#gil ash

[chemzee]

random oodles compalation

[clavissionary-position]

Considering all the pics cut off just below the hips, Schrodinger's Principle says they're all simultaneously wearing and not wearing thigh-high boots, up until the moment they're observed and the wave function collapses into one or the other.

Historical data suggests it is the former. #science

[pnuk-r0ck]

Once Bitten, Twice Dead is odd so far. Freaking Dracula is dead and Draculaura and Clawd have been broken up 4 a while by the time the story starts???

[albatrossinabottle]

happy pride blog of mine this is my excuse to write out identities and stuff hand them over

i definetly have no clue who you are thank you for the ask you seem like a very haunted transgender such as myself

i myself am transmasc, demiromantic and bisexual! (he/him) -chip

transfem bisexual :) (she/her!) -jay

I identify as agender, greyromantic, asexual, and vincian/gay! (Any pronouns are alright, neopronouns are beautiful <3) -Gillion

[biblicallyaccurateandrogynoussex]

🔥 JRWI

Omg I never saw this. My jrwi hot take is that I do not like navyseal or any Ashe ships. I also don't like chip/Jay. I get why people like them but personally not my style

[theoppositeofprofound]

How much more deranged would Middle-Earth be if Tolkien was given access to modern scholarship re:the ageless depth of trees?

It’s true that by the end of the Third Age, no trees in Eregion remember the elves that walked there. But there’s an ancient yew in Rivendell that Gil-Galad planted, a clone of one of the old trees of Lindon, that’s still thriving when Elrond leaves his home. It’s seen elven kings and laughing lords and harried messengers. Though trees don’t care about such things, it’s nice to be seen.

There’s a golden aspen grove between Lothlorien and Fangorn. The elves say Nimrodel planted it before her name was Nimrodel, before continents sank, when the forests were home only to a handful who loved them more than paradise.

By the shores of the Mirrormere is another yew. In a little known tradition, kept by one dwarf alone, every Durin plants a few of its seeds, and one of those trees always lives long enough to see his next self.

There’s a cypress in the port of Umbar. Locals say the lord in Mordor planted it the first time he visited (he was still in the habit of planting trees back then). It lived past several of his deaths but faltered, finally, beneath the ashes of his last, worst destruction—more than four thousand years later.

On a tiny island in the sea is a little cluster of spruce trees—some scrap of drowned Beleriand too holy, for one reason or another, to falter. It’s the same tree—when one falters a new coppice comes to take its place, growing out of the same root system. There’s a betting pool among the deep sea fishers of the Falathrin about whose grave lies beneath.

Much is made of the White Tree of Gondor, but on the hillsides in Ithilien, dangerously close to Minas Ithil, are gnarled olive trees that witnessed the Last Alliance. Faramir is inordinately fond of them without knowing the reason why.

Ulmo keeps a garden of sea sponges. The oldest didn’t just see Númenor founded and drowned, it saw the bones of the very first second-comers. (Ossë collects many things.) It’s been… 10,000 years? 12,000? Sponges don’t keep time, they just remember.

Ulmo also keeps a bed of sea grass older than the destruction of the Lamps, but he doesn’t mention that to other people; it’s just for him.

[transbookoftheday]

Leave Trans Kids Alone

Inspired by David Tennant's "Leave Trans Kids Alone You Absolute Freaks" shirt, here are some amazing trans middle grade and picture books you should read:

Book titles:

99% Chance of Magic by Amy Eleanor Heart, Abbey Darling and Luna Merbruja

Sir Callie and the Champions of Helston by Esme Symes-Smith

Jamie by L.D. Lapinski

Camp QUILTBAG by Nicole Melleby and A. J. Sass

Dear Mothman by Robin Gow

Moonflower by Kacen Callender

Joy, to the World by Kai Shappley and Lisa Bunker

Ana on the Edge by A.J. Sass

Girl Haven by Lilah Sturges, Meaghan Carter and Joamette Gil

Obie Is Man Enough by Schuyler Bailar

Alice Austen Lived Here by Alex Gino

The House That Whispers by Lin Thompson

Both Can Be True by Jules Machias

The Tea Dragon Festival by K. O'Neill

Different Kinds of Fruit by Kyle Lukoff

Jude Saves the World by Ronnie Riley

Tiger Honor by Yoon Ha Lee

The Ship We Built by Lexie Bean

Rabbit Chase by Elizabeth Lapensee, KC Oster and Aarin Dokum

Skating on Mars by Caroline Huntoon

Tally the Witch by Molly Landgraff

The Beautiful Something Else by Ash Van Otterloo

The Deep & Dark Blue by Niki Smith

The Fabulous Zed Watson! by Basil Sylvester and Kevin Sylvester

The Ojja-Wojja by Magdalene Visaggio and Jenn St-Onge

Too Bright to See by Kyle Lukoff

The One Who Loves You the Most by medina

Me and My Dysphoria Monster by Laura Kate Dale and Hui Qing Ang

When Aidan Became A Brother by Kyle Lukoff and Kaylani Juanita

Calvin by J.R. Ford, Vanessa Ford and Kayla Harren

[welcomingdisaster]

Daily Affirmations

- I am an artist and a craftsman. I paint with watercolors, teal and white, and I bend silver to my hands.

- I am capable. I have an eye for hue, for shape, for purpose.

- My father is proud of me. I bear his name, and his blood is within me, and I shall live up to it.

- The world is full of darkness and smoke, and we make beautiful things.

- Nothing will last. Not the land, not the tower, not the fortress—not the trees which give us light nor my grandfather’s sharp grey eyes. By our art we must be remembered, as he is.

- The stronghold falls. I paint with watercolors, blue and black and grey. It is beautiful.

- I can earn my place in the underground city. My hands will show my worth, though my father laughs and tells me not to bother.

- I can please the king, bask in the sunshine-brightness of his gaze, the crystal beauty of his voice. I can catch in silver the kindness he shows me.

- I need not my father’s love. I need not my father’s love. I need not my father’s love.

- The king is dead. I paint with watercolors, orange and yellow and green. It is beautiful.

- I can leave the city, and the shame which follows me, and the ash and blood on my skin. The fall of the city will not touch me. My father’s death will not touch me. I twist braids of silver and gold. I sketch passageways. I cut crystal. Nothing can touch me, for I am of metal and stone, and I do not feel.

- I can build Nargothrond into Eregion’s gardens, her domed temples, her crystal passageways. I keep the ghost by me, and turn to it to a friend.

- I am not my father. I am not my grandfather. I have the love of my kin and quarrel with none. I paint with water colors, indigo and silver. It is beautiful.

- I will make something of this land, and it will last. I need not my name, and yet I will fill it.

- The Valar have chosen me for a reason.

- This is worth the cost. It must be.

- I need not Galadriel’s love; she is headstrong and takes ambition for folly. I need not Elrond’s love; he is kind, yet young and weak yet of spirit, swayed too easily by the king’s word. I need not Gil-galad’s love; he fears anything he cannot control.

- I am capable. I have an eye for spirit, for power, for purpose.

- I know what I am doing.

- I will make something beautiful, and it will last.

- I am an artist and a craftsman. I bend silver to my hands. I paint with watercolors, crimson, and I wait for

[weclassygirl]

visions

⋆˙⟡ sauron x fem!elf!reader (witch) ⟡˙⋆

summary: the high king makes his judgement, a new path opens

warnings: none

word count: 2,3k

author’s note: here we go, part two for bound… and soon more to come, let me just get their story straight. enjoy!

”The Woodland Realm has exiled you, why should we aid and welcome you in Lindon?” no greeting, no smile, you already feel that this conversation will take a toll on you.

“Did you believe me to be dead? Or did you wish for it?” you ask and curse yourself for your tongue speaks quicker than your mind. Gil-Galad looks at you with disdain. You try to calm your growing anger. “Whatever Oropher told you is not true.”

“Is it not?” he questions and steps closer. The guards watch your every movement, waiting for you to slip up, to give them a reason to attack. “Were you not the Elf that nearly killed a fellow companion because her anger grew into rage?”

An accident. A mere accident that decided the fate of your life.

“I never meant for—“

“But you did.” he cuts you off. You look to Galadriel who stands next to Elrond, he turns away from your sight but the Commander watches the scene unfold.

You wrote to her, countless times to seek her aid. Elrond as well. All of your letters went unanswered and you thought that perhaps an order was given to burn any passage written by you.

Gil-Galad regards you. “You sought out that which is forbidden. Lindon, Greenwood or any other Elven realm will not stand by it.”

You look up at him, the golden crown that adorns his head, gleaming in the sun. He looked like an emissary from the Valar themselves. Your eyes travel to your hands, so much harm they once caused. Gil-Galad waits as you try to gather your words.

“If you wish to punish me, do so when the blade at my neck is yours. I will not be humiliated. Not again.” you say through your teeth.

The Elves whisper around you.

Witch.

Traitor.

Morgoth’s servant.

Banish her.

Send her away.

You hear another whisper, so quick you almost miss it. Almost.

“Defiance does not suit you.” Gil-Galad states. He looks down at your hands, the dark fingertips as if dipped in black ash. The marks on your body, some symbols and some written in Black Speech. The sight disgusts him and for a moment he pities you and what you’ve endured for centuries. “You will fulfill your punishment in Eregion.”

You gawk at the High King as he makes his decree. “Eregion?”

He returns to his place by the Tree and the guards flank your sides, ready to take you away. “Be glad it’s not my blade at your throat. You will be confined in chains at all times, ones that will subdue your magic. Lord Celembrimbor will see to it. He makes them as we speak.”

Chained once again. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry, perhaps it’s best not to show any emotion while the others are looking. You let the guards take you away and you cast one last glance at Galadriel and Elrond. He meets your gaze finally and bows his head. You don’t know when you will see them again.

The guards chain you and tie your hands to the reins as the company gathers. You in the middle while four of them surround you. Most of the supplies for the journey were given to you, to weigh down your horse should you try to escape.

The road goes ever winding and after a few weeks of constant travel you reach the gates of Eregion. The Elves gather on their balconies, look through the arches to catch a glimpse at you.

The word has reached here as well.

You wonder why they take such interest in you but it is quickly dismissed. You dabbled in the dark arts, once made a mistake that scarred your path and were a prisoner of Morgoth, but you never served him faithfully, only to survive. The Elves had become paranoid.

The spell you cast was an accident, your companion was alive, received a wound in the process but survived.

Your curiosity however, you could never contain it and the darkness was alluring. It’s a shame to admit to it but it's a necessary truth.

However you don’t think yourself evil, yes you were quick to anger but who wouldn’t be after years of torture?

Celebrimbor stands in front of the gates with a man by his side, he holds a wooden box. When the guards help you come down from the horse you think of making a run for it but that would only prove your actions further.

Guilty and convicted.

One of the guards gives Celebrimbor a scroll, he reads through the letter from Gil-Galad with further instructions. He nods and twists the scroll back. He looks you up and down, your dress dirty at the hem, your wrists bound in shackles once again. You looked clean, no blood, no dirt, you never attacked the guards that accompanied you.

“Well then, I assume you never were to Eregion?” he asks out of pure curiosity.

“Once. Merely passing through.” you say and look around cautiously, Celebrimbor notices.

“Be at ease. You’re here in a form of punishment but I would like to see it as a form of shared work.”

You raise an eyebrow at his statement. “What will my duties be here?”

“You,” he starts and grabs the wooden box from the man beside him. When he opens it you notice two identical bracelets made of silver. “You will be an aid in my forge, however some… requirements must be fulfilled.” he explains and takes the bracelets. He steps closer and silently asks you to give you his hands. You do so hesitantly as you cling to your magic one last time.

He puts the bracelets on your wrists and tightens them ever so slightly, you would have to cut off your thumb if you wanted to free yourself and you did not want to witness that sight.

“This will hold your magic, you can still heal yourself and others should the need arise but until the High King gives a different command, they have to stay.” he taps them slightly and you think back to the way Sauron tapped your chains so often when coming up with another ways to seduce you into darkness.

He was persistent but you were glad you had someone to talk to, even if it was Morgoth’s right hand.

A shiver runs through you and your head whips back when you hear Black Speech in your ear. Celebrimbor looks the way your eyes fell but sees no one. “What is it?”

You shake your head and slowly turn to face him. “Nothing, I…“ you look back to where the sound came from. “…thought I heard something.”

The guards look at you as they mount their horses, ready to return to Lindon. One of them stays as he awaits a letter from Celebrimbor. He gives it to him, previously written since he knew you would not resist.

The Eregion guards take over and lead you to your chambers, as you settle and clean yourself up. You stand under a stream of water and look over at the bracelets, you try to tear them away, bent them out but the metal is sturdy. A perfect craftsmanship, you would expect nothing less from the grandson of Fëanor.

A knock comes at the door, the man that accompanied Celebrimbor at your arrival.

“If you’re finished I’ll take you to the forge.” he informs you and you follow him through the halls. You’ve put on a newer dress, the old one was the only piece of clothing you were left with on your journey to Eregion. The darker shade of blue fabric clung to your body and flew behind you with each step you took.

You visited Eregion briefly, a stop on your journey to Greenwood. You used to craft as well but never bore the talent such as Fëanor’s. You used magic to create whatever your heart desired, you used it when building your home in the north of Greenwood.

The woodwork became your craft rather than precious metals and as you enter the forge you begin to miss the comfort of your home.

The Elven smiths glance at you as you enter but continue with their work. Celebrimbor comes down from the gallery to show you around. “I believe you’ll come to enjoy it, I heard you once tried to create something as well.” he asks and you look down to the beaten ring you’ve made centuries ago. The black stone inside it broken but still held within the grasps of the uneven metal.

“A foolish attempt.”

He places a hand on your shoulder. “Not foolish. Perhaps with a bit more practice…” he says, leading you to a desk where a few jewelry pieces lay. Ring with green emerald, a necklace that shone like starlight, a golden bracelet with the most detailed design you’ve ever seen. Weapons laid there as well, shining metal in the dim light, handle wrapping around the blade. You stare in awe.

“Are you certain you have not bested Fëanor yet?” you ask genuinely but think that a bit of flattery on your end might help get out of your chains quicker.

Celebrimbor smiles and gestures to the forge. “Come, we have work to do.” and you follow.

You work for years under Celebrimbor, the Elven smiths have taken to converse with you even if at first they were avoiding you like a plague. With time you have learned to enjoy the craft, a slow process but it kept your life steady. No Morgoth, no torment, a temporary home.

The only pain you felt was the lack of magic in your life. You worked as a healer from time to time but it never compared to the dark arts. Your hands trembled at times as if trying to contain the power from bursting within you. And the visions didn’t help.

They came gradually, growing more persistent with each month of your stay in Eregion. A shadow, always the same and always cunning. It whispered into your ear, showed you the power you could possess. You almost gave in the first night it came.

But you felt it the most one day in the forge.

The same piercing pain you felt when you left Forodwaith. You hold to the table you’ve been working on, the saw and the pliers forgotten on it. The sound they made drew the attention of Mirdania.

“Are you alright?” she comes to your side as you claw at the fabric above your heart. You don’t hear her and shut your eyes as the ringing in your ears grows.

Celebrimbor hears the commotion and quickly comes to see the problem. When he sees you with your hands covering your ears his sight falls on the bracelets that subdue your magic. Could they have weakened?

But there’s nothing that would indicate that you used it.

Mirdania steps aside as Celebrimbor replaces her. His hands rest on your shoulders as you open your eyes. His voice is muffled as he calls your name.

“What’s happening?”

You shake your head, unable to answer and for a split second you see the same shadow behind him, it seems to be smiling.

Celebrimbor sees your frenzied eyes and tries to point where you’re looking at. The Elvensmiths gathered look helpless as no one knows how to help you.

The shadow vanishes as quickly as it came and the ringing in your ears stop. A drop of blood flows out of your nostril and you hear it as it falls to the ground. Your hand goes to your mouth and wipes away the blood, it’s then you notice your fingers. Where once they started to fade from the lack of dark magic, the mark showed up again.

Celebrimbor looks warily, the bracelets he forged would contain your power, he would know you used it even if done so unconsciously. The situation troubles him, the High King must be informed.

You grab him by his tunic as he stands up, the look on his face telling you his intention. “Don’t tell him, please. I didn’t use it, I swear.”

“How do you explain it then?” he points to your fingers curled around the fabric.

“It’s not my doing.”

“Then who’s?” he kneels down at your eye level.

You think over his question and dread the answer. You suggest Morgoth but would his influence still remain after all these years? You think of Sauron but you witnessed his death. Forodwaith is the only answer, centuries you spend there have left a mark, for you it’s the only explanation. You could not escape darkness even if you wanted to.

“He must be informed.” he leaves you with these words and you storm out of the forge. The guards close behind you as you run to the gardens and cover yourself underneath the shadow of a tree. It’s nearly dusk and you curse under your breath in every language you know. Black Speech makes its way on your tongue unconsciously and the guards tense up.

You stay there for a while until the cold wind beats against your skin. You look down at your hands and notice the black starting to fade once more, your head rests against your knees as you look ahead.

You close your eyes when you see it again, out of the corner of your eye but ever so watchful. It takes a form this time, not of a shadow but a man. You look away and his hand slithers under your chin to make you look up at him. When you do, you see perfectly green eyes and the stubble adorning his face, he looks at you so gently you nearly forget he’s the reason for your hauntings.

“Let it in.” he whispers. “A witch should practice her craft.”He returns to shadow and passes through you.

Your breath catches in your throat as you wake up in your bed. You look around and hold your head in your hands.

What is happening?

next part -> deception

[desire-mona]

what i think my mutuals look like

u may be in here, u may not, doing as many as i want, if ur not in here then that doesnt mean i dont luv u :3 i hav a lot of mutuals

naut - i actually know what he looks like but in my mind. raggedy anne

harper - a mix between abed and gillian anderson

kiwi - young hugh laurie

my one tomska mutual - youll never guess

kae - meeks but somehow gayer?

kola - that one rsl photo combined with her actual face

ok computer - her pfp LOL

grey (musi) -s1 wilson

eli - i know what they look like actually so just. their face

joan - elvira

ami - abed, funnily enough

joel - straight up a dog

lisa - neil perry but specifically that one photo used as a pfp at one point

shui - also abed

john - phoebe from friends?

tiffany - again, i know what she looks like

marley - also s1 wilson but its different. like younger

sun (both of you) - ethan hawke in Dad specifically

bones - spock

reese - also spock but if spock was cosplaying neil perry

housewifemd - if house and wilson steven universe fused

ghostie - if jesse pinkman cosplayed frank n furter

joon - gender swapped neil perry

clara - gender swapped pitts

sid - richard cameron

tyty - his face!

ania - a vague cross between ginny danburry and gender swapped steven meeks

autumn (nocti) - her pfp

indie - also richard cameron

finn (occams chainsaw) - s1 gregory house

finn (puckspoetry) - neil perry but like. modern au?

bubble - gender swapped todd anderson but pink?

manda - thirteen (specifically thirteen with bangs)

tristan - his face. but also jesus

lovechild - NOT TAYLOR SWIFT. her face actually cuz i got secret access

dream(duality) - house when he went to that one migraine guys lecture thing

aspen - his face if it was more taublike

chandler - HIS face but more houselike

syd - allison cameron in black and white specifically

soph - rose tyler

hunny bun - martha masters

rain - i newly know what she looks like however she does still look like house in my mind

katie - neil perry at the play specifically

pinkie pie - pinkie pie

raph - steven meeks if he was dan howell circa 2009

dewi - charlie dalton

regulus - all 4 beatles combines into one being

jareth - todd anderson with white hair?

gil - his face mixed with rsl circa 2001

lesbians for trobed - trobed combined into one being

elmo - carrie

luke - thirteen (no bangs)

will - helena bonham carter in frankenstein (1994)

cuntstruck - that guy who wrote let it go (not the frozen song)

zeth - zeth

blue - allison cameron

blue - dick grayson

(im sure the blues can tell who is who)

thiam - jschlatt circa 2020 SORRY

valerie - martha masters allison cameron steven universe fusion

ash (crow king) - stretched james wilson

nico - stick dead poets society if he was also tyler joseph

percy - robin williams if he was a teenager

ashy - her face mixed with belle

nick - rsl and winona ryder steven universe fusion

matthew - youll never guess. anyone but barry boys next door

el - richard cameron AGAIN

sammy - their face mixed with neil perry gayface

birdy (demon or) - james wilson circa s3 ALSO U JUMPSCARED ME WITH THE PFP CHANGE I WASNT EXPECTING A FOOTBALL ERA

daisy bell - dana mythic quest

maddie - abed in her artstyle specifically

missy - TROY TIGER!!!!!!!

rubester - daria? idk why

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Freudian Symbolism: Sauron x Galadriel in Season 1 of "Rings of Power"

There are no sex scenes in “Rings of Power” and never will be. But there’s a lot of sexual symbolism happening. And, as I’ve mentioned in my original post, Freudian symbolism has been widely used by cinema to covey sexual acts, especially in productions that can’t or won’t straight out show it to the viewer.

These sexual acts are taking place within in the narrative. The characters are interacting sexually. But the scenes aren’t graphic in nature, like we are use to nowadays. These narratives devices were very common in past decades, when cinema couldn't show explicit sexual content and the studios had to be creative. So these sex symbols have been widely used, and are recognizable.

Yes, I’m going down this rabbit hole, again, inspired by @princessfantaghiro and @rey-jake-therapist. Might do a post on Season 2, as well.

I’m like Sauron: rubbing symbolically Haladriel sex in Galadriel’s your face(s).

I’ve already discussed the Freudian symbolism of this gesture, several times, and it’s very obvious, too. It is penetrative sex: a crown (clitoral symbol) penetrating a sword (phallic symbol).

I would like to revisit and elaborate on my original post about this subject:

Enduring Headcanons

To get this topic out of the way: if you are still holding on to “Elven sex culture” or “Elvish sex magic” because the Tolkien fandom keeps neglecting context, Tolkien letters and Christopher Tolkien notes, you can find a explanation here.

In short, the “Concerning the "Laws and Customs among the Eldar” chapter in "Morgoth's Ring” is not how Elves actually behave sexually in the legendarium. There is no “magical bound” happening between Elves when they have sex; the “union of souls” the fandom keeps talking about is creating children (not the actual sex act); and for the Noldor sex doesn’t equal marriage, they need more than that to recognize a wedding took place (a tribute, usually a jewel); Ósanwë has nothing to do with sex, it’s telepathy. These are fanon, not actual “Tolkien canon”. By all means have all the headcanons you want, just don’t come crying about it on my posts.

So, yes, it’s entirely possible for Galadriel to have had sex with Halbrand-Sauron in Season 1, without it “breaking the lore”.

Galadriel the Virgin

Just before Galadriel runs into Halbrand-Sauron in the Sundering Seas, she’s evocative of Joan of Arc.

Which is very fitting for her character at the beginning of Season 1: Joan of Arc was put on trial because of blasphemy (wearing men’s clothes), acting upon demonic visions and refusing to submit to the authority of the Church. Galadriel is shipped off to Valinor because of her endless pursuit for Sauron (acting upon demonic visions), and her continuous disobedience of High King Gil-galad’s commands. And like Joan of Arc, we also see her wearing armor (men’s clothes).

Joan of Arc also took a vow of chastity and pledged her life to expel the enemies of France. This also mirrors Galadriel’s husband being presumed dead ever since the end of the War of Wrath, and her vowing to hunt down Sauron (the enemy of Middle-earth).

And now we enter theological territory: virginity (in women, because men are allowed everything, but that’s a question for another time) has spiritual power in many religions. In Catholic-Christian, a virgin body is considered the most sacred shrine of God’s earth, because it has the gift of creation. Joan of Arc was a virgin but she had her virginity questioned and put on trial, too, and was examined twice.

Joan of Arc was burned at the stake (fire) and her ashes where thrown at the river (water). In “Rings of Power”, it appears the Elves enter Valinor through the Sun itself (fire), but Galadriel jumps off ship into the sea (water). This is, yet, another connection between Galadriel’s character and Joan of Arc, only in Galadriel’s case represents rebirth.

Sexual Awakening

In Freudian symbolism, water imagery is, indeed, connected to birth, rebirth, renewal, and transformative experiences in general. Whatever happens to Galadriel next will be a life-changing situation.

Water is also symbolically of wish fulfillment, especially connected to sexual deviation and/or repressed sexual desire. Which is very interesting in Galadriel’s case, because she jumps off ship to continue her hunt for Sauron, but the words that echoed on her mind before her final decision are her brother’s, Finrod: “sometimes we cannot know until he have touched the darkness”. Interestingly enough, ships are also considered clitorical symbols.

"It's me. The object of all of your sexual nightmares.”

In Freudian symbolism, pulling someone out of the water, is meant to illustrate a hypothetical parent, usually mother-child relationship, and, curiously enough the first character who helps Galadriel get into the raft is a woman, but she also rejects her next. Symbolically, this scene is also rejecting this angle of symbolical interpretation. We'll have this meaning later on with Elendil and Galadriel, when he even compares her with his own children.

Who truly “fishes” Galadriel out of the sea is Sauron himself. The object of her obsession, which caused her to be condemned to be “burned at the stake” aka thrown into the sun (return to Valinor), by her “Church” authority, the Noldor. The scene is embracing the sexual deviation interpretation, as we'll see in a moment.

To analyze the Freudian symbolism of the sea we have to go to a philosopher whose work inspired Freud himself: Friedrich Nietzsche. Especially since we are working with the themes of sexual deviance and repression of sexual desire in this scene. And here’s your explanation for Sauron’s unhinged predatory expression when he takes Galadriel out of the water. 

There is also a lot of phallic imagery in this raft design; symbolically Galadriel is also entering Sauron’s sexual domain, here. And she, literally, finds herself surrounded with symbolic penises.

Nietzsche uses the open sea as a metaphor for the unknown and the unexplored, where the traditional molds of morality are abandoned. The open sea is an invitation to embark on a journey into unchartered moral waters: a place where "right" or "wrong" don't exist, a moral grey area, and a breeding ground for moral decay.

For Nietzsche, the open sea represents a Godless world. Which is very fitting for a demon such as Sauron, who turned his back on God (Eru Ilúvatar) and sided with Melkor/Morgoth (Satan), and, at this point of his character arc, is seeking for redemption. In short, the open sea symbolizes infinite freedom and potential depravity; which are characteristics often associated with the Christian Devil (Morgoth), whom Sauron serves. 

The open sea it’s textbook “live dangerously”, where all sort of morally questionable and reprehensible actions can happen. And this idea of the “open sea as a grey moral area” isn’t exclusive to Nietzsche or Freud, we also find it in female poets like Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickinson; where the ocean is a symbol for moral and sexual exploration.

There’s also a storm in these scenes: in Freudian symbolism, storms are representative of emotional repression. Storms, heavy rain and thunder indicate feelings of sexual frustration, anger and sadness. Heavy rain is also associated with renewal, while thunderstorms reflect emotional conflict.  

Galadriel reaches out to Sauron in this scene. What does this mean? Symbolically, she wants to him to take her out her sexual “dry spell” existence. She’s sexually frustrated. and he’s in the same situation. Which makes sense with her unvoluntary chastity vow (Joan of Arc), and him being trapped in a cave being goo for hundreds of years. And he “accepts her plea” and jump into the ocean to rescue her, signaling he shares her want.

All of this symbolism will also echo in Season 1 finale, when Sauron “returns” Galadriel to the raft to pitch his proposal to make her a queen. What Sauron is truly offering Galadriel, on a symbolic level, is infinite freedom of self and raw sexuality.

She refuses his offer and says she “should have left him on the sea”. Galadriel is expressing regret over her own sexual impulses and returning to her chastity vow. Then, we have all of this splashing water around them, framed in a very different way from the scenes in 1x02.  Splashing water has been used as a device/symbol for fulfilled sexual activity in cinema for decades, now. So, yes, they most likely did it. Sauron-Halbrand and Galadriel had sex in Season 1.

"He really seduced her" (Charlotte Brändström)

Galadriel was reborn after she emerged from the sea. She was “fished” out of the ocean by Sauron, a symbol of sexual depravity whose sexual repression mirrors her own (open sea). She enters his sexual domain (raft). Halfway through their interactions, Galadriel reaches out to him, consumed by her own sexual frustration, but she’s conflicted about her feelings (storm). He shares her emotions and is willingly to give her what she needs (saves her from drowning). After the storm comes a calm: they have reached an understanding.

Interestingly enough this symbolic understanding of their mutual sexual desire and needs (clear skies) is them lying down on the raft:

Now, the seduction begins.

And Sauron initiates it by handing Galadriel a bowl of food. This is what Freud called “oral gratification”, connected to his theory about the psychosexual stages of development. Here pleasure is the core theme, associated with emotional and sexual nourishment. Sauron offers food, and Galadriel is emotionally hungry for it, and accepts with no hesitation.  

And he grins. Sauron is pleased with himself because Galadriel accepted his sexual invitation. And also, in Freudian symbolism the mouth is a symbol for the female genitals, while the spoon is a phallic symbol. The act of eating symbolizes sexual intercourse (= interaction between male and female symbols). He’s fantasizing all kind of sexual scenarios here.

In Freudian Symbolism, knifes/daggers/lances/swords (any object resembling the penis in shape or that can be used to penetrate the body and cause injury) are phallic symbols. Meaning, they represent the penis. An erection (in which the penis raises itself against the force of gravity) is usually represented in connection with an air element (it can be ballons, airplanes, missiles, rockets, flying, snakes, etc.).

Symbolically, this is the first sexual interaction between Galadriel and Halbrand/Sauron. He has an erection, and she is touching it.

That's symbolic handjob, for you.

In the same episode, the Númenórean smiths tease Sauron, and ask how close is he with the "she-elf". This Maia is eating ("sexual intercourse") clams, here. Worldwide, the clam is a clitoral symbol, meaning it represents the female genitalia. What does this means? Eating Galadriel out is, probably, what Sauron wants. 

In 1x05, after some flirtation happening between Galadriel and Sauron, she’s handling a bunch of swords (phallic symbols) right in front of him. Literally. She’s training the Númenoreans and is surrounded by men eager to… learn from her, and at awe by her. She’s very skilled with those swords.

Sauron decides to peacock and assert his dominance in this scene: the only “sword” Galadriel will be handling around here is his, and he’s the best at it, too. 

Speaking of objects representative of genitals: the roles are reversed in Galadriel and Sauron’s characters in Season 1. Galadriel is the one who carries the phallic symbol (dagger), while Sauron carries the clitoral symbol (pouch). But they do exchange these objects a few times throughout the season. In Freudian symbolism, the interaction of male and female symbols represent sexual acts.

“Come with me to Middle-earth and I’ll give you this… pouch.”

In 1x05, they are back to the ocean, aboard of a clitoral symbol (ship). And Galadriel climbs stairs to reach Halbrand. Staircases are one of those classic and universal cinematic devices to signal female sex appeal. Every man on board is at awe of her, but she only has eyes for Halbrand-Sauron.

But stairs, especially climbing, also have a well-established sexual meaning in cinema: they represent the sexual act.

However, we aren’t shown any interactions between these two characters on the ship, on a voyage that lasted from 1 to 2 weeks, depending on the weather conditions.

The only “clue” we got is that they were, at one point, awake at the same time, and that Galadriel has been up for at least one hour, as she tells Isildur, in 1x06. Sauron doesn’t need to sleep, but Galadriel does (even though not as much as if she belonged to the race of Men).

Galadriel has her hair braided, which is the first time we see this hairstyle on her in “Rings of Power”, because in 1x01 she had her hair down. Indeed a braid is more practical for battle, but braids also have Freudian symbolism attached to them. Braids are a phallic symbol, and Galadriel on a clitoral symbol (ship), meaning we have two sex symbols interacting, indicating sexual intercourse.

The next scene Galadriel and Sauron share together is their chasing after Adar, when they prevent each other from killing him. We know that Galadriel has some darkness within her since 1x01, but Adar tells her something interesting, that resonates with other lines in Season 1:

Halbrand (1x05): “What do you know of darkness?” Adar (1x06): “It would seem I'm not the only Elf alive who has been transformed by darkness.” Sauron-Finrod (1x08): “Touch the darkness once more”.

Is this an indication that Galadriel got “transformed” by the “darkness” (Sauron) somewhere in the middle of these events?

Because, as @rey-jake-therapist correctly pointed out, we underestimate the importance of the “touch the darkness once more”. This implies Galadriel has already “touched the darkness” and Sauron is asking her to do it again.

Back to 1x06, after the Adar business, we have the “I’ve felt it too” scene, where Sauron expressed his desire to bind them together. And if we remove the “fighting” (which is also be a symbol for sexual intercourse), Sauron’s quote sounds very intimate and romantic: “at your side, I... I felt... If I could just hold on to that feeling, keep it with me always, bind it to my very being, then I...”

But after Halbrand-Sauron is summoned by Queen Míriel, Galadriel has an intriguing scene all by herself. She cleans the black blood (Adar’s) from her dagger, and looks ashamed and guilty doing it. And she does this after saying "I've felt it too".

The subtext of this act can be very sexual, especially if we take into account her previous invocation of Joan of Arc (virgin), the black blood/seed (the same color as Sauron’s) and the symbolic penis (dagger). Symbolically, this can indicate she’s attempting to keep her sexual rendezvous with Halbrand-Sauron a secret. A dirty secret she’s deeply ashamed of.

And for my Half-Maia Celebrían enthusiasts out there: after the volcano eruption, in 2x07, the first place of her body Galadriel touches is her lower stomach, her womb. Why?

When she’s finally able to get up, she searches for Halbrand. And we also see her acting maternal with the angsty kid in town, Theo, next. After an episode where Adar mentioned “Halbrand’s” “woman” and “child”. You all know I’m not a believer in Half-Maia Celebrían theory but there are some intriguing clues on both Season 1 and Season 2. 

Next, Sauron pretends to be injured and Galadriel takes him to Eregion. In my opinion, the injury wasn’t fatal. I think he really wanted to be near Galadriel, even though he didn’t know for sure she would take him to Eregion and Celebrimbor, because Sauron doesn’t have the gift of foresight. Anyway, it was clear Sauron indented to forge two wedding rings, one for himself and the other for Galadriel.

On my original post I made the case for “sexy time” happening for the first time at Eregion, but now I’m convinced it might have been sooner. Sauron was there for three weeks, as that’s the time Gil-galad gives Celebrimbor in 1x08. Galadriel became suspicious of him the day after their arrival, probably. While something might have happened there, too, from the symbolism we got, it might have happened sooner than expected.  

[thelordofgifs]

For the prompt thing, number 24 on the Silmarils list; choked with weeds and slime? IDK seems like a line you could do something interesting with.

Another one I’m answering a year late, but have some War of Wrath-era Elros and Elrond growing slowly apart! Thank you for the prompt 💕

“Just a little further,” Elrond says confidently, raising his torch. It does very little to illuminate the dank forest path ahead of them, but he does not seem deterred. “We’ll know it when we feel it.”

“Elrond,” Elros says quietly, trailing after him. He is not used to this position – not used to being the one to doubt. For so much of their lives it has been the other way around, has Elrond followed Elros charging head-first into wherever his will led them.

“You remember,” Elrond insists. “Naneth told us that the air inside Melian’s Girdle was cleaner and purer than any she had ever breathed since.”

Elros inhales, takes in the stench of rot and decay that clogs the forest, and thinks with longing of the clean salt air of the Sea. ���The Girdle was fallen almost before Naneth was born,” he says. “It is not here, Elrond.”

“The forest will remember it, even so,” Elrond says. “Doriath was once the most blessed realm in Beleriand – and we its last heirs! It will remember us.”

Too often these days, in Elros’ view, does Elrond’s talk turn towards the power of memory. It makes him uneasy: he does not like to feel the edges of a rift between them, to understand so little the drift of his brother’s thought. Perhaps it is the knowledge of burned Sirion, and all that was lost with it, that haunts Elrond now – or perhaps the long shadow of Amon Ereb, that mausoleum in which they came of age, where the sons of Fëanor mourned the lost days of their glory, and Maglor’s every lullaby was half a dirge.

Beleriand was splendid once, it is true – but the land is breaking now, and the interminable war drawing into its final act, and Elros is more concerned with building something from the ashes than weeping for what was burned. But he does not know how to say this to Elrond, who is still leading him towards the forest’s heart, where Menegroth once flourished.

“Do you even know how to enter the city?” he asks instead. The path, choked with weeds and slime, clings unpleasantly to his feet and makes a squelching sound with every step. “The hidden entrance may now be lost.”

“Not lost,” Elrond murmurs, his voice losing a little of its bravado. “Perhaps it has forgotten itself – but we can call it back.”

“And how long will that take?” Elros argues. “Elrond, my men are waiting for me. I have not the time for a fool’s errand.”

Elrond turns back to look at him for the first time. For a moment Elros is oddly glad of that, that he might still capture his brother’s attention with a sharp word: but the thought is almost immediately followed by a hot flash of shame, for hurt flickers briefly in Elrond’s eyes. It is the sort of thing Maedhros used to do, in his worst moods – goad and goad until at last Maglor gave him some reaction, often too imperceptible for the twins to see. Elros does not want to be like Maedhros. Does not want to think of Maedhros, wants to shake off all the clinging ghosts of his childhood and look now to the world ahead.

But: “It ought not take long,” is all Elrond says, mildly.

They walk in silence, Elros breathing through his nose. He thinks again of the Edain under his command, whom he left waiting at their new outpost a little south of the forest. It has been long enough since he and Elrond last went away on an adventure of their own, for Gil-galad cannot often spare his brother from his duties, and Elros too is a commander in his own right. Besides, he did not think his men would understand their object: most of them have grandparents too young to remember Doriath before its fall. Still he does not like to abandon them, does not want them to think him just another elvish princeling, a stranger to mortal troubles and mortal woes.

But nor could he have let Elrond set out on this quest alone.

In the silence Elrond begins to sing a canto of the Lay of Leithian, of Lúthien dancing in the forest glades to Daeron’s music. Elros joins him, for their voices yet ring stronger together than apart – but he can put little conviction behind the song. The forest that his foremother loved is dead now, and so is she – they cannot resurrect her with their poems and their songs, necromancy dressed up as memorials, she is fled where they cannot reach her. Elros wonders if she was glad to do it.

Elrond’s eyes keep flitting between the dark, foreboding tree-trunks, as though he cannot quite understand why they do not become green and fair again under the influence of his song. At last he stops singing, a little frustrated now. “I cannot find a way,” he says, “it is all dark and rotten.”

“Well, there have been all manner of foul creatures crawling through these forests since Doriath fell,” Elros says sensibly. “I would be surprised were it not polluted.” 

“Why will it not cleanse itself?” Elrond says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why will it not remember how it used to be?”

Every two years or so Elrond will come to Elros with a plan to reach out to Maglor and his brother, and bring them before Gil-galad to face justice and redemption. Each time Elros tries to make him understand how impossible the idea is – and it works, for a year or two. 

He is not accustomed to thinking of his brother as childish – not accustomed to feeling so very old as he does right now, seeing the stunned bewildered hurt on Elrond’s face.

“It is tired, Elrond,” he says. “Let it sleep.”

For a moment Elrond’s face crumples, and Elros thinks he must weep; then he says, quite calmly and cheerfully, “Well then, we had best be getting you back to your men,” and sets his course for the forest’s southern border.

The victory feels hollow, to Elros: but then, they all do. 

[madwomansapologist]

Autumn Thunderstorm | Chapter 12 - Mortals and fools

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series synopsis: Thranduil thought the recent attack of spiders on a periphery village was the only thing deserving of his attencion. If he could've imagined what he would found there, who he would found there, the Elvenking would wait a millenia in front of that river so he could see her sooner. Or: how Gandalf managed to keep a secret for 14 months.

twelfth: Thranduil gave you his heart, knowing one day you will break it. It's past time you trust him too. [1.6K]

notes: hehe playing with canon.

glossary: Idril: Treasure, sweetheart┆

Heavy steps echoed down the hall, making the emptiness of the gallery more obvious. Good, you needed to be alone. Wandering again among ancient tapestries and paintings, for once your eyes ignored the beauty and technique behind each thread. Not their tales of adventure and grief: you admired that all of them survived this far.

When things last for a long time, it can be safe to assume they are resistant. That they are responsible for their survival. That is not true with art. No painting or song, tapestry or dance, ever lasted because of their own innate strength. What force could a melody about Gil-Galad ever have to defend itself? Is there a fabric that would not burn to ashes near a flame?

Lifetimes ago someone touched the very same painting you admire now. Lifetimes after you, someone will be brave enough to touch it again instead of just watching. When art survives, it is out of the stubbornness of those who hold it dear enough to shield it from time.

And for now, those ancient pieces are stubbornly protected by the ancient beings living within the Elvenking’s Halls. A place that often makes you wonder about time, and how the smallest of things can make you travel in it. A palace that keeps the rot of mankind far away, and the brightness of immortality always near.

Absentmindedly, your fingers lingered over the gems weighing down your collarbone.

Do you reek of mortality? A youth doomed to end; a thing made to age and perish. Your life was very short. What you can recall of it, that is. A blink in their experienced eyes. There is so much you never saw and never will.

How can you be certain that someone is righteous when you never saw evil? What is peace to you, someone that never saw war? A messenger from Lothlórien told you the world became darker since he last travelled far from his land. As for you, the world looks bright enough to blind you as it is now.

One day you shall be gone and the ellons shall continue to shine as the land rots and darkens until they sail away one last time. You never thought much about death before. Why waste your time worrying about what you cannot stop? It was unreasonable until an ancient being confessed his love to you. Now, it is all you can think about.

That night, lulled by his soft caresses, death embedded your tired mind. The next morning, you woke up to a slightly comforting conclusion: Thranduil is stubborn. When he makes a decision there is no turning back. He calls it endurance; you argued it was a matter of semantics.

Thranduil is stubborn, and that is why his domains endures. Why all the art in this gallery survived longer than royal bloodlines and rock castles. Why his enemies are buried and his friends stand still.

You trust Thranduil to protect what will remain of you once you are gone. His stubbornness will preserve his memories and you, a small thing in this very large world, will survive along with him.

So why now you feel so lonely? If your future with him is so certain, why the present feels so unsure? There is something you cannot share with Thranduil. That you do not know how to express. A feeling that something does not fit anymore. Much more than a feeling, what you have is a doubt. And the amount of damage a single, genuine doubt can provoke is still unknow to you.

You were in Mordor too.

Those were the words that awakened Thranduil. Words that you could not possibly know to be true at the time. Thranduil never told you that. Maybe you could have assumed his burns had something to do with the fires of that wretched place, but at the moment you simply did not knew he was burned to begin with.

And those are the same words that keep you from sleeping at night. Words that imply that you had been there too. Words that escaped from your mouth after you felt watched and burned by His ever-hungry eye. Words that maybe could mean nothing at all, but that awakened Thranduil nonetheless.

You wanted to share this with him, but how could you? It does not make sense. You cannot even put it into words. A fool. That is what you are.

“Idril?”

A squeal escaped your throat. You jumped in place, back colliding with Thranduil’s chest. Tilting your head, eyes wide open, you stared at him. He was so close, and still you did not hear him until he spoke. It was almost as if Thranduil crawled out of your mind.

Thranduil smiled, and his eyes had a different glow in them. “Lost in thought?”

You sighed, a dry laugh finding a way out of you. “You sneaky viper!”

“What are you talking about, idril? I am worried about you”, Thranduil pretended to be offended, but he was laughing too. Holding you by your shoulders, his long fingers caressed your skin. “It became one of my favorites too, but there is no reason to hold your breath.”

A heartbeat later, you understood. Thranduil assumed you got distracted admiring the painting in front of you. Following his gaze, you took a deep breath. You intertwined your fingers with his, and in silence you both took in the painting.

Moonshine marked the silhouette of a man. His head was turned to face the top of a hill, where an elven danced on top of flowers and leaves. Her long hair moved like water around her body, almost as if it was dancing on its own too. Her smile, wide and pure.

“The leaves were long, the grass was green”, Thranduil hummed. “The hemlock-umbels tall and fair. And in the glade a light was seen, of stars in shadow shimmering.”

It was a song. And one you heard before. Enlightened, the painting gained a new meaning to you. Raising your eyes, you observed Thranduil. His own were closed, face relaxed. Feeling his chest move up and down, you hesitated. Thranduil looked so young now.

“Is this Lúthien and Beren?”

A smile grew on his face. Such a small thing, but genuine. It made your heart ache. “Have you heard of them before?”

A frog in a well knows nothing of the sea. You are a fool wondering about ancient art as if you are smart enough to understand what stood right in front of you. For how long you stayed there, staring a Lúthien, without realizing she was the elven from the stories? How can you think so much about the past and not learn from it?

This is not the first time an elven and a mortal fell in love. You are not the first to wonder about death when you were supposed to rejoice how lucky you were to find someone to love. You are not the first fool in the world.

“A love story”, you said. A bittersweet taste invaded your mouth. “The best of them.”

Thranduil gave you his heart, knowing that when you eventually break it will never heal again. He trusts you to take care of it until then, and accepted that after your life comes to an end, he will be alone. Thranduil deems it worth it. He made peace with the nature of your love.

 “Yes”, Thranduil opened his eyes. “For now.”

It is your turn to do the same. To trust your heart to Thranduil. To accept tomorrow.

“Thranduil,” you whispered. Taking a step forward, his touch freed you. It took you a moment to prepare yourself. Facing him, you hid your hands behind your back. You intertwined your finger to keep them from shaking. “Do you want me to be your secret?”

Thranduil blinked. “I am not sure of what you mean, idril.”

It took so much of you to keep looking into his blue eyes. “You are a king, and I am… Lossëistar. I will never stop being someone that did not deserved a name. Lady Aerin thought you pitied me. She even… I know others will think the same. What I want to know since that night is if I will be your secret. If I embarrass you.”

At that, you looked away. Part of you feared he would agree, part of you hoped he would deny. None were brave enough to watch him chose between the option you presented him.

Thranduil took a step closer. His hands cupped your cheeks, and for once his touch did not feel gentle. It was demanding. Were you expected warmth, you found certainty. He made you look at him, and the coldness in his eyes made shiver run down your spine.

“Pity you?” Thranduil growled. Was he… angry at you? You never saw him like that before. Brows furrowed, words sharp, hands rough. Have you crossed a line? Maybe you offended him. “You shall be my queen.”

You gasped. “But… Thranduil, I…”

He gave no time for your surprised words. Staring into your eyes, you felt as if he could see your bare soul. Lurking over you, Thranduil showed you he was deserving of your trust. “Do you know what the gems in your necklace are? Do you know what they are called?”

“White gems?” You looked down, trying to run away from his gaze. Their glow almost blinded you. It was different from any other jewel you ever saw. Somehow, deep inside you knew only elves and dwarves together could craft something as enchanting.

Thranduil made you look up again. As you heard his words, the right answer, all doubts were expelled from your head. Covering your mouth with trembling hands, you were once more a fool. Or maybe, this time, Thranduil was simply insane.

“They are called Silmarils.”

AUTUMN THUNDERSTORM: @ferns-fics @notanalienindisguiseblink @rayrlupin @elvyshiarieko @graniairish @h0ly-fire @whore-of-many-hot-men @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @homewhereitsat @instantnoooodles @hungrh4yyy @scrumpdidlyuptious @mirandastuckinthe80s @linaaajacksos

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[aracaranelentari]

I heard someone point out that Gil-Galad's death (wrestling with Sauron alongside Elendil, a man) in a way mirrors how Finrod died wrestling with one of Sauron's wolves for Beren's, a man's, sake.

And people have of course talked about how Gil-Galad's death also mirrors Fingolfin's, since he dies fighting a dark lord.

...And then I realized that Gil-Galad's death ALSO mirrors Fëanor's death if you squint, since he literally burns to death and turns to ashes.

So damn Gil-Galad! Man's trying to parallel all the houses of the sons of Finwë I suppose, which is pretty cool. It certainly doesn't help me decide which line he should've been descended from if he mirrors all three tho LOL

[doodle-pops]

“How Much Do You Love Me?”

A/N: This was originally planned for the underrated character event and ended up being scrapped at the last minute. Enjoy!

I’D DIE FOR YOU…in a heartbeat, if you ever asked them to choose, they would instead give their lives so that you can continue living. They preferably die, even if the act was selfish, which meant leaving you alone for the rest of your life. It would pain them to leave you behind to suffer and grieve their deaths, but it was better than staining their hands with blood while continuing to live. It simply wasn’t a part of their nature. It felt more heroic to give their life to save the love of theirs.

Celebrimbor, Fingolfin, Fingon, Argon, Finarfin, Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, Glorfindel, Ecthelion, Egalmoth, Rog, Galdor, Beleg, Elrond, Elrohir, Elladan, Erestor, Gil Galad, Manwë, Irmo, N��mo, Eönwë, Tilion

I’D KILL FOR YOU…and there’s no joking around when some got on their knees and swore to remove anyone and anything that threatened to harm or take you away from them. They have no issue in removing the enemy with their hands—getting them dirty was all a part of your protection. The act of taking someone’s life never or no longer bothers them so long as you remain safe and alive.

Feanor, Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, Amras, Fingon, Turgon, Maeglin, Thingol

I'D BURN THE WORLD FOR YOU…and they would do it in a heartbeat if that was the only way for the both of you to live in peace without any enemies and threats. A guaranteed method to sustain both your happiness and forever. A world without anyone to obstruct your love and steal either of you away. They would set the world on fire to remove everything so long as you remain at their side, and from the ashes, they’ll merely create a new world for you both to live in peace.

Feanor, Thingol, Melkor, Mairon

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[funbirdnest]

Blackbird (Translation)

I worked in the translation of the story for the past week and I have been unable to shut up about until now. This translation work was done in collaboration of @spectralpooch who worked as English proofreader and provided a lot of insight of the english grammar and composition. I was also helped by Yuko and Asher who helped with wording.

I hope you get to enjoy, even if just a little, the love we all put in this story that we have been waiting seven years for. 

Blackbird

The fantasy is burning.

—At the end of the day, love always prevails.

—Hard work and good intentions are always rewarded.

—As long as you wish for it with all your might, your dreams will always come true.

Such are the nonsensical, gibberish words that everyone recognizes as downright lies once they reach adulthood. And burning within a bonfire is the pile of papers—the representation of the very innocence of a young boy who earnestly believed in those lies.

The embers of dreams and hopes are stirred by the updraft caused by the hot air.

Ashes and soot soar up, miserably staining the clear skies.

“Aah, what a terrible shame.”

Hibiki Wataru looked up at the sky and, in sharp contrast to his words, trembled with pleasure.

He is a beautiful man.

Long, silver-white hair that resembles moonlight incarnate. A physique blessed with a perfect golden ratio.

He is wearing his elegantly designed uniform in quite an incomprehensible way.

His facial expressions and gestures are refined and effusively charming, and it feels as though wing scales and fluorescent lights should flutter around him with every step he takes.

But it is precisely because he is too beautiful that he can stand out in any town.

Every person who passes by throws him a strange look and either turns away or flees the scene as if having just encountered a monster. It is the most appropriate reaction when confronted with a monstrosity, but—

He wants them to at least scream.

To curse, spit, and throw stones at him.

It hurts the most to be ignored.

As if to convey this point, Wataru gestures towards them in invitation to do so—but the only one willing to approach him is a slightly dirtied pigeon.

"Aah, Gil! Poor you, Gilles de Rais¹! Your feathers are completely sullied!" 

Wataru laments while rubbing his cheek against the pigeon perched on his shoulder.

"When you are covered in soot like this, you look more like a crow than a pigeon! Crows are really smart, and they can become great ‘entertainers’ when trained, but people often hate them for no reason—it's troublesome, isn't it?"

At the sight of Wataru having a conversation with a pigeon as though it were completely normal, the people around him begin to back further away.

"... But right now, I have the feeling that such an individual would be the most suitable companion for me."

As Wataru mutters sadly to himself, the soot-covered pigeon pulls his hair with its beak.

“That hurts?! It was just a joke, Gil! Are you jealous? I've raised and looked after you since you were an egg, so there's no way I could ever discard you and look for another partner! Please cheer up—oya?”

As the pigeon goes all out on him, something falls down from the crevice of its beak. 

Cinders.

The wreckage of a dream that had been carried by the wind from afar.

“That's splendid! This will solve the problem of my ink running out!”

Wataru exclaims with pleasure and mashes the cinders with his fingertips.

Then, with fingers stained in black, he writes his name in the bundle of documents that he had been holding.

“—With this, it’s finished.”

Embracing the bundle of documents as though it were his most prized possession, Wataru trembles again.

“I wonder if he will be happy with this.”

***

There was a war.

A tragic conflict in which boys hurt and killed each other for the sake of their own dreams and ideals—for the sake of love.

Of course, although it has now become a gloomy and sorrowful memory, it was not actually a battle where people fought with guns and blades and bathed in each other's blood.

All of them were idols.

Standing on the stage, singing and dancing, their top priority was to bring people happiness.

However, at that time, their place of residence, Yumenosaki Private Academy, was not an environment in which idols could properly live as idols. Everything was decayed, stagnant and rotten.

There were those who stood up in order to change the situation at hand.

There were also those who tried to fight back in anger and sorrow after everything they held dear had been mangled in the name of the "revolution" the others had raised.

They turned the things that were supposed to make people happy into weapons, abused them, and imposed their own resentment and misery onto others.

As a result, this vast and boundless world was changed only slightly.

But the price that had been paid was extremely high.

—Yumenosaki 's era of conflict.

—The first revolution.

—The beginning of the end.

Regret consumes everyone whenever they remember the tragedy of that time.

***

A hospital room.

The brand new hospital in the vicinity of Yumenosaki Academy had been built with a sole purpose: to provide an immediate response on the occasion that a single person's physical condition changed for the worse.

Leading-edge medical equipment and top-notch doctors had been assembled in order to forcibly prolong his existence—sometimes even diverting attention from other, more urgent patients.

He is one of the world's most distinguished billionaires, the scion of the Tenshouin conglomerate, Tenshouin Eichi.

He is the leading actor in the conflict that unfolded in Yumenosaki.

He loved idols more than anyone else.

However, as a result of the kingcraft instilled in him from an early age by his private corporate tutor, the clear mind he has naturally possessed since birth, and his cold heart, he came to massacre the very thing he loved with his own hands.

The many sins he committed in this ironic twist of fate tormented him and made him sick.

“...”

Tenshouin Eichi is lying down on the floor of a very spacious hospital room.

He is also a beautiful man, but there is a crack distorting his beauty.

Seemingly because he hasn’t been eating, he has become emaciated, and his blond hair, which resembles sunlight incarnate², is disheveled and dull. His hospital clothes, composed of high-quality material, are completely wrinkled and dirtied.

Like a baby bird that fell from its nest.

He had ripped off the intravenous drips and other pieces of medical equipment designed to keep him alive and smashed them to pieces.

There were doctors who genuinely cared for Eichi's well-being and those whose interest in treating him stemmed only from professional duty—Eichi shunned them all equally with curses and threats.

—I don’t want to live anymore.

—So, please, don’t treat me.

—Someone like me doesn’t deserve to live.

“No.”

Eichi, withering and on the verge of death, hears a voice reply to the soliloquy he hadn't expected anyone to hear.

There is only a single small window in the room. No matter how hard one might try to contort their body, it would be impossible to enter through—regardless, it was from that very window that Hibiki Wataru's towering silhouette soundlessly entered. 

It is like a dream.

As if it were a magic trick, he suddenly materializes.

“—It's you. Hibiki Wataru of The Five Eccentrics.”

"That story has already concluded, so will you please stop referring to me that way?"

As he casually replies to Eichi, who had spoken as though in a trance, Wataru strides across the hospital room.

He steps over the countless broken pieces of wreckage scattered across the floor, but never breaks anything.

“Let's readjust our mindset! Now, while we still have the chance to bask in the success of our stage performances, let's sit back and recharge our batteries! That is our duty, Tenshouin Eichi-kun!"

“Just what the hell are you doing here?”

Eichi mutters reproachfully, glaring up at Wataru with cruel eyes.

“Did you come to mock me because I thought I was victorious but wound up losing everything?”

Presumably too prideful to continue behaving in an undignified manner, Eichi staggers to his feet and then takes a seat on the mattress.

Having refused even the cleaning staff, this dirty hospital bed is now his only throne.

“Or do you intend to seek vengeance on behalf of your fellow Five Eccentrics?”

“No, not at all? Although there were some underwhelming parts, you still persevered and accomplished great things atop the stage! You have my praises. I have no reason to make fun of you!”

Wataru continues, his tone cheerful. Scattered, multicolored petals surround a broken flower vase—he gathers them up, grasps them in one hand, and opens his palm to reveal a single perfect flower.

"Besides, my beloved friends, The Five Eccentrics, were not actually killed. They're not that fragile, so I ask that you do not disparage them."

Though his eyes flash with hostility for a single instant, Wataru hides it with the ease of putting on a mask.

“Shu is slowly recovering his strength in the comfort of his dolls and the mutual love they share. Kanata, too, is embarking on a new life together with the inexperienced hero who saved his heart. And, of course, Our Majesty, the Demon King, Rei, too—indeed, someone like him will never die, even if he's killed.”

As he mentions each of the remarkable members of The Five Eccentrics, Wataru smiles.

“And the youngest sibling whom we risked our lives to protect, Natsume-kun, doesn't have a single scar. He quickly found the bluebird you set free, and is venturing forth into his life—not as a member of The Five Eccentrics, but as a human and idol.”

"...They're so strong. Everyone, all of them, are strong and splendid human beings worthy of respect—unlike me. Hiyori-kun and Nagisa-kun, too. It appears that they’ve already begun to move on to their next stage."

Looking somewhat astonished, Eichi hangs his head like a confused lost child.

“Am I really the only one who can’t move? At the end of Yumenosaki's conflict, or the saga chronicling the subjugation of The Five Eccentrics, am I truly the only loser?”

“No, no. I feel the same way. It's embarrassing to admit, but—I don't know what I should do next.”

With a dumbfounded expression that mirrors Eichi's, Wataru fidgets with the flower with his black-stained fingers.

“I'm quite satisfied with how things concluded on that most wonderful stage, even though we had to settle for the second-best result—but I'm at a bit of a loss, as I have no further plans for the future.”

"I see. Would you like me to apologize? By casting you in the role of the villain, a symbol deserving of ridicule and disdain, I turned you into the target of everyone's malice."

“Yes. Thanks to you, no one trusts me enough to work with me, so all of my future plans are now uncertain. I suppose I could arrange a stage and enact a story of my own choosing, but… A one-man show would be a little lonely, wouldn't it?”

"I thought that you would always be happy to stand onstage no matter what—even alone."

“Regrettably, I'm an entertainer whose only purpose is to make others happy. If I were to stand onstage all by myself, I would lose all motivation.”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Wataru quietly offers Eichi the flower.

”And so, I thought I would ask you, the organizer of the most satisfying stage I have ever stood upon, for another commission. That's the reason I came today. Of course, I am also here to visit the sick."

“Was that sarcasm? I humiliated and denigrated you and your beloved friends. I trampled on and killed all of you for the sake of my own dream.”

“No one is dead, Eichi-kun. Everything that took place is just a story.”

”Are you really going to behave like a sore loser and pretend like you all weren't actually hurt?”

"No. If I were to hold a grudge and get angry at you, it would be an insult to my friends' extraordinary performance in their roles as villains. That's why I won't give you the pleasure of my vengeance.”

“I don’t understand your reasoning.”

“It’s a mystery to me too. This is the first time in my life that I have ever felt this alive. It's as though something I cannot quite comprehend is stirring inside me.”

Wataru speaks with an innocent, puzzled expression on his face, as though he were a child who had just tripped for the very first time in his life.

***

“Oops. I went off on a tangent just now, but I meant to give you this gift earlier.”

Suddenly coming to his senses, Wataru quietly hands Eichi the flower in his hand.

The instant that the flower touches Eichi's fingertips, it transforms into a bundle of documents.

It’s just like magic.

“... Oh, my goodness. As always, your magic tricks are beyond comparison, Hibiki-kun.”

“You and I are not particularly close, so don't blurt out things like that as if you know me.”

“I’ve always been watching you.”

Eichi speaks honestly, seemingly too tired to maintain a strong front. He proceeds to look over the bundle of papers.

His expression dawns with astonishment.

“This is—”

“Fufufu. This is the pipe dream³ written by our beloved younger brother and only son, Natsume-kun. He poured all of his heart and soul into it.”

Wataru explains, satisfied with the surprised expression on Eichi's face.

“This is a scenario envisioning a way in which we, The Five Eccentrics, could have achieved victory over you in our final battle the other day.”

“Oh, that's right, just before the decisive battle, you and the other Five Eccentrics had some kind of exchange. I was preoccupied with other matters at the time, so I didn't pay much attention to what all of you were up to.”

Deeply immersed in reading, Eichi flips through the stack of documents carefully. A grin slowly begins to form on his lips.

“Fufu. So cute; it’s really like a fantasy story. ‘I don't want my beloved Five Eccentrics to lose. I want us to have a happy ending where no one has to be sacrificed—’”

"Indeed. He filled the pages with such impossible fantasies and impractical delusions."

“... It was only by defeating you on that stage that we somehow managed to settle things in a conclusive way. If the five of you had won that day, we would still be enmeshed in the middle of an unending conflict.”

"Exactly. I anticipated as much, which is why I was unable to accept this. This present, packed with that child's—with Natsume-kun's—dreams, expectations, and love.”

“And, because we followed the premeditated arrangement, everything went smoothly.”

“That's true. But, just as one would expect from a story desperately written by our beloved child... It's very compelling, isn't it? It'd be heartless to ignore it altogether and just throw it away.”

Wataru gently caresses the pile of documents as if consoling a little baby.

“And that's why I quickly examined the contents, committed them to memory, and secretly copied them. Only moments ago, Natsume-kun burned the original copy himself, so—that child's fantasy should, by all accounts, have been completely erased from this earth.”

Wataru laughs like a naughty child who just successfully carried out a prank.

“Everyone will assume so. And even though this is an imitation, the contents are extremely close to the real thing. No, rather, the contents are only the things that I chose to resurrect in accordance with my own preferences.”

“Hmph. But there's no way you can actually use this, right? It's just a bunch of delusions with no grounding in reality. In other words: worthless garbage. It's nothing more than a work of fiction that fabricates convenient plots for foolish readers who yearn to avert their eyes from this harsh reality.”

Eichi drops the pile of documents onto the dirty bed and sneers at it.

“It has no bearing on the real world. Those kinds of stories only exist in the minds of idealistic writers. It's not the real thing. It's not reality.”

“Right. And so, I'd like to ask you, with your firm grasp on reality, to please rework it.”

“...?”

“You're hospitalized, so you have a lot of free time, correct?”

Wataru smiles, carefully gathering up the documents Eichi dropped one by one.

“Please use that spare time to improve upon this document. And adapt it into a new story in which The Five Eccentrics, your opponents, achieve victory.”

“What would be the point of doing such a thing?”

“You must be prepared for anything the future decides to throw your way, no matter how incredibly low the chances of it actually occurring may be. You know this better than anyone, but you were born with a fragile constitution, so—you could die at any time.”

“...You're right. And now that I've lost my will to live, I'm even refusing treatment.”

“And if you, the main character of this story, were to die and abruptly, nonsensically disappear from the narrative, the entire plot would collapse.”

“.....”

"Do you understand what I mean, Eichi-kun?"

“I understand, Hibiki-kun.”

Eichi's eyes, as cloudy as a corpse's, begin to sparkle.

“I have a responsibility. A responsibility as a protagonist—as an author. I have to be prepared for when my character dies and vanishes from this world—from the story.”

"Yes. However, you don't strike me as an expert storyteller, so I thought it'd be convenient to use something as a basis—for the story. This pipe dream written by Natsume-kun is quite suitable in terms of both content and quality, right?”

“That's right. It's the story that the child prodigy, the youngest member of The Five Eccentrics, wove out of his own life force.”

This time, Eichi doesn’t sneer sarcastically. As he praises his enemy, an honest smile appears on his face.

“Thank you, Hibiki-kun. Since this is a story founded on the premise of my imminent death, I can't let Keito, who hates the thought of me dying more than anyone else, write it.”

Eichi's eyes widen, surprised at the deep affection with which he spoke these words.

He'd assumed he'd lost everything. And yet—is he only now remembering that there are still things worth loving?

“I'll write it. To ensure the story will continue after I'm gone.”

Growing more and more energetic, Eichi stains his fingers with the filth splattered across his bed and begins to scrawl on the back of the stack of documents. His handwriting is so sluggish and messy that no one besides him could possibly read it.

“First of all, let's ensure that I get defeated while I'm still alive. After bringing down The Five Eccentrics and seizing control of everything, I become a power-crazed tyrant. And so, a new generation of heroes stands up to defeat me. It could be Natsume-kun, the surviving member of The Five Eccentrics, or someone else.”

“Yes ♪ And then? What will happen next in this story?”

“It's not enough to merely change the person in power. The masses themselves should mobilize and take action into their own hands to improve the world. Yes, the next step is the people's revolution. That's why... errr... aaahh—”

Eichi is so absorbed in the moment that he scatters the documents. He clutches his head with both hands.

“I can’t work through my thoughts! I'm not a genius, so this is really hard for me! Aah, this is pathetic, and I have no right to ask this of you, but—Can you help me come up with more ideas, Hibiki-kun?”

“Yes, with pleasure ♪ I also have some time to spare, after all!”

Wataru sits on the bed and happily gazes at Eichi, who has become entirely absorbed in the act of weaving⁴ the beginnings of a new story.

“I look forward to seeing what sort of stage I'll stand on next. Aah, in both my past and present, this has always been my only source of happiness.”

“I'm out of paper! I also want something to write with! Hibiki-kun, isn't there somewhere nearby where you could buy some?”

“Yes, yes. Aren't you supposed to be my fan? Are you sure you should be bossing me around like this?”

With a smile that seems to say, Well, it doesn't really matter, Wataru shifts like a bird about to take flight.

“Come on, let's celebrate, let's weave, let's create—a story! In this second iteration, the tragedy will become a comedy! Yes, I'm certain that this next work will be a very enjoyable story!”

“Enough, enough! Stop saying unnecessary things and just hurry up! Before life leaves my body!”

“Yes, yes. You really know how to put people to work, Mr. Author... ♪”

………

And so, Hibiki Wataru chose to assist Tenshouin Eichi in the creation of his story.

Together, they supported one another, engaged in heated debates, and envisioned the future.

It was at the end of that gloomy winter when the two of them, now fine, the rulers of Yumenosaki Academy, were defeated by the revolutionaries of Trickstar.

It was a season when the seeds carried by dirty, exhausted birds finally bloomed into flowers.

1. Gilles de Rais was a leader of the French army and participated in the Hundred Years’ War alongside Jeanne d’Arc as a companion of arms. Later in his life he went on to become a serial killer of children and was condemned to death and hanged. 

In the story “Cinderella on the Stake's Stage,” it’s revealed that Wataru also has a pigeon called “Jeanne d’Arc.”

2. Akira describes Eichi’s hair as “陽光を固めたような” = “As if sunlight has taken physical shape”. Likewise this is also the way he describes Wataru’s hair “月光を固めたような” = “As if moonlight has taken physical shape”.

3. We chose to interchange the words pipe dream and fantasy through the story but they often refer to the same script Natsume wrote.

4. Weaving reads as “Tsumugi” here.