not name. A sense of absence. A presence missing. A silence echoing through him that would not be stilled.

Still, he trusted in Eru. Trusted in the song. In the timing. That what was hidden would one day be revealed. That all things, in the end, would be made whole.

But that day never came.

And in its absence, Mairon felt the darkness creeping toward him—slow at first, then sure. It gripped his heart, whispered to his mind, and began to twist the clarity he once held.

When the Ainur joined in the Great Song, so did Melkor. His jealousy and dissonance, though at odds with the harmony, were still part of the melody. Woven into the fabric of Eä, his malice echoed in the making of Arda. And from that discord, seeds of corruption scattered—quiet, subtle, yet potent.

Even Eru’s most cherished creation was not immune.

Mairon, who once stood bright and untainted, began to feel the weight of doubt. He saw flaws where none had been. He questioned the weakness of others, the inefficiency of mercy, the chaos born of freedom. And so Melkor’s song, hidden beneath the harmony, found a place in him—not with force, but with familiarity.

What began as a yearning for perfection became something else entirely.

And when Melkor came, Mairon did not resist.

It was not the promise of power that swayed him, nor the whispers of dominion over Arda. These things meant little to one who already burned with the fire of creation. No—what drew Mairon was something deeper. Melkor spoke of knowledge, of hidden truths, of the unanswered ache within him. He offered clarity where once there was only silence. He promised revelation.

And Mairon, still searching for the presence he had long felt missing, listened.

So Melkor’s influence took root. Not in violence, but in understanding. Not in command, but in communion.

And Mairon’s flame, once radiant and pure, grew hotter—more focused, more consuming. What once sought to illuminate now sought to reshape. To control. To bend all things toward the order he craved, at any cost.

In VY 1000, they, the Quendi, Eru’s Firstborn, emerged from the waters of Cuiviénen and embraced the beauty of Arda. Though shadows still clung to the world, they found wonder even in the darkness. They wandered outward, driven by curiosity and joy, crafting languages, shaping song, and carving beauty into the land itself.

Eru’s Children were full of life and strength, and they multiplied swiftly. Yet one among them did not share in her kin’s boundless vigor, nor in their desire to bond and bring forth life. Though fairer than most and full of quiet grace, she bore a weight in her fëa that dulled every gesture of affection, every well-meant advance.

In her, there stirred a sorrow she could neither name nor banish. Each passing löar deepened her longing, not for any elf-man, but for something else—some echo of a song she had never heard, yet missed with all her being. Her heart felt incomplete, as though a thread meant to be woven through her spirit had been held back from the loom.

So she gave herself to the care of others. She poured her love into the firstborn children of the Quendi, nurturing what she herself had never known. And in doing so, her ache only grew. For even as she gave freely, no melody answered her own. No presence stirred her soul. The match she yearned for—unseen, unknown—remained forever out of reach.

But as she followed her kin as they explored their new world, nurturing generation after generation, the silence within her only deepened. The missing piece of her heart grew fainter still, and the thread that once shimmered dimmed with every passing year—as if the flame of her fëa waned in quiet response to another, far away, falling deeper into shadow.

And yet, in the stillness of night, beneath Varda’s stars, she would sit alone and sing. Her voice—clear and luminous—cut through the dark like moonlight over still water. Even the shadows seemed to draw back, awed by her purity.

It was then that he would come.

Unseen, cloaked in silence, Mairon would sit in the distance, hidden among the trees or veiled in the folds of night. He would listen—drawn not by curiosity, but by recognition. For in her melody, he heard his own. Not as it had become, but as it once was. Her voice stirred something long-buried within him: the yearning, the light, the ache.

He called her Moríel—Maiden of the Dark—not for evil, but for the mystery she carried, the shadowed sorrow in her eyes, deeper than the stars above. Her hair was like midnight, her eyes sapphire-clear, marred by time and grief. She was divinity unshaped by pride, more radiant than anything his hands—skilled as they were—had ever wrought.

And so he sang back. His notes, once sharp and commanding, softened when they met hers. He wove harmonies of beauty and perfection, but laced them with temptation. With longing. For he desired her above all things—not to own, but to be known by her. To be seen.

And if the path to her led him to defy all that bound him—even the master he served—then so be it.

For she was his answer.

And he would have her.

But he did not know of her true purpose—of her true creation, and what that would one day mean for him.

For Eru had made her for him, and him for her. Not in likeness, but in balance. She was the light meant to touch his darkness—not to extinguish it, but to temper it. To call him back. Her voice carried the notes that could mend the fractures in his fëa, the melody that echoed the harmony he had long abandoned. And his own—though tainted by pride and twisted by desire—held within it the seeds of the notes that would complete hers.

It was no accident, no trick of fate. Their song was written into the Music before the first breath of Eä. Woven in the deeper themes, beneath the clashing harmonies and dissonance of Melkor’s rebellion. In the end, her voice was to be his redemption.

But he had not yet seen it.

To him, she was a desire, a longing, a presence to possess. He did not yet understand that she was not a prize to be taken, but a mirror of what he could become—if he chose it.

She sang the melody that could lead him home.

And though his steps now walked the edge of ruin, her voice still reached him.

And still, they sang.

Unknowing, unguarded—her song reached out across the veils of time and shadow, calling to him. It was not a summons, but a memory—a light he had once known, once been. The same light that had burned at his beginning, when he was first sung into being by Eru’s voice, unmarred, full of flame and purpose.

For she was the plucker of his harp.

And when her song touched the strings of his spirit, he answered—not with power or pride, but with purity. With notes that rose like dawn through smoke, so bright and clear that the shadow coiled in his heart seemed, for a moment, to shrink away.

It was in those moments, brief and rare, that he remembered who he was before the fall. Not the servant of domination, not the smith of tyranny—but the Maia of fire and form, of beauty shaped with intention.

And though he did not yet understand the fullness of her purpose, something in him began to hope.

Because when she sang, he was no longer lost.

He was found.

As Melkor’s threads tightened around Mairon’s heart, darkening it further, he ceased to come to her on those starry eves—no longer a shadow among the starlight. Their song, once a quiet harmony hidden beneath the night, faded. What remained was only her voice.

Her melody, once full of hope, grew strangled with sorrow. Grief laced her notes, a lilting siren song born of absence. It reached out into the dark, calling for something she could not name—only feel. A longing shaped like loss. But he never came.

And so Moríel, first daughter of Ilúvatar, mourned once more.

She mourned the harmony that had once brushed against her soul. The voice that had risen with hers in secret. She did not know his face, nor his name, but her fëa remembered. Somewhere deep in the song that had shaped her being, she knew: she had been sung for him.

And now, the silence echoed louder than ever.

So piercing was her sorrow that even the Valar heard it.

Moríel’s mourning rose like a mourning star across the skies, and in her aching song, the Valar came to understand: the Children of Ilúvatar had awakened. And worse—Melkor had discovered them as well. Her grief had revealed what silence had hidden.

And so, from the sadness of one fëa, a great decision was made.

They would summon the Firstborn to Aman—to shield them from the encroaching dark, to preserve what beauty remained untouched. The tears of Moríel, they said, would no longer fall upon the lands of Middle-earth. For even Nienna, Valier of sorrow and mourning, could no longer bear the weight of this grief. A sorrow such as Moríel’s was not meant to endure alone.

It was Nienna who first brought her case before the King of the Valar.

And under the radiant canopy of the Two Trees, she pleaded that joy be restored to the one whose song bore the weight of the world's sorrow.

But Eru, ever watchful and wise, had already spoken. His design in motion.

Manwë, high king of Arda, called his wife, Varda Elentári, and Yavanna Kementári to the great ring of Mähanaxar, where judgment among the Valar was rendered. Bathed in the golden light, he shared the burden entrusted to them by the One.

“My wife,” he said solemnly, “Eru has placed upon you, and upon Lady Yavanna, a great responsibility.”

The Valier stood tall, their eyes calm but questioning. Tasks from Eru were rare—and never trivial. Around them, the wind stirred the light like ripples across a silver pool.

“And what is this burden?” Varda asked, her voice even, though within her burned the weight of divine curiosity.

Manwë looked between them, his eyes bright as the morning sky. “Eru’s creation is in danger. Her sorrow sings too clearly. It echoes through the void, and it stirs the darkness in my brother’s heart. She must be protected above all others, for her task is greater than even I am allowed to know.”

The silence that followed was deep, heavy.

If he was afraid, they all should be.

It was Yavanna who spoke first. “And what is her purpose? What does He intend?”

Manwë lowered his gaze. “He has not said. Only that she must endure. That she must be kept whole, until her time.”

Varda stepped forward and placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Then it is not ours to question. If the will of Eru is hidden, so it must remain. We will carry this burden with humility, and see it done.”

Because Eru knew all—the beginning and the end. And his song was still being sung.

And so, bound by duty, the Valier accepted their charge.

Ilmarátâ, the lost daughter, would not be forgotten.

She would be watched, guarded, kept safe—even as the shadow grew stronger.

Because in her, Eru had placed something the darkness could not touch.

Not yet.

And so Oromë rode forth upon his mighty steed, Nahar, swift as the wind and radiant in the gloom of Middle-earth. He descended into his fana, taking on a form the Children could behold without fear. With gentleness and wonder, he spoke to them—not of Melkor, nor of the creeping darkness, but of Aman: the land of light, of beauty untouched, of peace unbroken.

He told them of its golden fields, its silver trees, its harmony beyond even the memory of the Music. And he urged them to follow him westward, across the vast lands and over the sea, to the home prepared for them by the will of Ilúvatar.

And so it came to be that twenty thousand Eldar set out upon the journey.

Among them walked Moríel.

She, one of the First—one of the twenty-four who had first awakened under the stars by the waters of Cuiviénen. Though her heart still ached with a loss she could not name, something in her stirred at Oromë’s call. Perhaps it was hope. Perhaps it was duty. Perhaps it was simply the pull of her thread in the Song.

Oromë was pleased when he saw her among the host. But when his gaze fell upon her, it stilled. For in her he saw something more.

He saw divinity.

She shone as though Varda’s stars had made a dwelling in her fëa. Even the shadows of the world could not dim her radiance. It was not beauty alone, but something older—something written into her before time itself. A spark of the unknowable, untouched by corruption.

And so Oromë, noble and strong, became her guardian in that long journey. Varda and Yavanna, too, watched from afar, their care upon her as a hidden shield.

For they all knew—though few dared to speak it—that in Moríel, there dwelt a purpose greater than any of them could comprehend. And if the darkness ever reached her, it would not be the world that suffered first, but the Music itself.

And so she walked west, protected by gods, carrying within her the silent echo of a song yet unfinished.

And so began the Great March of the Eldar—an exodus across vast lands beneath starlit skies, through forests untouched and rivers untroubled. The journey was long, but rich in beauty, for the Children of Ilúvatar brought with them wonder, song, and new life wherever they set foot.

Moríel walked among them, her sorrow softening with each passing löa. Among her kin, she found comfort—not in forgetfulness, but in belonging. They cherished her. She was needed. And for a time, that was enough.

But when the host would settle for a while, building small homes, bearing children, and singing lullabies into the night, the quiet ache would return. It pressed at the edges of her fëa like a shadow beneath clear water—never fully seen, never truly gone.

She yearned, though she did not speak it aloud. She longed for what her sisters had—for the touch of a hand meant for hers, for a voice that called her name in harmony. She hoped that when they reached Aman—this sanctuary promised by Oromë—that she too might find her other half. That she might finally know the joy her people shaped into every cradle and every song.

And so she labored with love. She helped mothers birth their children, held tiny hands with gentleness, and gave of herself freely. Her care poured from the deep wells of her spirit, and in that giving, the ache quieted—if only for a time.

For though she had not yet found the one she was made for, she continued to give as if she had.

And in that, she was divine.

And her guardians watched.

Varda, Yavanna, and Oromë looked on as Moríel moved through the world with grace not taught but inborn. In her every step, she embodied the essence of the divine. And in doing so, wisdom was granted to her—wisdom that surpassed even the eldest of her kin. She listened to the trees, to the rivers, to the quiet hum beneath the earth. From them, she learned to heal, to mend wounds of body and of spirit. She read the stars not as signs, but as song—not as light, but as language.

For they had been placed in the heavens with her in mind.

Time moved forward like a soft tide, and the host of her people came to settle in the vast grasslands before a shadowed forest, dark and ancient. There, under open skies, life bloomed again. Moríel felt peace in that place, a knowing in her bones that this land was safe—for now. Oromë’s teachings echoed in her mind, guiding her hand as she helped her people build, nurture, and flourish.

But not all heeded her wisdom.

Some of the younger men, emboldened by youth and unaware of the weight of their choices, ventured into the forest despite her warnings. She had felt it the moment they approached its edge. A wrongness. A scent not of rot, but of something older—darker. There was no word in her tongue for it, only the way her fëa recoiled even as part of her felt drawn to it.

It called to her.

Not like a voice, but like a hunger.

It whispered promises without words, tugging at the deepest place within her—the ache that had never left. She felt it pull, subtle and seductive, like the echo of a song sung in reverse.

But she did not follow.

Instead, she stayed. She gave herself again to the care of her people, helping the women carry new life, guiding the young with patience, and keeping the fire of hope alive. For she was the oldest among them, and the most wise. The very Song of Eä ran in her blood, and though she did not wield power like the Valar, those who stood in her presence knew: she was of something greater.

And she was watched.

For deep in the shadows of the great forest, someone waited. A figure cloaked in silence, bound by longing and torn by chains of his own forging. He had heard her song long ago. And now, he felt her nearness again.

Mairon watched from the dark.

And the fire within him stirred.

For he had searched for her.

When the waters of Cuiviénen lay still and silent, and her song no longer rose into the starlit sky, Mairon felt its absence like the breaking of a chord. Centuries had passed without her melody, and his own song had long since fallen silent. Yet now, as he watched her from the veil of shadow beneath the trees, something in him stirred again.

He felt pulled—drawn not by desire alone, but by recognition.

Moríel shone with a light no forge could craft, no flame could rival. Her essence sang to his fëa, still, despite the darkness that clung to him like a second skin. He had once yearned to master such light, to wield it like the flame of the Trees. But now, it was not mastery he longed for.

It was her.

Yet he was not alone in his wanting.

Melkor had sensed her as well. Her light, untainted and ancient, was a challenge—a threat. And so he had commanded Mairon: bring her to me. Twist her. Break her. Or bend her to my will.

Mairon had bowed, as was his oath.

But inside, he recoiled.

Every time he saw her dancing in the tall grasses, surrounded by laughter and innocence, his heart—what remained of it—fractured further. Her black hair flowed like midnight silk in the breeze, and her voice, when she sang to the children, made the very air seem to hum with joy. Her eyes—those crystalline sapphires—sparkled with love, with life. With the purity he had lost.

And he ached.

He ached to leave the shadow. To step into her light. To be known by her—not as he was, but as he had been.

To make her his, not through power, but through truth.

But he could not. For she would never be his.

Not now.

And yet, deep within, he could not silence the truth that whispered beneath every note they had once shared:

She had always been his.

And he—though fallen—had always been hers.

And like the siren she had always been to him, she called him forth.

Mairon stepped out from the shadows of the forest, as if the pull of her song had at last broken the chains of his silence. He moved without sound, crossing the field to where she sat upon a smooth stone beneath the stars. Those stars—Varda’s jewels—seemed to burn brighter above her, as though her voice stirred even the heavens into motion. Each note she sang reached through the night and guided him, like light through smoke, toward her.

She did not see him at first.

Not until he was close—just a few yards away. And then, their eyes met.

The world fell still.

The stars held their breath. The song fell silent. Only the pounding of their hearts remained, in rhythm and recognition, vibrating in the space between them.

She—his Moríel—was more than he remembered. More than he had dreamed. As she tucked a wave of black hair behind her pointed ear, moonlight kissed her face, and he saw her—truly saw her—for the first time.

She was divine.

So divine, it struck him like a blow to the chest. He wanted to fall to his knees then and there, to worship not out of duty, but out of truth. Because there was no longer any doubt.

Her fëa was his.

Sung into being beside his own, woven together in the Music before time had a name. They were born of the same note, the same swell of harmony that had echoed through the void and shaped the world.

And nothing—nothing—could make him deny it.

He was of the Maiar. He knew the truth of his own spirit. And in every fiber of his being, he felt it: they belonged to each other.

He had been forged with flame and purpose. She had been formed with light and sorrow. Together, they were balance. Completion.

And yet he had been commanded to give her to his master.

But he would not. He could not.

How could he hand over the very one who was meant for him?

He wanted her—not as a possession, not as a conquest—but with the same aching desire that Ilúvatar’s Children felt when they longed to build a life, to make a home, to create.

He imagined it—how their children would shine. Bearing her beauty, her divinity, and his fire, his mastery of the Music. Their union would not just be life. It would be creation itself.

He had sought perfection for Ages. He had tried to forge it, impose it, command it.

But she was perfection. And she had always been the answer.

She was the song he had forgotten.

And she was the one who could make him whole.

Neither spoke.

The air between them was thick—heavy with recognition, curiosity, and something older still. The silence was not awkward; it was sacred. A stillness where something ancient stirred.

And when she finally spoke, it shattered him.

“I have sung many songs,” she said, voice as soft as starlight, “and lost all hope I would ever sing once more with you.”

Her words took the breath from his fana.

A slow, reverent smile pulled at his lips. “And I have felt those centuries of sorrow as if they were my own,” he replied. “But duty called me elsewhere.”

At that, her brow rose, questioning—but not unkindly. He took another step forward. She turned to face him fully now, the moonlight painting her in silver, the wind catching the ends of her hair like strands of night.

He did not elaborate. He could not. His tongue, so often a weapon, failed in the presence of her. He only looked—drank her in. He longed to touch that porcelain skin, to trace the softness he knew would shatter his resolve.

He ached to know her—not just in spirit, but in body. In all the ways a Maia was never meant to. But he was not bound anymore. Not truly.

Melkor might have laid claim to him, but Mairon was no slave.

He was free.

And if freedom meant defiance, so be it.

His thoughts darkened—but then her light pushed it back. She leaned casually upon the stone, arms behind her, supporting her graceful form. She looked at him through a veil of calm curiosity and asked, smiling,

“What should I call you?”

He paused.

What name did he wish to hear from her lips? What word, when breathed in pleasure or whispered in reverence, would make him whole?

He wet his bottom lip. “Mairon,” he said, voice low. Her eyes lit with a warmth he had never seen—not in the heavens, nor in the forges of Aulë, nor even in the glow of the Trees. It was hers, and it was his.

There was no meaning for the name in their tongue, not yet. But one day, there would be.

And that name would mean goodness.

Admirable. Wise. Mairon.

He tilted his head gently. “And what shall I call you?”

She straightened, the faintest blush warming her cheeks. “Aravanië,” she said. But then her eyes narrowed slightly, amused. “But by the look in your eyes, that is not the name you have given me, is it?”

He chuckled, tucking the sacred syllables of her name deep within him.

He stepped closer—until he stood above her, gazing down. Her throat bobbed, not in fear, but in anticipation. The air itself held its breath.

“Moríel,” he whispered. “It is the name I have known you by since the day you rose from the waters.”

Her eyes sparkled at the sound of it—enchanted. As though the word itself awakened something long asleep.

“Then you are a god,” she breathed. “Like the ones who guide me?”

The question struck him deep. He had been called that before. Worshipped. Feared. But this was different. He had watched her from afar, first as a task, then as a torment, and finally, as a miracle.

He was not here to guide her. That truth he could speak.

“In a way,” he murmured. His hand moved on instinct, rising to cup her chin. Her skin was as soft as moonlight. The contact sent a shiver through his fana, and he saw her shiver in turn, not from cold—but from something far more intimate.

“But I am not here to guide,” he said.

“Then what are you here for?” Moríel asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers reached up, curling around his wrist. Her touch traced slow, delicate lines up his arm.

Desire coiled in him, vast and quiet. Words failed him. The world fell away, until it was only them—two fëar suspended in a moment older than Arda.

And then, he knelt.

Before her. Before his heart.

“You,” he breathed. “It is as if we were cut from the same chord of the Song—born of the same swell in the Creator’s breath. I have searched for order, for perfection. But it was always you. I want to hold you, to know you, to love you as we were meant to.”

His words struck her like a bell.

Her eyes filled with tears—not sorrow, but recognition. Because she had felt it too. Had always felt it. Since that first silent harmony. Since the ache began.

And now it was here. He was here.

And she would never deny him.

Because she too wanted what he did.

“But in time, we will be as one,” he whispered, lifting her hands into his own and holding them gently, reverently. “For now, you must only have my pledge—that one day, I will return to you. And when I do, it will be as if I never left.”

Moríel nodded, solemn and radiant in her quiet faith.

And it broke him.

Broke the last wall he had kept between his yearning and her light. Without thought, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

They were warm—soft, and sweet as the finest wine of Aman. She hesitated for a breath, but then returned his kiss with a depth that pulled the air from his lungs. Her hands rose, cupping his face with tenderness, fingers trembling as if she too could not believe he was real.

His arms wrapped around her, drawing her into him. Her legs parted just enough for him to fit into the cradle of her thighs—perfectly, as if her body had been shaped for his, as if their forms had been carved by the same hand for this one sacred meeting.

Their hands searched, their mouths danced, and quiet whimpers threaded through the night. Above them, the stars burned brighter, as if even Varda watched and held her breath. The world itself seemed to sigh in relief—as if the song of creation had been waiting for this moment to resume.

This was how it was always meant to be.

But not yet.

He could not take her fully—not until she was wholly his. Not until they were bound beneath the stars in the presence of her light and of his pledge. Not until it was right.

With pain lancing through his chest, Mairon broke the kiss.

A soft sound of protest left her lips, her eyes fluttering open in confusion and longing. He rested his forehead against hers, and a smile touched his lips—wounded, wistful. One hand rose to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing her skin like a blessing.

“We will be together, my sweet Moríel,” he whispered. “But so much—”

“You don’t need to explain,” she said, cutting him off, her voice steady with quiet resolve. “I will wait until the breaking of this world, if it means I get to spend eternity with you.”

Her vow was a balm and a dagger.

He breathed out in relief, kissed her softly once more, and held her like something he’d been searching for since the beginning of time.

But as he stepped away from her, as distance opened between them again, the ache returned like a slow bleed. The shadow that her light had driven away began to curl back in, wrapping around the edges of his fëa. He could already feel the weight pressing down, the shift in his spirit as he slipped away from her presence.

Away from the being of light he had been, if only for a moment.

Back into shadow.

Back into the Maia who had harmed her kin. The servant of the one who would demand to know everything.

And he hated it.

He hated the conflict tearing through him—the agony of separation, the knowledge that he would return to Melkor and be seen. And when Melkor knew what had transpired, he would not be merciful.

He would not be kind.

And Mairon did not fear for himself.

He feared what his master would do to her.

Mairon was bound by duty, by oath—crafted for service, forged to obey. It was in his very making. He was to serve, and he had served Melkor with unwavering precision.

Until now.

As he crossed through the black iron gates of Utumno, the fortress steeped in shadow and malice, he felt his heart clench. Not from fear, but from something deeper—an ache of unknown shape. A warning from the still-fragile light buried inside him.

He knew what he must do.

He must bury her.

Bury the memory of her touch, her kiss, her voice—deep within the folds of his mind where even Melkor’s reach could not find them. The osanwë-kenta, the mind-speech between master and servant, was strong. In Utumno, there were no secrets for long. If he did not rid himself of the memory, purge her from his thought, Melkor would see. And then all would be lost.

And so, with each step into the gloom, Mairon began to unravel her from himself.

It was agony.

For her memory was a thread of gold woven into the grey tapestry of his being. Her touch had wrapped his heart in a shield of warmth, a defiance against the endless cold of his master’s dominion. Even in absence, she fought for him. Even from afar, her light wove itself around him, a final line of defense against the full corruption of shadow.

But to survive—to protect her—he had to sever it.

And in doing so, a darkness deeper than before crept into him.

The last pieces of the Maia he once was—the servant of creation, the bringer of form and beauty—shuddered and dimmed. A part of him died in that hour, crushed under the weight of duty and fear.

And Mairon, once bright among the Maiar, became something less.

And something far, far more dangerous.

Deep in the halls of Utumno, the air grew thick with smoke and spite.

Melkor sat upon his blackened throne, draped in shadow like a second skin. The fires around him did not burn for warmth, but to twist. To consume. They cast no light—only distortion.

Mairon entered in silence, his fana controlled, perfect in poise. But his heart… his heart was fraying. Each step closer to his master sent a chill crawling beneath his skin. He had emptied his mind, purged all thought of her. Not for Melkor’s sake—but for hers.

Even now, he could feel the probing tendrils of osanwë, reaching. Testing.

“Something has changed,” Melkor said at last, voice low and slow, like molten stone cracking beneath strain. “You feel… dulled.”

Mairon bowed, masking the tensing of every thread in his being. “Only weary, my lord. The watch grows long among the Valar.”

Melkor leaned forward, piercing him with eyes like dying stars. “Do not lie to me, Mairon. I made you sharper than that.”

And beneath the weight of that gaze, the darkness pressed harder. He could feel his shields faltering. Not crumbling—but straining.

He dared not speak.

But far to the west, beneath starlit skies untouched by ruin, Moríel stirred from sleep.

A cold wind brushed her skin, and she sat upright, heart thundering. Her fëa quivered with something unseen, unknown—but real. Her light dimmed slightly, flickering not with fear, but with a terrible sense of loss.

She placed a hand over her heart.

He was hurting.

She could not see him, could not hear him—but the bond had not broken, no matter how far he buried it. Their threads were still tied, humming faintly beneath the world.

And in the darkest corners of her soul, she began to understand the depth of his sacrifice.

He had hidden her not because she was shameful, but because she was everything.

Because to keep her safe, he would walk through the fire and silence his own song.

Back in Utumno, Melkor circled him like a storm. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” the Dark One growled. “That is the change I feel. You found her.”

Mairon didn’t flinch, though inside, a thunderclap split his will.

“I serve you, master,” he said evenly.

But Melkor smiled—and it was not kind. “Perhaps,” he said. “But now I know what to watch for. What you fear to lose.”

And that, more than anything, chilled Mairon to the core.

Because now, she was no longer only his miracle.

She was a target.

And now that he knew, Melkor would not wait.

He would have her.

Mairon had failed. Despite every wall he built in his mind, despite every memory he buried under layers of duty and deception—he had failed to hide her.

Melkor had seen enough.

He would see her brought before him, bound and trembling, her light stripped bare before his throne. He would twist her, as he had twisted so many others. Not merely to hurt Mairon—but to prove that even the purest creations of Ilúvatar could be broken.

Mairon bowed lower, hiding the rage clawing up his throat. His fists clenched at his sides.

He knew what was coming.

Orders would be given. Hunters would be sent. Shadows would fall across the lands where Moríel laughed and sang with the children of the Quendi. They would tear her from her people, defile the light that shone within her, and offer her as a prize to the darkness.

Mairon wanted to scream—to tear down the walls of Utumno with fire and fury.

But he could not.

Not yet.

He had to be careful. He had to outplay his master at his own game. To save her, he would have to tread deeper into the dark than ever before.

Because Melkor's command had already been set into motion.

And Moríel's world—so full of light and promise—was about to be touched by shadow.

But that time never came.

The orders to hunt her were never given.

For before Melkor could unleash his will, the Valar came.

Utumno was found. And in a furious battle that shook the bones of the world, the fortress of shadow was broken. Melkor was chained, dragged in disgrace before the Powers. Angband, too, was shattered, its darkness purged in fire and wrath.

And Mairon—once the brightest among the Maiar, once the most faithful servant of Melkor—was left standing amid the ruins.

Free.

The Battle of the Powers had ended, but his war had only just begun.

Now, at last, he stood at a crossroads.

He could rearm himself. Rebuild the dark empire in Melkor's absence, fall deeper into the pit that had once given him purpose, the pit that had promised him order and mastery.

Or—

He could turn.

He could follow that faint thread—the dim light that had never fully left him, the fragile warmth that had survived even Utumno’s coldest depths.

The shadow had once clung to him, thick and suffocating. But now, without Melkor’s will binding it, it began to thin, peeling away from his spirit like mist under the morning sun. And through the cracks, her light poured in—brighter, sharper than anything he had felt since the Beginning.

Mairon looked around him: ash and broken stone, the scattered remnants of Angband still smoking in the ruined land. This was what the shadow had built.

This was what he had served.

And in that moment, standing alone at the end of all he had known, Mairon chose.

He cast off his dark form, stripping it from him like a serpent shedding dead skin. Gone was the shape fashioned for war and domination. In its place, he took up the form he had crafted long ago—not for fear, not for terror, but for her. The form meant for her eyes only, shaped to be seen not with awe or dread, but with love.

Copper-haired, bright-eyed, clothed in strength but crowned with humility.

A being not of shadow—but of choice.

For Mairon was tired. Weary of deception. Hollowed out by sorrow.

He did not want dominion.

He did not want power.

He wanted her.

He wanted his Moríel.

And for the first time in ages, he took a step—not toward conquest.

But toward home.

Toward the path that Eru had always wished for him—the path he had been crafted to walk, before pride and ambition had tangled his feet. Now, with the shadow peeled back and the silence broken, Mairon saw the truth with piercing clarity.

It had always been Moríel.

It had always been her.

Not conquest. Not dominion. Not the forging of a perfect world through force and flame. No—his purpose had been to shape beauty, to nurture light, to guard the harmony of creation.

And Moríel was the living song of that purpose.

She was the piece of the Music he had forgotten, the counterpoint to his own melody. She had been woven into his very being by the will of Eru himself, and now, at last, he understood.

Mairon, once a fallen Maia, once a name spoken with caution and fear, took his first steps toward redemption. Toward the light he had once embraced but abandoned.

The road ahead would not be easy. The scars of his fall would not vanish. The world would not forget the wrongs he had done.

But the light was no longer out of reach.

It lived, still, bright and waiting, in Moríel.

And he would walk through fire and ruin if it meant reaching her.

Each step he took away from the ashes of Angband, each breath of the starlit air, was a step toward his true self.

Toward her.

Toward home.

löar or löa is the solar year or "period of growth" for the elves and each "year" is equivalent to 96 months for humans.

In the Nature of Middle-earth, hröa is the elvish term for body and when I use fana or fanar it is the term for a Maia's bodily shape so they will be used in conjunction with each other, but just know:

hröa=elf's body fana=maiar or valar forms

Another thing I slipped in there is a point that Carl goes into about how Ósanwe's work. He made a point to say that Melkor when confined to his bodily shape which weakened him further, he could draw power from those beings to keep himself intact due to his power being so dispersed across Arda, so I thought slipping that tidbit in there about how Mairon felt freed of Melkor's chains would kind of be a nice touch about how he truly was alone in his mind for the first time in a while as I believe that even though Melkor is the most powerful Vala, that Mandos had some way of not letting him get word to his servants.

Also I was so amazed to find out only 24 elves actually emerged and they grew into 20k at the time of the Great March. This gave me the idea of there being twelve clans in the beginning and Mori was the leader of one for Ages due to her importance.

I am still a little cringe at writing Melkor and Mairon's relationship, but we won't have to deal with that for a long while so I guess were in the clear of that cringe for a while.

[oh-god-a-four]

idk if it’s delusion……or the fact that i got a decent amount of sleep last night……..but i’m actually very excited for final dress tonight and i feel Ready to open this damn show tomorrow

[sageshouldknowbetter]

[impluvia]

Harmony Cobel worked 10 hr shifts at the ether factory as an 8 yr old and then went on to design a procedure that would allow people the 'luxury' of not having to remember their work life. Raised in the Lumon cult (but well aware of how it ravaged her hometown) I imagine she thought severance a kindness.

[cipheringcats]

truman show x severance