#like. BIG big tragedy feelings. and also the 'weeping blood' thing which? no idea how that works medically but EXTREMELY into it

[words-writ-in-starlight]

@seirnarei​ suggested Songxiao “Gotta Stay Quiet To Avoid Discovery” along with that Kencyrath prompt so I did BOTH because I’m, like, living my bliss or something.

I don’t think this is what the prompt is supposed to mean, but how about some canon Songxiao sads?  For this ask meme!

It’s fortunate that Xiao Xingchen knows this place as well as he does—the wood wall paneling under his fingers is enough to tell him where he is, and shifu has been kind enough to move nothing. His hip brushes against the bookshelf, but doesn’t make a sound.  It’s easy to know when he passes the window from the warmth of the thin dawn sunlight, and where the bed is from the soft rustle of breathing, but Xingchen knows this room down to the grain of the floor.  Xingchen spent most of his life in this room, grew up here, studied and meditated here, kissed the doorframe in gratitude when he left to see the world.

He takes a step past the shelf and skirts the floorboard that some previous resident had pried up to hide contraband.  Xingchen never really used it, but he didn’t mention it to shifu, either, and so it remained loose, and creaked predictably when stepped upon.  Perhaps it’s been fixed, since, but probably not.  His room was empty when they came, after all.

Shifu never fills rooms until their occupant is dead.

Xingchen’s fingers find Shuanghua, alone in the sword stand, and lifts it carefully, so that the scabbard doesn’t even click against the stand.  Fuxue is laid across the low table, beside the black horsetail whisk and a folded set of black robes, clean and neat.  Xingchen put them there himself, before—before.  He lingered over the sword, traced his fingers over the characters on the sheath and memorized the clean lines, elegant and simple.  He can picture the table and its contents perfectly, even now, as he picks up Shuanghua and slips the strap over his shoulder.

He adjusts his sword on his back, and then, when it’s settled, he—stops.  Shuanghua is the last piece.  The last piece of Xiao Xingchen, wandering cultivator.  His pack is outside, assembled slowly and painstakingly to ensure that he knew the shapes of each item within.  His robes are clean and purely white—he asked that the black edgework be taken off, although he knows he must look severe and sad without it.  His eyes, with their stitched-shut lids, are covered with a securely tied strip of linen, and his own whisk is in the crook of his arm, and Shuanghua is across his back, and he is—he is ready to leave.  He has put together an entire person in silence, and now Xingchen stands in his childhood room and listens to the sound of Song Zichen’s breathing and wishes he had made noise.

If Zichen had woken—if Xingchen had forgotten where the corner of the shelf ended, or the exact place of the loose floorboard, or even if he had allowed Shuanghua to click against the stand—

Xingchen indulges himself in a fantasy, briefly, of everything being okay.  Of Zichen touching his face in that methodical way that Zichen does touching, as if weighing every moment of contact, and saying “Xingchen” in the disapproving tone he brings out whenever Xingchen is injured.  Of waiting until his eyes are healed and then handing him Fuxue and leaving together.  Of saying “I couldn’t let you be blinded for my actions” and having Zichen understand and accept and stay with him.

As long as Xingchen is wishing, he wishes he had killed Xue Yang himself, the very first time they met, or let Zichen do it. Zichen hated the man for the way he picked at Xingchen, and Xingchen has never truly wished death on another person before, but he thinks Baixue Temple might have finally taught him that lesson.

But.  Xingchen is not going to do that.  Xingchen is going to do the right thing, and leave, without stepping on the loose floorboard or bumping against the bookshelf, without making any noise.  He is not going to walk over to the bed and find Zichen’s face and kiss his temple, steal one more touch before he goes. He is not going to wake Zichen, because—

Because Xingchen is a believer in honesty, and he honestly knows that Zichen would try to stop him for all the wrong reasons.  Zichen wants to be free of Xingchen and Xingchen’s mistakes, he was very clear about that, consistently clear about it. He had allowed Xingchen to bring him here, on the chance that he might regain his sight, but if he knew—if he knew how shifu had performed that miracle, he would feel bound to Xingchen. He would feel guilty, as if Xingchen is not a grown man and a cultivator, more than capable of making his own choices, as if Xingchen would not have given anything to heal a fraction of the pain Zichen had so obviously been suffering.

Xingchen wants a lot of things from Zichen, including, selfishly, his loyalty.  But he doesn’t want it at that price.

He won’t wake Zichen because he can’t face Zichen’s rage again, or worse, the cold, detached hatred that Zichen had summoned up the last time Xingchen spoke to him.  But most of all he can’t face the idea of Zichen staying anyway, because he might feel unable to leave the side of a man he hates.

Something hot runs down Xingchen’s face, and he brushes at it absently with his fingertips.  It’s slick and warm, and a fresh spike of pain lances through his head as he shakes himself out of his thoughts.

There’s no point in wishing that things were different. They are what they are, and Xingchen has done what he can to fix what was broken, and that’s all there is to it. He uses the heel of his hand, carefully, to wipe the tears from his face and turns resolutely back toward the door. It’s as easy as ever, crossing the room in silence, and he doesn’t turn back.

Outside, he senses another presence, the familiar pillar of strength that even a blind stranger would have to know as an immortal, and he smiles politely at his shifu.

“Xingchen,” she says, in her cool, serene voice.  “I’ve come to see you to the road.”

“Thank you, shifu,” he says, and bows. She catches his arms with both hands, and when he straightens up, he feels a cloth touch his face, as if he’s a child, wiping at his cheeks.  “Shifu?”

“Blood,” she says quietly.  “It will probably run for some time.  Perhaps a long time, if you keep weeping.”

“I—will remember, shifu,” Xingchen says.  “I will weep less.”

“No,” Baoshan Sanren says, and she doesn’t often sound anything less than perfectly calm, entirely at ease in herself, but she sounds sad, now.  “I don’t believe you will.”

[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: I’ve actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry’s age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn’t have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea myself.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn’t write it because I was afraid I’d bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn’t finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I’d just go for it. I’m still afraid I won’t finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven’t finished any of my other, shorter, long fics…) but I didn’t want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don’t finish it, at least I’ll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me continuing, and me leaving the fic behind. It really helps to know people are interested.

Above art from the internet. 

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was his own; not the boy's or the girl's. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was his own, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snake's venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): He himself killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic—like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

He stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself.

He was just a kid. Did this Harry Potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys?

Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young.

Why did he hate him so much?

It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

He backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch repugnant enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yes, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

[illegiblewords]

8|

HEY GUYS.

GUYS.

THEY’RE ALL LITERALLY ANGELS.

WINGS INCLUDED.

I’ve mentioned in passing before that the Amaurotines were basically angels, but shit man the Ascians are actually fallen angels.

And like, I stumbled into the Elidibus shot but his wings are made of Zodiark my dudes.

Oh shit.

And not just fucking that.

Time to look back at the lyrics to Shadowbringers.

Some quick disclaimers! 1) There will be bits of this where I just go idk. Because sometimes idk lol. 2) I am 10000% sure that this song has layers similar to how Tomorrow and Tomorrow has layers. Tomorrow and Tomorrow I’ve heard people speculate it could be the people of the alternate Source future or the Amaurotines, and if it is the Amaurotines whether it’s directed at the Warrior or Hades or both is also up in the air. So while there is the very, very literal reading where it’s like yes this is the First and the first arc and focused all about things that happened in the First’s plot, I think the secondary meaning might seriously apply to the overarching patch arc/Ascians as a whole. 3) Pls don’t be afraid to challenge me on shit lol I just found this and am flying by the seat of my pants.

For whom weeps the storm, Her tears on our skin The days of our years gone, Our souls soaked in sin These memories ache with the weight of tomorrow

“For whom weeps the storm/her tears on our skin” honestly the most significant point posed imo outside of nice imagery is that the question needs to be asked. Could be either or both, respecting WoL and co. versus the Ascians/dead Amaurot. “The days of our years gone/our souls soaked in sin” again, could be either side here. Depends on what further gets revealed about the fourteenth member of the Convocation and the summoning of Hydaelyn probably, but I think it’s fair to say both sides got stained in shitloads of blood. “These memories ache with the weight of tomorrow” not only is the history painful, having to keep moving forward and figure out some kind of future in light of it just makes it more painful. Also a note, a few other peeps online noted that Emet-Selch reacted insanely strong/negatively when Urianger and Y’shtola commented on his future. And just as another thread, I want to highlight that the Ascians for a good chunk of their appearances talked about things being foretold.

Who fights? Who flies? Who falls?

FALLEN ANGEL MOTIFS. COULD BE WARRIOR. COULD BE ASCIANS. COULD BE BOTH. AGAIN, QUESTION GOTTA BE ASKED BECAUSE BOTH SIDES GONNA HAVE BLOOD ON THEIR HANDS.

One brings shadow, one brings light Two-toned echoes tumbling through time Threescore wasted, ten cast aside Four-fold knowing, no end in sight One brings shadow, one brings light One dark future no one survives On their shadows, away we fly

First two lines are relatively straightforward imo, WoL versus Ascians there. It could be Emet-Selch versus WoL specifically but honestly I’m unsure. Tbh it could be fellow summoners along with WoL versus Ascians or it could be one person versus one person. “Threescore wasted, ten cast aside” IT TOOK ME. A GOOD WHILE. TO FIGURE THIS OUT. There’s a saying “threescore and ten” that existed historically. Threescore is sixty. Ten is... ten. But basically, back in the day seventy years was the generally accepted average livespan for a human being. Threescore wasted = sixty years of a seventy year lifespan in vain, ten cast aside = ten years of a seventy year lifespan. “Fourfold knowing” I think has a double meaning within too. First, there’s an idea in Buddhism called the Fourfold Round that I think is precisely what this is referencing. These come out to direct knowledge of feeling, direct knowledge of perception, direct knowledge of fabrications, and direct knowledge of consciousness. Given these, I suspect that at minimum by the end of patch 5 the three Unsundered Ascians and the Warrior of Light will all fit into roles within this, and we’ll probably be able to tell which is which. Personally I’m leaning toward WoL being direct knowledge of consciousness because especially when you factor in the Echo that gets pretty wild. An additional level though, four in East Asia is commonly associated with death. So no end in sight coming right after FOURfold seems like it’s missing some foreshadowing of the end. Possibly.

The road that we walk Is lost in the flood Here proud angels bathe in Their wages of blood At this, the world's end, do we cast off tomorrow

AMAUROT IS UNDERWATER IN THE TEMPEST. SHIT’S FLOODED. ASCIANS ARE PROUD ANGELS BATHING IN WAGES OF BLOOD. EITHER THE SHARDS + SOURCE GOTTA END TO REGAIN THE ORIGINAL WORLD OR THE ORIGINAL WORLD HAS TO END TO MAINTAIN THE SHARDS + SOURCE. And casting off tomorrow, if we jump up to previous lyrics about memories aching with the weight of tomorrow--I think this foreshadows being liberated from pain of past and future both to continue living in the present. Again, could be wrong about how that gets interpreted, but I do think a link is there. Also I mean the world is ending, that’s the point you no longer have to worry about what comes next. There is no next.

One brings shadow, one brings light To this riddle all souls are tied Brief our moments, brazen and bright Forged in fury, tempered in ice Hindmost devils, early to rise Sing come twilight, sleep when they die Heaven's banquet leavened with lies Sating honor, envy, and pride One brings shadow, one brings light Run from the light

First two lines, everyone who exists is gonna tie into the tragedy of how the shards + Source came to be and the conflict between WoL and co. versus Ascians. “Brief our moments" through “tempered in ice” I think is referring to the whole strength born from limitations and facing negative emotions/obstacles rather than avoiding them. Hindmost devils means the devils farthest back are the first to rise, which could be WoL or Ascians depending on reading. If it’s the Ascians and they’re taken as fallen angels I mean devils are fallen angels. But that also mixes metaphors given proud angels earlier. If mixed metaphors are a non-issue though, “Hindmost devils” through “sleep when they die” would more or less translate to the oldest devils are the first to act and seize power. They celebrate the coming of night and do not sleep. “Heaven’s banquet” through “pride” again, disclaimer mixed metaphor going on but I think it might be neat if it is WoL and co. or more specifically Hydaelyn. I don’t think it strictly comes to Heaven/Heroes = evil but that Heaven has hidden corruption that makes people feel better about themselves but is kind of ugly. Then again, all of this could probably be flipped too. This section is tricky. But if run from the light = Hydaelyn that shit’s gonna be fascinating. Also, I do think Zenos whether he just attempts or succeeds in nabbing one of the big two primals is actually gonna go for Hydaelyn. Lots of reasons for this including “she won the first time” and “Zenos dun give af about creation” and “she’s right there whereas Zodiark is super scattered” and “Zenos is basically an opposite to Emet-Selch philosophically and might work as another way of exploring negative light connotations”. But run from the light would be reaaaaal interesting if that goes down.

Authors of our fates Orchestrate our fall from grace Poorest players on the stage Our defiance drives us straight to the edge A reflection in the glass Recollections of our past Swift as darkness, cold as ash Far beyond this dream of paradise lost

“Authors of our fates/Orchestrate our fall from grace” the characters involved created the primals themselves, in so doing being the authors of their fates and damning themselves when shit went out of control. Could precede that too and be broadened to other circumstances probably. I do think it is gonna come up that all the bad shit that happened stemmed from choices made though. “Poorest players on the stage/Our defiance drives us straight to the edge” references some Shakespeare. This being “Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player/That struts and frets his hour upon the stage/And then is heard no more. It is a tale/Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury/Signifying nothing.” Shakespeare bit is saying that life is brief and ultimately not real/an act where everyone worries during the brief span of the story but all too fast it’s over. There’s a ton of passion but ultimately it’s small and petty and meaningless. If we link this back to poorest players on the stage and the defiance, it is basically challenging the idea of a brief life being meaningless. So would apply more to the mortal characters. “Reflection in the glass” I thiiiink might reference the idea of real identity versus not real but idek. “Recollections of our past/Swift as darkness, cold as ash/Far beyond this dream of paradise lost” these lines are prob linked as a trio far as I can tell. Memory comes fast as darkness/the coming of night (tying back to sing come twilight maybe? also the end of the world as it is), cold as ash refers to the dead of Amaurot probably. And I’m not positive on that juxtaposition with paradise lost, but it may be suggesting that the dream of perfection rings hollow and there’s a reason that what is now being remembered as paradise is long dead.

Home Riding home Dying hope Hold onto hope... Ohhh... Home Riding home Home, riding home Hope, finding hope... Ohhh...

Shits both WoL and Ascians here.

One brings shadow, one brings light One more chapter we've yet to write Want for nothing, nothing denied Wand'ring ended, futures aligned One brings shadow, one brings light One brings shadow, one brings light You are the light

One more chapter = gotta get closure for Amaurot and the Ascians. “Want for nothing, nothing denied/Wand’ring ended, futures aligned” this took me a bit, and it feels like possibly a reach imo, but my guess for now is: Emet-Selch was talking before about maybe there being a way forward without so much bloodshed. I still think guy’s gonna come back as a clone and I think/hope that we can fuckin’ trust recruit him (”I may even lend you my knowledge and strength” I AM HOLDING YOU TO THAT EMET-SELCH IF I HAVE TO BEAT MY ENEMIES TO DEATH WITH YOUR CORPSE) and find some kind of middle ground that doesn’t just = fuck Amaurot and destroy Zodiark. That would feel too simple to me. I kind of think some sort of rejoining will need to happen... but not simply Zodiark rejoining into a giant monster primal. I think Hydaelyn and Zodiark gotta become one being.

Also. If that is the case Lahabrea better have some fucking good notes to justify that dumb attempt to fuse with Igeyorhm in a first-time aether experiment while fighting the Warrior of Light. Because then it would be more cool even if the timing was still terrible life choices.

But yeah I think that’s gonna tie into futures aligned stuff.

We fall We fall We fall We fall unto the end

One world's end

Our world's end

Our end

We won't end

I am shadow, I am the light

This bit’s p. straightforward lol.

But yeah I am still super jazzed about this feel free to challenge my readings! I think stuff is there, just dunno if what I found correctly identifies the stuff lol.

[njawaidofficial]

Carrie Coon Chats With Damon Lindelof About 'The Leftovers' Impact: "I Had Journalists Weeping" (Q&A)

http://styleveryday.com/2017/08/05/carrie-coon-chats-with-damon-lindelof-about-the-leftovers-impact-i-had-journalists-weeping-qa/

Carrie Coon Chats With Damon Lindelof About 'The Leftovers' Impact: "I Had Journalists Weeping" (Q&A)

The ‘Fargo’ actress and TCA nominee talks with her HBO showrunner about their trippy drama’s Emmys snub and why the show still resonates with viewers.

Carrie Coon made history when she landed a double nomination in the Television Critics Association Awards’ individual achievement in drama category for her work in the third seasons of HBO’s The Leftovers and FX’s Fargo (for which she also earned an Emmy nom). Ahead of the Aug. 5 ceremony, Coon hopped on the phone with Leftovers showrunner Damon Lindelof for a chat about the recognition, the links between her two acclaimed characters and, naturally, Justin Theroux’s looks.

LINDELOF So how are you, Carrie Coon?

COON I’m great. I just wrapped my day on Steven Spielberg’s movie, The Papers.

LINDELOF I haven’t heard of him. Is he a director?

COON Yeah, he’s untested but he seems to know what he’s doing.

LINDELOF And that experience is going well?

COON I keep saying it’s like a time capsule. It’s like everybody’s in this movie, Damon. I think there are over 103 speaking parts so if you watched this movie, you’ll know who was working in TV and film in the year 2017. And I’m one of them, yay!

LINDELOF I love all the of stars. Where are you [on the call sheet]? Are you in the high 80s at least?

COON I’m number 13 on the call sheet, which is actually not much further down from where I was on The Leftovers call sheet.

LINDELOF What! That’s not true.

COON You know I was number seven on Leftovers, Damon. Yes, because it was my first TV job.

LINDELOF You are number one in America’s hearts and that’s what matters.

COON I was an Emmy nominee and an Emmy snub.

LINDELOF Oh my God, I don’t think I am ready to talk about that yet.

COON No, we don’t have to. Let’s talk about something else.

LINDELOF What’s it like to be out there in the world now that The Leftovers is over?

COON I was texting shortly after the finale was given to journalists with Tom Perrotta [Lindelof’s co-creator and the author of the novel that’s the basis of the show] because he was so blown away initially by all the love letters we were getting from critics about the season, and then how overwhelmingly well the finale was received. I would say it was freaking him out a little bit how overwhelmingly positive the response was — and it wasn’t any different for me. I am still getting so much Twitter feedback about it from people who are catching up on the show. They are writing me impassioned 140-character tweets about their feelings. I rarely get recognized and whenever I do, it has to do with The Leftovers because it came into someone’s life at a particularly important time for them — if they were dealing with grief or loss or whatever tragedy — and they just caught it. And there is no rhyme or reason to the kind of person it is. It might be some little blonde in Lululemon, a 30-something Korean dad with his kid or an older 50-year-old white guy at a Cubs game. I never know who is going to be a Leftovers fan and that’s been really astonishing to me.

LINDELOF I think that Perrotta’s reaction was similar to my own in terms of not quite knowing how to hold it all. As confident as we were with having seen it and being there, I would be lying if I didn’t say that there wasn’t a feeling in the pit of my stomach or a voice coming from one of my shoulders saying, “They are not going get this,” or, “Prepare yourself. There has been a lot of love up until now but when something ends, you just never know.” Were you feeling ambivalence or were you pretty sanguine about it all?

COON I suppose it’s one of those things I know I don’t have any control over. And while yes, the feedback thus far has set me up to hope for a positive response for this finale, I think I felt similarly that any moment that machine can turn on you. I think we all know in the world we live in how quickly opinion is shifted. It is so impossible to predict, and I think I was really glad I had gone on to another job right away because that allowed me to move forward.

LINDELOF It was a struggle for me to watch Fargo this season because it was airing simultaneous with The Leftovers. The Leftovers was basically on for, like, one week before Fargo started. Although we completed that work months earlier, I wasn’t entirely ready to see you being someone entirely different, and it took me probably until the L.A. episode, which was early on in the season, to be like, “Oh, this is Gloria Burgle. This is not Carrie Coon playing Gloria Burgle.” But other than the obvious question of, “What are the similarities between the characters which drew you to Fargo?” what I am most curious about is the transition for you having to come out of this really intense experience of having played Nora for almost four years of your life. Was it super freeing and liberating to suddenly put on a different pair of shoes? Or what were the challenges there?

COON Part of being an actor is the rhythm of the life of being an actor, and that involves coming together with a group of people, making something together that is intense and requires a lot of intimacy, and then walking away from it with the possibility that you will never see any of those people again. And that’s the rhythm I have been living now for 10 years. So in some ways it was not unusual. If anything, it was not knowing if people were going to make the leap with me into something different that was airing at the same time. It was confusing and a little uncomfortable to see me operating in both capacities.

LINDELOF It is also super interesting because on Fargo, Ewan is playing two characters who, although they are related by blood, are entirely different beings. You were doing the same thing across two different shows. The idea that both of your characters [in Fargo and The Leftovers had a strange effect on the] technology around them has become a kind of cutesy reference point in interviews. They made [machines] break. They made things fail. My understanding is that you made this decision not to share with the Fargo folks, “Oh, I just did this!” Is that accurate?

COON It was funny because I had about five scripts before we started shooting, so [Fargo creator] Noah [Hawley] did make that decision well before he cast anyone in the part. But then when our writers were on set, I started to point out not only the technology but the other parallels: an episode that takes place partially in the airport, chasing buses, getting a divorce, having a big hug. I know that we actually did share a writer.

LINDELOF Yeah, Monica [Beletsky].

COON Of course, the technology thing is really obvious and I don’t know why it’s me. I can tell you that my father when I was a little girl thought that it happened all the time. I would sit down at the computer and it would stop working and he would say, “What did you do?” I would say, “I haven’t touched it yet.” And he was always saying he would sign me up for a study at a university about destructing technology.

LINDELOF I’ll tell you why we did it. We use the word radiation, and when you hear the word it is scary. Nobody wants to be radioactive, nobody wants to be near anything that radiates — but there is another side to that word. I think you radiate. I don’t think in a toxic way. When I think about that word, it feels like it is about light and energy and maybe it does feel like it is a little bit dangerous, which is crazy actually talking to the real you and knowing the real you. But I think one of the things that Tom and I both responded to when we saw your audition is that all of those things were sort of inherent. I was like, “How can the world around her react to the fact that she’s radiating other than everybody just wearing sunglasses?” Which would have been weird. But it was, “Oh, I think she probably has an effect on technology.” All I am saying is that you are the best kind of radiation.

COON When Terry Gross asks me what is the best compliment I have ever received, I might have to say that one.

LINDELOF So we are speaking on the occasion of your TCA nominations. The critics were a huge part of the story of The Leftovers in a way they traditionally aren’t. And the writing about The Leftovers seemed to get super personal. There was the use of the “I” pronoun in writing about it that I’m not sure exists for other shows. Did that feel unique?

COON The reason I’m not surprised by it is because in the questions I have received about the show from either journalists or fans, there’s never anything trite. I had journalists weeping when they explained to me about the very specific loss they’ve suffered and why the show resonates with them. It’s brave, and we need personal voices and criticisms. It’s kind of an amazing year though to have all these women nominated and then to have these people of color and no white actors and no white men. It’s very interesting.

LINDELOF Yeah, that is amazing. What is even more amazing is that no white men have come forward to complain about it.

COON Donald Trump doesn’t know about it. I am sure he would tweet about it if somebody told him.

LINDELOF Oh my God, please let Donald Trump live-tweet the TCA Awards. That would be awesome.

COON He doesn’t have anything better to do. He is not doing much.

LINDELOF You are only partially kidding, but if we go down that road we will never get out of it. People have been asking, “Are you bummed out that the show didn’t really get a lot of Emmy recognition?” Or it wasn’t nominated for a TCA drama award, and these lenses of negativity. And I will say that we were always positioned as a dark horse and we were not the most watched show out there and we had to sort of find the show, so I understand all that stuff — but I will say as wonderful as it was to see you recognized for Fargo, it did irk me that you and Justin and [director] Mimi [Leder] were not recognized because of the work you did.

COON You and I know Justin is a great, theatrically trained actor. But he’s also impossibly good-looking, so I think he is judged and suffers extra scrutiny. People don’t expect him to be good.

LINDELOF Let’s just stop and think for a second about how good-looking he is. (Pauses.)

COON OK, got it. So thankful for that experience. As a scene partner, he is totally present and utterly changeable. One of the scenes I’ll never forget is the one where he comes to the door in the finale, and it’s the first time they’re talking. He was so charming. He was like a 1950s movie star, and I was genuinely rattled by his energy in that moment because it had such lightness of being. Justin is a funny guy — he’s a comedian so he has that capacity. But there was something so loving. And we’ve, of course, seen versions of Kevin that were quite distraught, but that energy he brought that day was so charming and so unnerving.

LINDELOF He’s like Jimmy Stewart.

COON He’s totally a Jimmy Stewart. And Jimmy Stewart was special. He had a quirkiness about him. And Justin, although he is remarkably good-looking, has also this incredible sparkle of quirky humor in him that I’ve always loved.

LINDELOF He takes the job so seriously but he’s got a really great sense of humor about himself. I think that there are other actors where with the sweatpants thing, as charming as it is to say, “You’re well-endowed,” I think for the show to start openly commenting and trolling him on the subject over and over again and for him to just text me and be like, “LOL. This is hilarious.” A lot of actors take themselves very, very seriously, but I don’t think any of you guys were like that.

COON Mimi has a sense of humor, too. She’s also really focused and she knows what she wants, and she doesn’t stop until she gets it. She’s really deft at the pacing of an episode. She also doesn’t over-direct. She doesn’t come over and give you a paragraph on what she needs from you. It’s a sentence, it’s a word — and then she gets out of your face and you do it again.

LINDELOF People are sort of boggled by the fact that you and I never spoke about Nora’s final monologue. We didn’t really speak about it at all. We spoke about it as, “Oh, it happened,” but not in terms of getting under the hood and understanding it better.

COON Right.

LINDELOF So Mimi and Tom and I have this thing called the “tone meeting” where we go through every scene and we say, “Here’s what I’m going to do, do I have this right? How big does the goat need to be? How big of an emotional moment does this need to be?” So we get to the finale scene and there’s a long, pregnant pause and Mimi says, “I think I know what this is.” And I said, “OK, is there anything you want to ask me?” And she says, “No, but if Carrie asks me what I think about it, what should I say in terms of how truthful, how honest, how literal are we supposed to take this?” And then I open my mouth to respond and Mimi cut me off and said, “You know what, Carrie will know what to do.” I just wanted to share that story with you because, lo and behold, you knew what to do. Thank God we never had to talk about it because I couldn’t imagine a more perfect execution of that final scene. And I’ve been told your Twitter bio is, “I’ll never tell.” And I’m just curious if that’s what you’re referring to?

COON Yes, that and Fargo because Fargo ends ambiguously as well.

LINDELOF But you told me that in Fargo, you guys shot an ending where all these people come running through the door and then they arrest David Thewlis.

COON You’re lying.

LINDELOF What? No, that’s what you told me. And then Noah just decided to edit it out because he wanted to be artful.

COON (Laughs.)

LINDELOF No, you said that. That’s true. I’m sticking to my story and now you have to decide whether or not you want to believe me. Last question: If you win [the TCA Award], will you demand two trophies? Because I just feel like that’s fair.

COON I would never do that — I’m from the Midwest. I only recently wrapped my head around having more than one sports bra.

LINDELOF I have five sports bras, if you want to borrow them.

A version of this story first appeared in the Aug. 2 issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.

[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom's memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom's past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: 

I've actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry's age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn't have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn't write it because I was afraid I'd bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn't finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I'd just go for it. I'm still afraid I won't finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven't finished any of my other, shorter, long fics...) but I didn't want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don't finish it, at least I'll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue...please please please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Writing fics like this is a lot of effort, and while I do write them for my own enjoyment...it is still very difficult for me to find the motivation to continue them. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me gaining the motivation to continue, and leaving the fic behind.

Also, if there are any artists who are interested in drawing cover art for this fic don't hesitate to say so!! You can comment so below, or message me!!

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a bearded man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled more than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was Tom’s. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was Tom’s, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snakes venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): Tom killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic— like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

Tom stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself. He was just a kid, did he/this harry potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys? Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young. Why did he hate him so much? It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

Tom backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch gross enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yup, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.