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hederasgarden · 3 months ago

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Eternal Devotion (2/3)

Summary: Months after your husband's untimely death, his presence lingers, haunting you in ways you never expected. Pairing: Vampire!Friedrich Harding x Wife!Reader Word Count: 4.4K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Heavy angst and grief, period typical sexism, creepy things, vampirism, and murder. A/N: The reader has always been Friedrich’s wife, Anna does not exist in this AU. Big thanks to @ryebecca, @otaku-girl-ao3, @whatblogisthis216 , @eremeldanin and @caught-reading for their help with this fic. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Part 1 ♡ Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist

Speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life. - Mahmoud Darwish

Kerstin’s frantic voice drags you from sleep, the panic in her tone barely piercing the heavy fog that clouds your mind. Your head lolls as she pulls your body from the bed, and for a fleeting moment, you feel the lingering sensation of Friedrich's kiss on your skin. Your lips part to whisper his name, but only a raspy croak escapes your throat. When your eyes finally flutter open, she shrieks in fright.

It feels as though you're swimming through sand, every movement sluggish and weighted. With great effort you manage to look at her. She lets loose a great shuddery breath, helping you to sit on the edge of the bed as you come back to yourself. The light streaming through the windows is bright and you shield your eyes.

"Oh," Kerstin sobs, her trembling hands brushing your face and neck. "I thought death had stolen you too."

The sound of the floorboards creaking beneath hurried footsteps is the only warning before the door to your room is thrown open with a sharp crack.

“What is the meaning of this racket?” your father demands, his voice laden with irritation. "I asked for my daughter to be brought to me, not for you to bring the whole house down with your theatrics, woman."

Kerstin freezes at his harsh words, glancing between you and your father with wide, fearful eyes. You try to stand to ease her fear, but the motion makes the ground tilt beneath you, your body swaying dangerously before you manage to steady yourself.

“My God,” your father mutters under his breath, turning abruptly to face away from you. "Cover yourself. Have you no shame?"

You glance down in confusion, only to be shocked to find your nightgown hanging loosely, half-unbuttoned, and barely covering you.

“It is you who have come into Friedrich’s and my bedchamber,” you remind him hoarsely, accepting the heavy robe Kerstin drapes over your shoulders.

“Are you decent?” your father demands, waiting until you confirm before facing you again. “You must prepare yourself. Pieter is coming shortly to take you and the girls on a stroll through the glass gardens.”

“So early?” you ask.

Your father’s eyes narrow, a flash of irritation crossing his face. “It is nearly noon,” he snaps. “You are to make yourself presentable. Quickly now,” he adds at Kerstin who springs into action.

It is only through her tireless efforts that you are ushered down the stairs in time, looking every inch the proper lady your father demands. You feel brittle, your body stretched too thin, each step a strain. But Pieter is there in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over you with open interest.

“Such beauty,” he compliments, his voice smooth.

The kiss he presses to the back of your hand burns and you withdraw it, rubbing your thumb over the skin anxiously. You watch as he greets your children with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He bends stiffly at the waist to offer them both fragrant bundles of roses. Your oldest daughter examines the flowers with a little frown and places them gingerly on a side table. She eyes them and Pieter distrustfully. Your youngest, wide-eyed and eager, chatters excitedly at him before rushing to show you her prize, her hands holding the roses out with delight.

“They are lovely, sweetling,” you murmur, forcing a smile.

“I cannot wait to show Papa!” she beams joyfully.

A flicker of unease passes through you and you glance at your father but he is engaged in conversation with Pieter, his back turned to you. You pull your daughter close, her small body pressed into yours as you kneel down to her level. With trembling hands, you cup her face gently and press a kiss to her temple. You think of Ellen and fear rolls in your belly at the thought of how your father might respond to such innocent nonsense.

“We have talked about this,” you whisper. “Papa is gone. You cannot speak like this.”

Her bright eyes falter for a moment and she looks past you, to the grand staircase. Then she rocks back on her heels and her smile returns. You hear the floorboards creak under a step, and without thinking, you turn to see. But there’s nothing there, just the empty expanse of the hallway leading up to the second floor. A strange chill prickles your skin and you rise, ushering her into the parlor.

Pieter is quick to pull you into his side, his touch insistent and shameless, like it’s his right, even in the house that once belonged to your husband. You want to throw him off you but one look at your father has you shrinking down, complacent. You must think of your girls. The smile you share with Pieter is strained. He does not notice, patting your hand absently as he bids your parents goodbye.

Stepping into the street with him, the light of the day seems too bright, the sun pressing against your skin in a way that feels wrong. You squint, shielding your eyes, though it does little to stave off the overwhelming brightness. Behind you, your children’s governess walks a few paces back, dutifully playing her role as chaperone for the outing. The girls, blissfully ignorant, skip ahead, their laughter light and carefree while they run down the cobbled street. But Pieter’s hand remains heavy on your side, his fingers wrapped too tightly around you, guiding you, controlling your every step.

The longer you walk in the sunlight, the more the dream of Friedrich fades from your mind, until the memory of it is as faint and ghostly as him. Even though you try to cling to it, you know last night was nothing more than a fleeting illusion, a desperate fantasy born of grief. No more real than the hope you hold that your husband will miraculously return to you.

There is nothing to do but push forward into a future you never wanted.

–

That night, you lie in bed, waiting for sleep to claim you, and pray for Friedrich’s ghost to visit you once more. You long for a dream so vivid, so real, that you would swear he is with you in the flesh again. You long for his touch, for his kiss. For him.

But as the hours drag on, the silence remains unbroken. You close your eyes, hands clasped tight against your chest, silently begging the heavens for something. Even the strange, fevered dreams that twisted reality and fantasy into a blurred mess would be a comfort. Yet, your prayers go unanswered. The night stretches on without a sign, and when you finally slip into a dreamless slumber, it offers no solace. The morning light, cold and harsh, pulls you from your restless sleep. The disappointment is a sharp ache, a heavy pressure beneath your breastbone that lingers as you rise to dress and prepare for the day ahead.

Kerstin smiles brightly when she finds you nearly ready without needing her assistance.

“You look hearty,” she remarks, draping a heavy shawl over your shoulders. “The fresh air yesterday did you good.”

You acknowledge her comment with a soft hmm, listening while she informs you of your father’s presence in the drawing room. His unwelcomed visits have become more frequent, a constant reminder of what looms ahead. As you descend the steps you resign yourself to more ill news, perhaps another forced engagement with Pieter — likely for another outing he’s arranged without considering your wishes. He had suggested the opera yesterday, bold enough to claim you could use the box Friedrich owned.

Your husband had spared no expense to secure the central box for you despite his distaste for theater. Although he was bored senseless by it, that didn’t stop him from attending every performance by your side. He was content to watch you become so enraptured by the music and drama unfolding on stage and, perhaps, he found a secret pleasure in the way the privacy of the box allowed him to touch you more freely, hiding the way his bold fingers would slip under your dress. Or the way it allowed him to drag his lips over your throat while the crescendo of the music drowned out the sound of your breathy little moans as he worked you to rapture. The memory of it leaves you teetering on the bottom of the staircase, needing a moment to collect yourself. Beneath the current of desire grief follows and you blink away the tears that gather.

In the drawing room, a rich assortment of breakfast is laid out on the table. Your father sits at the head of the table, holding the newspaper aloft, his face hidden. It galls you that he sits so easily where Friedrich once did.

“Father,” you greet quietly, sitting down beside your children. Your youngest scurries into your lap and you tuck her close, tearing off a piece of toast to share with her.

"Pieter seemed pleased with your outing yesterday," your father remarks, the rustle of his newspaper loud in the otherwise quiet room. “I expect a proposal soon. Perhaps then we can put this business behind us.”

You bite your tongue, offering him no response. Instead, you focus on your daughters, allowing yourself to be swept away by their animated conversation about some new imagining they’ve created. You spread jam on a pastry for your eldest, so caught up in their tale that you nearly miss the servant who brings a small envelope to your father. He seems surprised by its presence, glancing at you before he sets his paper aside to accept it.

He reads it quickly, his eyes scanning the note, and then exhales sharply, a look of disbelief crossing his features. For several seconds he only stares at the letter in his hand, the silence stretching between you until you prod him quietly.

“Father? What has happened?”

He blinks as though pulled from a daze.

"Pieter. He is dead," he whispers. He stands abruptly, the paper crumpling in his hands, his gaze unfocused. “Thrown from his horse sometime last night. His groom discovered him this morning. A broken neck, it seems."

Shock renders you mute and you glance at your children but they are absorbed in some game between them, unaware of the weight of the conversation unfolding in front of them.

“We…we must send our condolences to Herr Gothrim.”

“Yes, yes,” your father replies absently, his fingers tapping against his lips. “There is much to do now with this news.”

You stare at him, waiting for him to say more, but he offers nothing further. His gaze is fixed on the letter in his hands, his mind already moving ahead to whatever next steps he deems necessary. He doesn’t even look at you as he summons a servant to bring him paper. The scratch of his pen fills the silence, while you struggle with conflicting emotions, relief that you will not have to wed Pieter, and the sharp, uncomfortable sting of shame because a man is dead. He was boorish and controlling but that did not mean he deserved to die.

Above you the old house creaks, its weight shifting. Your daughter glances up and claps her hands softly, sharing a whispered laugh with her sister who is quick to shush her.

“Mama?” your oldest questions, watching you with concern.

“All is well, liebling,” you lie. “Go, play. We will visit the bookseller later, would you like that?”

"Yes!" they cry in unison, their voices bright with excitement as they race toward the stairs.

In the weeks after Pieter’s funeral, time slips by in odd, disjointed fragments. Each night, you dream of Friedrich, grasping at the fleeting hours between dusk and dawn as if to hold back the morning. The dreams are never the same, sometimes you speak, and others you don’t. But his lips always seek yours, his mouth lingering on your body, drawing both pleasure and pain to the surface.

No matter how hard you try, drawing the curtains tight, desperate to keep the daylight at bay, his ghost always fades with the first light. And with each passing day, Kerstin’s worry grows, deepening with the weight of your silent unrest. She suggests, tentatively, that you see a doctor. You dismiss her concern. The memory of Ellen and the cruelty of the men Friedrich brought in his attempt to help, lingers at the edges of your mind, a quiet reminder of both her suffering and your own guilt.

You have not gone mad. You are simply holding on to what fragments of joy remain — your daughters, and the fleeting dreams of Friedrich that come and go. And if you are tired it is only because you are worn down by your father’s relentless demands to entertain potential suitors.

Herr Mueller and Herr Klein, both men pushed upon you in the wake of Pieter's death, are frequent visitors to your home, claiming your time nearly as much as your children do. The former, old enough to be your father, is a man whose gnarled hands always seem to drift too close to where they shouldn’t, even in the full view of others. Despite having sons your age, he is still greedy for more heirs, and his desires are a constant reminder of what little value you hold.

Yet, it is Herr Klein who causes you the greatest unease.

He is younger than you by several years, possessing the kind of beauty you’ve only seen in the angels Botticelli painted. His appearance should be comforting, but the way his gaze lingers on your eldest daughter fills you with a cold, creeping dread. He masks his interest in her as a desire to know those closest to your heart, yet each time he reaches toward her, your body instinctively tenses in revulsion. You watch him carefully, doing everything you can to ensure your daughters are otherwise occupied when he comes to call. You decline his invitations for them to join you on outings, feigning prior obligations, but it is inevitable they will spend time together if he is the one your father chooses.

The powerlessness and anger weigh heavily on you, a suffocating force that builds and builds until it becomes too much to bear. When Kerstin finds you weeping without restraint, the pain and frustration spilling from you in waves, you can’t even find it in yourself to feel shame.

“What am I to do?” you ask her tearfully, your voice quivering. "I care not what becomes of myself, but my sweet girls…what will become of them if we do not secure the right suitor? It cannot be Herr Klein. You see how he looks at them."

Kerstin helps you from the floor onto the bed. “Perhaps Herr Harding’s cousin that your father spoke of.”

You shake your head, a ragged hiccup stealing your breath. “No. He has a wife and child of his own. He only wants the business. He...he would cast us aside. I know it.”

“Oh, mistress,” Kerstin whispers, pulling you close, wrapping you in her arms as if trying to protect you from the weight of the world.

You’re not sure how long you weep in her arms, only that once you stop your whole body aches with the weight of it. In the end, Kerstin has no answers for you. There is only the quiet, resigned look in her eyes that tells you she, too, knows what needs to be done.

And you realize, with a sinking certainty, that there is only one choice left to you.

You must convince your father to choose Herr Mueller.

–

Over the coming weeks, Herr Mueller’s visits become less frequent as his health seems to decline sharply, his ghostly pallor growing almost daily before word comes that he has returned to Munich. News of his death arrives soon after and in his absence, your father pushes you towards Herr Klein until his visits stop abruptly without explanation. You only learn the truth from the hushed whispers among the servants. He has suffered some kind of horrific accident — one that no one dares to explain in detail. More often than not, you find yourself seeking out their gossip as your father grows increasingly distant and worried.

Tonight, on your way back from settling your daughters, you come across a cluster of servants huddled together in the hallway. You freeze, half-hidden behind the old grandfather clock, its steady ticks loud enough to mask your movements but not their murmurs.

“It is as though she is cursed,” the scullery maid whispers, her face drawn and pale. “Three suitors, all dead.”

“Perhaps God has struck them down, for surely it is an affront to him the way Frau Harding’s father behaves,” the cook adds. “Anyone can see she grieves still. ”

“The governess says the children speak of their father, God rest his soul, like he still lives,” another adds softly.

“‘Tis wrong the way her father persists. Kerstin was asked to ready the mistress for another party tonight.”

You close your eyes, trying to push away the unease their whispered words have stirred. You force yourself to retreat down the hall, the sound of their voices fading. In your room you find Kerstin has laid out a beautiful red gown across your bed. The fabric shimmers faintly in the dim light, and beside it rests a matching ruby necklace, its stones gleaming like drops of blood. You run your fingers along the dress, feeling its soft texture, its weight. It’s expensive — far more so than anything you would have expected your father to choose. An unsettling sensation creeps up your spine as your thumb brushes against the diamonds encircling the rubies.

What does he have planned for tonight that requires such rich adornment?

You know regardless of the answer you must accept it. For the sake of your girls.

You dress quickly, sparing a cursory glance at yourself in the mirror. Friedrich always loved you in red, the color made him bolder with his touches and stolen moments. It’s impossible for your father to know such a thing, and yet the sight of the gown twists the knife in your gut deeper. Tonight you wear it for a man who is not your husband.

As you finish adjusting the dress Kerstin enters, holding something in her hands. She freezes in the doorway, her eyes widening when they take in your appearance. The silence between you stretches. Her gaze flicks nervously to your closet and back to you, her expression twisting in confusion, as though she doesn’t know what to make of you.

“I...I shall fetch you a different cloak,” she stammers, hurrying away with a dark blue coat still clutched in her hands.

–

At the party you hold onto your father’s arm while he makes introductions to his guests, most of whom seem to linger in hushed conversations, casting sidelong glances at you. Your father’s smile, stiff and strained, mirrors your own, and your mother hovers nearby, her expression pinched with worry. A sense of wrongness clings to the room, a discomfort that you can't quite shake.

It does not escape you that the number of men in attendance is smaller than usual, and none of them seem eager to engage with you as they had before. Your mind drifts back to the servants’ hushed conversation and you nervously adjust the largest ruby resting at the hollow of your throat. Your father notices your fidgeting and glances at you, his frown deepening.

“I had expected you to wear the blue dress. The red is too bold for a widow,” he mutters, his voice tinged with annoyance. "No matter.”

He brings you to another gentleman whose severe expression doesn’t change as he takes you in with a cold kind of assessment. The two of them speak of you as if you are not there and you take a sip of your champagne. The sweet drink has long gone warm and flat. You force yourself to drain it before your gaze turns to the darkened window, catching the shadow of a man’s grey top hat when he passes by.

Though it is impolite, you allow your thoughts to drift away from the conversation at hand and to your daughters. You find yourself looking forward to the end of the evening when you can finally check on them. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll take them to the Marktplatz to buy new hair ribbons or visit the dollmaker. Though they seem just fine you can’t help but worry.

A sharp, startled scream from your mother, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass shattering pulls you from your thoughts. You turn to see the cause of such commotion but your view is partially blocked by your father, whose shocked inhalation sounds as though the breath has been stolen from his chest. When you try to shift around him, his grip on your arms tightens painfully and you wince.

“Mein Gott,” the woman beside you whispers, crossing herself.

“Father? What…” your words trail off when at last, you manage to edge past him and catch sight of the room beyond and the unexpected guest standing in the entryway.

It’s Friedrich.

For a moment, disbelief freezes you in place. You wonder if the grief has finally driven you to madness, if his ghost has returned, risen from the depths of the sea, to haunt you in full view of those gathered. He looks just as you saw him last on the bow of the ship beside Ellen, tall and broad, handsomely dressed.

The rest of your father’s guests seem equally as transfixed, whispering amongst themselves as Friedrich removes his grey top hat with a practiced, fluid motion. He passes it to a startled servant who stands frozen, manners forgotten. His eyes find yours immediately, and now that he is no longer hidden beneath the shadow of his hat you can see the golden warmth of his skin has all but faded, leaving him unnaturally pale and drawn. He looks as though the very life within him has dimmed.

But then he smiles, the one you know so well, filled with affection, and a tenderness that melts away all doubt. You know in that moment that he is no ghost but your beloved husband returned to you, as solid and real as the other men in the room.

You go to him, drawn by some invisible thread, heedless of those around you. Everything else feels distant now. It’s only Friedrich you see, his presence consuming your every sense. His lips find yours, and in that moment, it feels as though the very blood in your veins comes alive, singing with the sensation of his touch. He is here, alive in your arms. His lips do not leave yours until your lungs burn with the need for air.

“I do not understand,” you cry, touching his face. “I thought…”

“That I was lost to you?” He questions with a smile, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No, my love. We are bound together always.”

His choice of words stirs an errant, unsettling memory from your dreams, but before you can linger on the thought, his kiss silences your mind. You melt into his touch, desperate for more despite the crowd. He parts from you regretfully, rubbing his gloved hands up and down your arms as he looks beyond you to the gathered crowd.

“I must apologize for such a dramatic entrance,” he says, his tone shifting to something more composed. “I was lost for some time, first to the sea and then to an illness that prevented my travel. I regret I could not send word earlier.”

“Oh, you look like death,” your mother exclaims with concern, taking in his pale appearance.

“I am still recovering,” Friedrich replies calmly, though there’s a sharp edge to his tone that surprises you. “But what matters is that I have returned.” He speaks the last words with a quiet, simmering intensity, his eyes locking onto your father’s.

Friedrich’s words linger in the air as your father’s gaze flickers uncomfortably over your husband’s form, searchingly. There’s an unsettling pause before he finally responds, his smile forced. “And we thank God for it.”

Friedrich glances at your father one last time, the tension in his jaw fading as his face settles into a placid expression.

“We can speak on this tomorrow,” he says with a note of finality. “For now, I am eager to see my children and spend time with my wife.” His hand encircles your wrist, drawing you to his side.

“Of course,” your mother agrees, patting his shoulder comfortingly. “We shall join you for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Dinner,” Friedrich corrects, accepting your cloak from the servant.

With deliberate care, he drapes it over your shoulders and fastens the clasp at your throat. His fingers linger over your fluttery pulse, the rough fabric of his gloves creating a barrier between you and the warmth you so crave. When he stares at you, his bright blue eyes sweeping over your features, you find yourself unable to look away, as if ensnared by some strange spell. It doesn’t break until he finally steps back, his hand gently guiding you toward the waiting carriage. Even then, the lingering feeling of his eyes on you stays, a quiet pull that you can’t quite shake.

Inside the carriage, you sit beside him, your hands linked together. Your fingers move restlessly over his as if trying to convince yourself that this is real. That he is real. Because some part of you fears you’ll blink and find yourself back in your bed, waking from this dream.

“My love,” he soothes, kissing your brow. “I am here.”

“I know," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "How will we explain this to the girls? Or the servants?"

He squeezes your hand and urges you to rest your head on his shoulder. "I will take care of it all, just like I have always done. You needn’t worry."

“Of course,” you agree, relief flooding through you as you rest your cheek against the velvety fabric of his coat.

You inhale the familiar scent of him, the one that has always grounded you, comforting and light. But beneath it, there’s something else. A faint sweetness, like old wood surrendering to the earth, something unfamiliar and unsettling. You pull back just enough to glance up at him, your eyes searching for something you can’t quite place.

Then he smiles, his soft pink lips curling beneath his mustache, and the unease fades, swallowed by how sure and steady he is beneath your hands.

“All is well,” he promises you. “I am here and we will never be parted again.”

Part 3

#friedrich harding x reader #friedrich harding x you #friedrich harding #aaron taylor johnson #nosferatu #nosferatu 2024

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artemlegere · 2 months ago

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Susannah Maria Cibber (née Arne) as Cordelia

Artist: Pieter van Bleeck (Dutch, 1700–1764

Date: 1755

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, CT, United States

Description

Pieter van Bleeck was a Dutch-born portrait painter and engraver and the son of the portraitist Richard van Bleeck. Both the father and son relocated to London in the 1720s. This remarkable painting by the younger artist depicts a scene from Nahum Tate’s late seventeenth-century adaptation of William Shakespeare’s King Lear, when Edgar - son of the Earl of Gloucester - darts in from the right disguised as a madman in order to protect Cordelia, whom he will later marry, and her confidante Arante from two ruffians. The actress Susannah Maria Cibber made her first appearance as Cordelia in 1746 and was, at the time of her death in 1766, the highest paid actress at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, earning only slightly less than the celebrated actor David Garrick.

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darklydeliciousdesires · 26 days ago

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Sanctuary - An Original Story.

Well, here we are, guys. A brand new original. I know that so many of you aren't here for this, but maybe give me a chance? I've tagged a couple of people who have been on board with my previous originals, too. No pressure if you're not feeling it, and if you do want to be tagged, please let me know.

Summary - It was a crime that shook the metal community and beyond to its core, the Solna Satanic murder case blowing apart the lives of many. With Lucas and Nils - frontman and drummer of popular metal band The Hanged - trialed, found guilty and subsequently sentenced, few were inclined to believe either deserved any offerings of a second chance. Lucas, in particular, did not consider himself worthy until salvation came in the form of a letter.

Words - 5,452

Warnings - 18+ content, mentions of violence. Of course, it'll be smutty too, eventually! Minors DNI!

In the world of rock and metal music, numerous artists distinguish themselves from their peers. This distinction is often due to their exceptional talent; however, in certain cases, it arises from actions that are considerably less commendable.

Jim Gordon, 70’s rock musician and one-time drummer for Alice Cooper, murdered his own mother in schizophrenic meltdown. Varg Vikernes, sole member of Burzum and former member of Mayhem, murdered founder and former friend Øystein Aarseth in cold blood, to name but two infamous slayings.

In 2013, the alternative music world was rocked once again by a horrific case that shook residents of Stockholm and beyond to their core, the brutal murder of a nineteen-year-old man committed by two of its most prolific young musicians.

“In the criminal case that rocked the municipality of Solna, the accused men at the forefront of the Solna Satanic murder were sentenced earlier today. Lucas Borgström, twenty-two and co-defendant Nils Ekenberg, twenty-four, were each handed eighteen years for the brutal slaying of nineteen-year-old Pieter Arneson. The men, known for their unrepentant devotion to their Satanic beliefs as well as their roles in popular heavy metal band The Hanged, showed little emotion as sentencing was passed.

The case, which has drawn intense scrutiny and public outrage, highlighted the dark undercurrents in the seemingly tranquil suburb. Families of the victim and the accused were present, their faces etched with a mix of relief, sorrow, and disbelief as the verdict was read. Outside the courthouse, a crowd had gathered, some holding candles in a vigil for Pieter Arneson, while others protested the sentence, claiming it was too lenient.

The trial will undoubtedly be remembered as a chilling chapter in Solna's history.”

In the aftermath of the news coverage, the trial over and all involved ready to begin picking up the pieces, the internet community at large continued to voice opinion over the case.

“Eighteen years??? For what they did, that’s fucked up!”

“Apparently, eighteen years is all the prosecution were seeking, given that they couldn’t prove Lucas and Nils had premeditated the murder. Especially since the defence weighed so heavily on the fact that both of them were high as fuck on various drugs when they stabbed him to death.”

“Oh, come on! Doesn’t matter how fucking high they were. Listen to their music, man. There are multiple references to human sacrifice. It was only a matter of time. They’re rotten, evil fucking scumbags. RIP Pieter.”

“The news report saying they showed little emotion is a flat-out lie. I was there. Nils laughed, and Lucas smirked and threw up the horns, muttering ‘hail, my dark lord’ as he was taken away. They should be getting life. Neither are sorry for what they did to that poor guy.”

“I used to know them really well way back in the day. Nils has always been somewhat dark underneath seeming like a good dude (sociopath?) but Lucas? I think Nils pulled him into it further, into the Satanism and the drugs. He was a nice guy, seriously. Yeah, he could be loud and chaotic, loved to party and have a good time, but half the shit about him out there is untrue.”

“His ex-girlfriend who claimed he tried to stab her? Untrue. She was bitter because he left her for my friend Brigitte, and that’s the goddamned truth from Brigitte herself. She was just out for cash when she sold that story to the press!

People saying he tortured animals, too? No fucking way. As soon as he ever arrived at my house, he’d crack open a beer and head straight for my pet rat’s cage, get them out and let them climb all over him and nest in his hair. He always loved animals. There was something really gentle about him in that way. He was such a good, nice guy. I hate what he ultimately became, though, because it isn’t him.”

“Gentle?! Dude, fuck off. The man carved a fucking inverted pentagram into Pieter’s corpse and then painted his own body in Satanic sigils before threatening to murder everyone else at that house party. The guy is a fucking psycho. That’s who he is. It took four cops to bring him down after he and Nils left the house, running after that poor girl who escaped and called the police, trying to kill her, too. He fucking bit one of the officer’s ears off before they tazed the shit out of the douchebag.”

Indeed, not many people could see past the horrific crimes of Lucas Borgström, regardless of opinions to the contrary. To many, he was nothing more than a cold-blooded murderer. A hardened drug addict hellbent on a path that ruined what was a very promising career, his band The Hanged once a huge name in the world of heavy metal.

Even the band's most loyal fans were left grappling with the dissonance between the image of the charismatic, gregarious frontman they adored and the monster he became. His descent into darkness was a cautionary tale that reverberated through the heavy metal community, a stark reminder of how drugs and a toxic influence could warp a person beyond recognition.

The trial and its aftermath left the band in shambles, their music equally tainted and exalted by the shadow of the drummer and frontman’s crimes. Friends and family who once cherished them were forced to reconcile with a gruesome reality, as debates raged on about the nature of evil and the depths to which a human being could sink.

While Nils very much remained unrepentant for his part in it, though, Lucas was a different matter. Free of the often-overbearing influence of his bandmate and clean of the drugs that had served as nothing more than a fuel to his mental decline into true darkness, he began to seek a better path upon which to follow.

“Do I feel guilt for what I did? Of course, I fucking do. Every day. Would I have done what I did if I hadn’t been out of my skull on drugs? I’d like to say probably not, y’know. That guy who murdered an innocent man, he isn’t the same person who is sitting here before you today. People are capable of change. Through incarceration, I’m at least trying to atone for what I did, become a better person.”

Not many were willing to believe the words he gave when a journalist visited with him nine years into his sentence, not many at all. However, there was one woman who was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, though. One woman who the name Lucas Borgström meant something very different to how he was so commonly perceived.

The finger clicking. Even over the reasonably loud thrum of rock music coming through the speakers placed at each corner of the shop, Erika could hear the persistent clicks, preceding the arrival of she who could never stand still unless she was working.

“So, are we out tonight, are we drinking, are we dancing?” Nina, her beloved best friend and business partner asked in her usual rapid fire. She could never solely present one question, a ball of energy that seemed to never cease in its rotation, a live wire of a person who exuded the kind of energy that left people exhausted merely to witness.

She was never loud with it, but god alive, how the energy sparked bright.

Looking up to where the British expat danced around on the spot, fingers still clicking, Erika paused, giving her client a well-earned break. “I’ll come for one, but I’m pretty tired.”

The energetic twitching immediately stilled. “One? Excuse me, one drink? Oh, you fucking blasphemer! How dare you say this in the presence of a Friday night, girly!”

“I know, I know, however...”

A loud snort sounded. “No! No however! Where has my fun-loving, hard drinking little playmate gone? One drink? What a load of bollocks!”

Sighing, Erika dipped the tattoo machine needle into more black ink, returning it to the huge backpiece of a mandala she was working her way through. “To use your British-ism, bollocks it may be, but my liver needs a break, dude.”

Nina rolled her eyes dramatically, muttering something unflattering about weak constitutions, but Erika’s focus had already shifted back to her work. The hum of the tattoo machine provided a meditative rhythm, almost hypnotic, as intricate dots formed the weaving patterns under her skilled hand.

She couldn't help but smirk at Nina's antics; the woman was relentless, but it was part of her charm. Letting out a small chuckle, her thoughts briefly drifted to the pull of wild nights and reckless abandon, only to be tugged gently back to the present by the vibration of the machine in her grasp.

The song on the rock radio station then changed, giving her another little jolt. The Sigils of Seven, the title track from the second album by The Hanged, one of her all-time favourite bands. She might have been a little biased since the guys all hailed from the same place as her, the municipality of Solm, but their musical talent truly did precede any hometown loyalty.

That loyalty was a somewhat fractured, though, twelve years on from the crime that had shaken Stockholm to its core.

“Man, I used to love these guys,” her client spoke, shaking his head. “I try and separate art from artist, but it’s hard in this case.”

A still-present Nina pointed right at him. “You have that right, my man! Jesus wept, I swear my mouth couldn’t have hung open wider when I found out what they’d done to that poor bloke!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he began in agreement, looking in her direction as she pulled up a chair to his side. “I sort of want to be lenient in what I think, because of all the drugs and shit, but fuck. They’re not good people. Fucking psychos. Lucas especially.”

It was at that point Erika had to physically bite her tongue, because for her, she knew very much differently to the common opinion. Not for Nils, but for Lucas, she could attest with great surety that he was far from a psychopath. How? Because she had been writing to him for the last three years, that was how.

It had wounded her deeply, back when the murder had taken place and he and his bandmate had been subsequently arrested and sentenced. To know that a musician she admired and looked up to so much was capable of that kind of depravity had genuinely shaken her, the same as it had for many of their other fans, too.

She simply couldn’t believe it, that a man who seemed an utter delight to be in the company of, often boisterous and hilarious in interviews, famed for being nothing but friendly and welcoming to his fans, had taken such a fall from grace. Despite fairly common opinion, Satanists were not all dark and evil people, Lucas certainly seeming to be far from it, regardless of the very much darker lyrical content of the band’s second album.

“Satanism, to me, it’s about being your own god, y’know, just be peaceful with it, be a good person to be good, not because some imaginary sky daddy is going to reward or punish me if I am or if I’m not. I don’t have intentions to fucking make sacrifices to a dark lord, drink blood and chant, yadda, yadda, yadda. None of that shit. I’m not a theistic Satanist.

“Read up on it, man. It goes against the tenets of Satanism, the very first to be exact. One should strive to act with compassion and empathy toward all creatures in accordance with reason. There it is, there’s my fucking answer.”

Just fourteen months on from that interview, where he’d been nothing contrary to his usual upbeat, well-spoken self, and he’d descended into the kind of darkness that Erika had assumed there to be no emergence from.

He had gone from a young man on a path to what he described as clarity of thought, and a conscious desire to uphold the beliefs taught through The Satanic Temple, to a fully blown theistic Satanist, a sect with much differing beliefs in that they truly believed Satan to be a deity in which to praise and appease.

The Satanic Temple merely used Satan as a symbol of pride, liberty and individualism. They did not believe in his existence nor praise him as a deity, never promoting the worship of he who many coined as their dark lord.

By the time he was arrested, covered in the blood of the man who he’d jointly stabbed to death, it was fair to say that Lucas very much believed there was a dark lord to be worshipped, and a sacrifice made to. As Erika knew well, it was a regret that still plagued him greatly. He never made excuses for it either.

Yeah, I was bent out of shape on drugs, too many drugs, drinking too much, yadda, yadda, yadda. I still let myself go down that path though, Erika. Still got pulled in by the darkness of something I should have opened my fucking eyes over. I know people blame Nils for how I turned out, but I’m not brainless, y’know? I could have told him no, and I didn’t. I’m responsible for my actions, and I take it fully on board, what I did to Pieter.

That was what he had stated in one of the first letters where he’d truly opened up to her. An interview had been conducted by a journalist for a magazine feature on Scandinavian metal and the many instances of musicians themselves committing horrific crimes, upon after reading Erika had felt compelled to reach out to Lucas.

What she had witnessed was a man who took full responsibility for his crimes and was trying hard to put himself on a better path. There was honest remorse within him, a desire to atone, a drive to show people he was more than the hideous act of violence he had once committed.

I let a lot of people down. My family, my mom, sister and brother especially, my grandparents, my friends, my band and my fans. When I finally get out, I want to prove that I’m capable of change, show that I took full advantage of the excellent rehabilitation I’ve been given so far over my sentence.

I can’t say I’d ever blame people for not allowing me that chance, though. My relationship with my mother is strained to this day, I know that Jacob (Bjornsson, former rhythm guitarist for The Hanged) will never speak to me again, and I know that a huge part of our fanbase will never forgive me either.

There’s a lot of motherfucking shit out there that isn’t fucking true about me, but what is, that’s enough to blacken my name forever. And I completely accept that. I would, however, love to be given a chance to prove common opinion wrong.

She didn’t expect to receive a reply at all initially, so had been truly stunned to see a letter in her post box from him just over a week after mailing hers. Three years had passed since, and because of the common consensus over the man, she hadn’t told a soul of their burgeoning friendship, a friendship that if she was honest, was now becoming something more.

Much more.

It would have been a lie if she’d said she hadn’t been hesitant to send him a photograph of her at his request, but his reply had certainly been worth it. As well as unbelievable that the man her teenage self had lusted after so heavily thought what he did about her.

Your picture? Damn. I think I might need to be on blood pressure medication, because you just sent it through the roof. You are stunning, Erika. Unbelievably stunning!

“What are you grinning about?”

Nina’s sharp chirp immediately sent the little Lucas-centred daydream she’d fallen into shattering to smithereens. “We’re talking about a vile, unrepentant murderer and you’re there, smiling like a loon?”

“He isn’t unrepentant.” Oh, shit. The words slipped from her mouth before she even had time to hang onto them for dear life.

Nina cocked her head. “And how would you know? You don’t honestly believe that bullshit he said in the article a while back, do you?” Erika’s pause spoke volumes. “Oh, my life. You do, don’t you?” Further silence, which only spurred the cogs in Nina’s mind to begin revolving further, as if fuelling her interrogation. “Why do you suddenly look so uncomfortable, matey?”

Shit, shit, shit! Nina never let something go, and fuck, if she didn’t always see through any of Erika’s facades to conceal the truth. “I’ll talk to you later. Could you be a doll and fetch me a soda? I’m so thirsty.”

One hour on from then, while they sat down within the cosy confines of The Churchill Arms there in Vasastan, a favourite since it was a British-themed pub and thus reminded Nina of home, Erika knew her time was up.

“Listen, I need to confide in you, about earlier,” she began, sipping her beer. “The reason I looked uncomfortable when we were discussing Lucas Borgström is because of something I’ve been hiding from you. From everyone, in fact.”

Immediately, Nina felt the pull of unrevealed gossip taking a firm swipe at her curiosity. “Then tell me! What is it? Did you know him or something, before he was sent down?” She gasped, reaching to clutch her forearms. “Where you the girl he was dating before he was banged up? I know she went into hiding after it all happened, so it isn’t out of the realms of possibility!”

Of course, she expected the barrage of questions. It was nothing if not Nina’s way. “No, no. I wasn’t. I didn’t know him then, but I do now. We’ve been writing to one another for the last three years, talking on the phone as well.”

Erika had never witnessed the colour drain from somebody’s face before, not even when her dad had almost split his foot in half after an ill-fated DIY project involving a lump hammer. Sure enough, though, she saw it then, Nina losing the usual blush from her cheeks.

“Why... why, why, why the hell are you communicating with a bloody murderer, mate? Why? And more than that, well, no. I don’t have more. Just why!”

She expected it, the shock that seemed to be speeding through her friend like an out-of-control F1 vehicle. “Because after reading that interview he gave, the one you denounced as bullshit, I just felt compelled to, I dunno,” she began, shrugging as Nina’s intense gaze of disbelief prickled at her. “I was always a huge fan of his until the murder. Reading his words, though, I believed him, and I was right to. Honestly, dude. He’s not the same guy.”

If aghast had a face, in that moment it was Nina Bennett. “How do you even know that, though? Bloody, bloody, bloody hell! Written letters and phone calls aren’t a marker for somebody’s true nature! He might just be playing you!”

“For what end?” she asked, frowning a little.

“I don’t flippin’ know, I’m not him! I’m not a murdering psychopath!” she spluttered, small droplets of her vodka and soda flecking the table. “All I know is that a man who contributed to murdering somebody via thirty-nine stab wounds, who then went on to carve an inverted pentagram on his victim’s chest, painted himself in his blood and then rucked with the coppers who turned up to arrest him is bad news!”

Erika could feel herself winding tight, but pushed it down. In that moment, she chose to channel a little bit of Lucas, a man who had taught her that in the face of adversity, remaining calm was the best way to get your point across. If only Nina could actually speak to him, to see if for herself, how he wasn’t the same man any longer.

“I think it’s fair to say that the mental clarity of somebody high on the cocktail of drugs he was, well, it was severely compromised.” Amphetamine, cocaine, PCP and alcohol were found in his system, according to the reports she’d read. How he was even able to stand up, let alone stab somebody to death was beyond her. “But he still makes no excuses for it. If he was truly as rotten to his core as many say that he is, surely, he wouldn’t be so admitting of that?”

Her sweet Erika; she always saw the good in people first. It was something Nina cherished dearly about her friend, but in this instance saw as a huge red flag. “Ever thought it might be a facade, simply to get early release, be let out and then go on another rampage?”

“No, no,” she replied staunchly, “because why would he choose incarceration all over again, doll? That’s just silly. He truly wants to make amends. Listen, he’s lost almost twelve years of his life. In fact, it actually is twelve years now if you count the time they were locked up prior to the case coming to trial. All he wants is to be free, see if he can resurrect his career and carry on with his life. He says that he expects people not to give him that chance, though, and he wouldn’t blame them if they don’t.”

Her words were quite fair, Nina had to concede. It still left an unpleasant feeling creeping through her tummy, though. “So, have you ever been down to visit him, then?”

It wasn’t out of the realms of possibility that she could, with Anstalten Hall prison being only a half hour drive away from Vasastan. “Not yet, no. It’s taken a while for us to build up the kind of trust and rapport with each other where I would actually want to meet him in the flesh, plus he was hesitant as well. He kept a lot of his visitations open for his mom to go and see him, but she never has. She’s too upset, still.”

Nina nodded. “As any mother would be, yeah.”

“However, he’s put me on his visitors list and I’m all set to go and meet him for the first time next week. I’m really looking forward to it, although I’m nervous as shit about it.”

More nods followed. “As anyone would be, sitting across from a convicted murderer.”

“No, no. It isn’t because of what he did,” she stated, her hand moving to her ponytail, beginning to weave her locks around her index finger. “It’s because... well...” Biting her lip, she looked out from beneath her lashes, taking a deep breath. “I like him, Nina. As in, more than a friend, like him. And it’s mutual. We have a connection; we really trust and respect one another.

“Also, they don’t censor letters or phone calls, and so it’s fair to say things have begun to become a little flirty over the last few months, too. Well, flirty is putting it mildly. Sometimes, it’s downright spicy.”

Watching her friend’s face fall, she knew revealing such wouldn’t be met with Nina’s usual sunshine. “Oh god, mate.” Reaching for her hands, she squeezed them, a line of concern pinching her brows tightly. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I really, really do. Look, I trust you, but I don’t trust him. I’m sorry, but I don’t. Also, where can this go? Are you prepared to wait for him for another six years?”

“It might not be that long,” she revealed, “since a lot of prisoners are given early release if they’ve behaved well inside. I looked it up, it’s usually after two thirds of their time served. He mentioned the other day that it might be a reality for him, but he wasn’t certain just yet.”

“Well, if it is, I think you should tread cautiously. Get to know him as a person on the outside before you go all in with him. Really, you have to be careful. He ain’t just some petty criminal; he’s a fucking murderer.”

She crinkled her nose then, sighing, looking pained as she stroked Erika’s hands with her thumbs. “I have to admit it though, mate. It’s at odds with the desire in me as your bestie to get excited with you, because I can see it in you, that you’re over there having an “I like a guy” moment. I’m just scared because of who the guy is.”

She paused, grimacing a little. “And regardless of that, I see it, the attraction. He is gorgeous, and insanely talented, but I feel bad saying that! I want to ask you things as well, have a good ole’ girly gossip, but it keeps hitting me that I shouldn’t because I don’t want to encourage something I’m not really on board with!”

“Then ask me,” Erika stated simply, shrugging, releasing one of her hands to pick up her beer and take another swig. “Listen, people are multi-faceted, aren’t they? There’s a lot more to who Lucas is than the crime he committed. Much more. You’re not a bad person for wanting to hear things, just like I’m not a bad person for giving the man a chance.”

Indecision seemed to continue coiling through the blonde-haired Brit, Nina holding up a finger and rising from her seat. A few minutes passed before she returned with another round, plus two shots on the tray she held.

“I said I was only staying for one,” Erika moaned, although it was through a little smile.

“Bollocks,” Nina huffed, taking the vodka soda, beer and two shots of tequila from the tray and placing them down. “You’re about to tell me about all the horny stuff you’re discussing with a bloody convict. I need another drink, so that means you do, too.” Lifting the shot glass, she clinked it against Erika’s, widening her eyes. “Bottoms up!”

Once the shots were sunk, Nina cleared the glasses to the side of the table, drumming her hands off it rhythmically. “So, tell me. How’s the flirting been? What’s been said?”

“You know, this and that,” she began, snorting with laughter at the eye roll she was given. Unless a little drunk, though, Erika wasn’t one to be overly brash or crude. Drunk Erika, though? She was a different animal. “Okay so he said that when I first sent him a picture of him, he had to go off and have a cold shower. One that didn’t solely extend to the purposes of washing.”

“So, you’re the man’s wank fodder then, is what you’re telling me?”

“Oh, yeah,” she revealed, snorting with laughter. “Apparently lots of girls have sent pictures to him, loads of letters basically hero praising him, but none of them stood out like I did. That was months before he even saw my picture, too. He said if he was free, he’d be dating me in a heartbeat. And, well... he said I shouldn’t make any plans once he’s released, because he’s going to need to take me to bed for at least a day.”

Nina’s eyebrows rose immediately. “Well, yeah. The man has been like a monk for the last twelve years. Your poor little fanny is going to get a right battering!” She then regained a little of her reservation, pointing across the table. “I meant it though, that you shouldn’t go all in with him. So maybe don’t jump into bed with him right away and spend that day shagging like rabbits, hmm?”

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe. I dunno,” she hummed, finishing her beer and pulling the fresh glass closer to sip the foamy head. “Oh fuck, he made me laugh so much, though. He said not to expect anything too much from him because of course, it’s been twelve years since he last had sex. But, and I quote, he said I could expect to receive the greatest twenty seconds of my life the first time!”

Nina couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from her, hearing that. That little slice of very non-egotistical humour somewhat soothed her fears, although she knew beneath it, her concern for her friend and this man would continue to linger. “At least the bloke’s honest!”

Truly, he’d been nothing but with her. Their conversation moved on, Erika staying for a third drink before she made her excuses and went home, Nina deciding to hook up with some other friends who were more inclined to make a night of it.

Once back within her small, yet charming bungalow home, the first thing she did was check her post box, delighted to see a letter within from the object of her rapidly growing affections. Taking a shower and dressing in a comfy lounge set, she settled in with a cup of tea, ready to read.

Hi beautiful!

Fuck, I’m bored. Can’t leave my cell as the prison is on lockdown right now. A kid got shanked, survived it luckily but there’ve been going from cell to cell doing weapons searches. They just searched mine about a half hour ago, and we won’t be allowed to roam around until they’re done.

Sometimes, I almost forget that it’s a prison until things like this happen. Like I’ve explained to you before, unlike so many other prison systems around the world, we’re treated really fairly in here. No dark cells, few liberties taken, yadda, yadda, yadda. We have it lucky. I don’t get why the young guys coming in here wanna rock the boat like that. They should just put their motherfucking heads down and do their time, y’know? All this gang bullshit is fucked.

Anyway, how are you? How did it go with that client who kept cancelling, how did she take it that you were still charging for your time? I’m proud of you that you took my advice there. I know you’re tough and you stand up for yourself, and I really like that about you, but yeah, you definitely need to extend it more to people thinking they can cancel on you last minute. It’s disrespectful to waste your time like that. You have bills to pay!

I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to your visit. It’s been a long time in the coming, hasn’t it? I really appreciate you so much, Erika, probably more than you know. You’ve been such a guiding light to me on my journey over the past three years. And, well, a source of my hands to continue wandering... Fuck, I thought I knew horny before I saw you. Twelve years of pent-up sexual frustrations, while knowing I (hopefully?) have you to come out to? It’s wearing my patience a little thin, hah!

Anyway, that aside, Alex visited me two days ago. He played me some rough drafts of the songs he’s been working on. The guy did a fucking killer job with it all! Just him on his own, okay so he isn’t going to play everything like I would on bass, like Jacob would (but as you know, that door is firmly closed) or like Nils would drum, but he had the vibe down, y’know?

He was telling me too that he wrote to Nils again recently and finally got a reply. I know he didn’t take to prison or the rehabilitative nature of it quite as easily as I eventually did, but Alex tells me he’s doing well. He’s finally come out and said he isn’t proud of what he did and that he wants to move past it all, that he’s been making a serious effort to be better, too. That pleased me.

I thought for so long he was lost to that darkness we both found ourselves in, and it made me feel bad for him. I didn’t want him to be stuck in that place, y’know, and he was for so, so long. I guess maturity has to hit us all at some point, it just took him a few years longer to come to terms with it all and actually arrive there.

Anyway, I’ll leave it here, so I have things to talk to you about when you visit. Did I mention that I can’t wait?? Hah!

Be safe,

Lucas.

Her heart fluttered more and more with every word that passed, reading his usual geniality, his humour, his enthusiasm for his music. He couldn’t wait to meet her, and neither could she.

The next five days would be the longest wait ever, but for him, it was worth it.

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levenllan23 · 1 month ago

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More Than a Tribute: The Story of the People Who Made Destiny the Game We Know

In the world of Destiny, we are Guardians—fighting for survival, navigating the delicate balance between Light and Darkness, and forging our own fates. But Destiny isn’t just a story about us. It’s a story about the people who made it all possible. The creators—the voices, the musicians, and the storytellers—who shaped this universe and made it more than just a game.

One of the most profound ways to experience Destiny is through the music and the voice of those who brought this world to life. The soundtracks, composed by legends like Michael Salvatori, Skye Lewin, C. Paul Johnson, Josh Mosser, Michael Sechrist, Rotem Moav, and Pieter Schlosser, have done more than just accompany us on our adventures—they have told the story of our struggle, our victories, and our deepest emotions without a single word spoken.

And then there’s Lance Reddick, whose portrayal of Zavala became a pillar in the story of Destiny. His deep voice, wisdom, and presence made us believe in the Light, made us understand the weight of leadership, and reminded us why we fight. But The Final Shape isn’t just a tribute to Lance—it’s a tribute to the Destiny music team and all the unsung heroes who have made the game the living, breathing universe we’ve come to love.

In this post, we’ll explore how these creators shaped the experience of Destiny, telling the story of Destiny through the sounds of its past, present, and future. From the haunting melodies of Journey to the triumphant rises of Excision, from the fate-altering themes of Into the Light to the emotional final moments of The Final Shape, the journey we’ve walked as Guardians was carefully crafted by the hands of those who poured their passion into this world.

The Shape of Sacrifice: From Forsaken to Balance

The story of The Final Shape was never merely about war. It was never about killing a godlike entity or proving the superiority of the Light. It was always about understanding.

The first crack in our understanding came with Cayde-6. Forsaken. The breaking of the Vanguard. The moment we stopped being just warriors of the Light and became something more—something willing to question, to walk the line between what was right and what was necessary. His death marked our first true loss, but it also set the path forward.

From the Dreaming City’s curse to Eris Morn’s whispers of power, from the teachings of the Drifter to our descent into the Deep Stone Crypt, we slowly realized that the Light was not enough. Darkness was not the absence of Light—it was the other half of the equation. Stasis was only the first key. Strand followed, and with it, the knowledge that our strength was never in our ability to wield power, but in our ability to wield understanding.

To walk between Light and Dark is to understand the nature of the universe itself. The Witness saw the Final Shape as a singular truth—a perfect existence devoid of chaos. But we saw it differently. We understood that true perfection is balance.

And that is why, when the time came, we forged something new. Prismatic. Not Light. Not Dark. But both—wielded in harmony, not opposition.

The Wish That Changed Fate: The Corridors of Time and the Sword of Ergo Sum

When we look back at the journey through Destiny 2, certain moments stand out as mysteries within mysteries, layers upon layers of history that didn’t truly make sense until the pieces finally clicked into place. One such enigma lies in the 15th Wish, made by Crow during the Season of the Wish. In the surface, it seemed like a simple expression of regret—a wish to bring back Cayde-6, to atone for a past mistake. But its true power, its true significance, only became clear as the story unfolded.

Many players may not have fully grasped the depth of this wish, or what it meant for the future. But to understand it, we need to look back to Season of Dawn, to a moment many of us thought was just another chapter in the ongoing war against the forces of Darkness.

In the Corridors of Time, we saved Saint-14, but we also encountered something far more profound—our own death.

In the twisted corridors, we saw a timeline where the Guardian fell to the Witness, where our story ended in darkness. It was a glimpse into what might have been, what could have been—but it didn’t happen. Because the 15th Wish had yet to be made. It was this wish, born from Crow's sorrow, that unknowingly saved us, that altered the course of history and allowed us to return when it mattered most.

And now, as we stand on the precipice of The Final Shape, we see the full weight of what that wish meant: it wasn’t just about saving Cayde-6. It was about preserving the future itself. It was a ripple in time that rewrote the very fabric of fate, ensuring that the Guardian would continue to walk the line between Light and Dark.

But there’s another piece to this puzzle that ties everything together: the sword at our grave.

In the Corridors of Time, we saw our death—but it wasn’t the end. Now, in The Final Shape, we see the sword that rests by our tomb. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was a symbol. And now we know its name: Ergo Sum.

In Latin, Ergo Sum means "I think, therefore I am." It’s a phrase that echoes the very essence of the Guardian’s journey. It speaks to our identity—our ability to choose, to exist, and to define our own fate in a universe that would have us follow predetermined paths.

This sword is not just a relic of the past. It is a symbol of the Guardian’s transcendence. It is a reminder that, like the 15th Wish, we have the power to change the future. That even in the face of death, we can choose to rise again. Just as I think, therefore I am, we choose, therefore we become.

And so, the sword of Ergo Sum stands as the final testament to the power of choice. The Guardian is not defined by fate, nor by the forces of Light or Dark—but by their own will, their own understanding, and the balance they forge in the heart of the universe.

This section ties the mystery of the 15th Wish with the deeper philosophical meaning behind the sword Ergo Sum, while also recalling the pivotal moment in the Corridors of Time and the way it reshapes the future. It’s a beautiful narrative of fate, identity, and the power of choice that resonates with the core of Destiny’s story. The connection to “I think, therefore I am” gives it an existential weight, reminding us that, as Guardians, we are the architects of our own future.

Absolutely, that would be a perfect way to close the post and tie everything together. Here's how you could structure the ending, weaving in that wise Warlock tribute:

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Make Your Fate: The Music of Excision

In Destiny, music has always been more than just sound. It is memory. It is prophecy. It is the echo of battles fought long ago, calling forward to the ones still to come. And in the final confrontation of The Final Shape, in the mission Excision, the music does something unexpected—it reaches across time, pulling from the very origins of our journey, weaving together old themes into something new, something final, something that reminds us exactly why we fight.

At first, there is silence.

The battlefield before us is vast, the Witness looming like a cosmic shadow, the culmination of all we have faced. And then—music. A familiar motif, one we have not heard in years, not since the beginning. If you were there in Destiny 1, you might recognize it immediately.

"All Ends Are Beginnings" & "Untold Legends"—A Song That Was Always Meant to Be

The moment the first notes ring out, it feels like a whisper from the past. All Ends Are Beginnings—a track from Destiny 1’s original soundtrack, and Untold Legends, both pieces of music that, long ago, were written separately but now, at this final moment, merge into one. A harmony that was always meant to exist.

These songs were written for the birth of Destiny, for the opening of a journey that would take us through darkness, through war, through sacrifice. But they were never played together. Until now.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

If you were here when Into the Light launched on April 9, 2024, you would have already heard the foreshadowing. In the opening cinematic, All Ends Are Beginnings played—a hint, a reminder that everything was coming full circle. It was a signal that something old, something foundational to Destiny, was returning. And now, in Excision, it does.

Into the Light wasn’t just about new challenges—it was about reclaiming what we had lost, about taking our past weapons and forging them into the future.

During this event, we saw the return of iconic weapons—The Recluse and The Mountaintop, both relics from the Shadowkeep era. These weapons weren’t just tools; they were symbols of our legacy. The Recluse, once a go-to in the Crucible, reminded us of the chaos of the battles fought in the arena. The Mountaintop, infamous for its devastating power, echoed our relentless pursuit of victory, no matter the cost. They were more than just weapons; they were markers of what had come before, part of the legacy we carried into The Final Shape.

The weight of it is overwhelming. The music swells, wrapping around the battlefield like a living thing, like the Light itself guiding us forward. This is not just the final fight; it is the culmination of everything. Every battle, every sacrifice, every Guardian who has ever fought is here, in this moment, in this song.

Then, the motif shifts.

"1AU"—The Red War Returns

A second theme emerges, another thread woven into this final tapestry. If you listened closely, you may have felt it coming.

The music community had speculated for months—why was the Make Your Fate track building like this? Why did it carry so many echoes of the past? And then, in the midst of the battle, it hits—1AU, the music from the climax of the Red War, returns.

For so long, 1AU had been locked away, buried in the Destiny Content Vault, lost to time. But here, it rises again, not as an isolated piece, but as part of something greater.

If All Ends Are Beginnings represents the start of our journey, 1AU is the moment we first proved what it truly meant to be Guardians. It was the theme of our battle against the Dominus Ghaul, when we lost the Light, when we clawed our way back, and when we finally stood against a force that sought to claim the Traveler for itself.

And now, as the Witness looms before us, those notes return, building, layering, ascending.

The way the song builds at this moment catches even the most seasoned players off guard. It is a slow realization, creeping up on you, until suddenly, everything collides.

The melodies intertwine.

The past and present merge.

It played during the Red War, when the Red Legion laid waste to the Last City. We watched, helpless, as the city burned, as the Traveler was imprisoned in its golden cage. As we stood on the mountain’s edge, the song swelled. Journey didn’t need words—it spoke through its mournful strings and rising orchestral notes, telling a story of defeat, but also of defiance. There was no dialogue, no voiceovers—just the music, telling us of our world’s brokenness and the hope that we still carried inside.

It felt, in a way, like Padmé’s Ruminations from Star Wars—a theme born from loss and the weight of impending doom, carrying the emotional resonance of everything that was about to come. The music didn’t tell us what was happening. It made us feel it. The city burning, the cage around the Traveler, and yet, through it all, there was an undeniable sense of resolve—a promise that we would rise again.

Then, the build-up.

A moment of quiet.

And then—

The final clash.

The music reaches its peak, and in that moment, we understand: this is not just another fight. This is not just another final boss. This is Destiny. This is everything we have ever fought for.

We are Guardians. We make our own fate.

And as the Witness falls, the music soars—not just as an end, but as a new beginning.

That’s a beautiful and heartfelt way to end the post. The connection between the music, the game's story, and the emotional impact it has, especially for someone with sensory processing disorder, is profound. Music in Destiny isn't just background noise—it’s a vital part of the experience, guiding players through the highs and lows of the narrative, enhancing the immersion, and adding layers of meaning to the entire journey. Here's how we could finish your post with that tribute to Lance Reddick, the Destiny music team, and the personal impact the music has had on you:

A Tribute to Lance Reddick and the Destiny Music Team

As we look back on the journey, we cannot ignore the indelible mark left by Lance Reddick as Zavala, whose voice carried the weight of leadership, sacrifice, and loyalty. But The Final Shape is not just a tribute to Lance—it is also a tribute to the musicians who have woven the very soundtrack of our lives as Guardians. The music in Destiny has always been more than just a backdrop; it has been a key part of the story, elevating the emotional depth of every battle, every loss, and every triumph. It has been the heartbeat of the universe we’ve inhabited for so long.

The soundtracks created by the Destiny music team have helped tell this story in ways that words alone could not. From the sorrow of Journey, to the hope of Into the Light, and the unforgettable intensity of Excision, every piece of music is a masterpiece of storytelling.

And so, we give our deepest thanks to the extraordinary team that has crafted this legacy of sound: Michael Salvatori, Skye Lewin, C. Paul Johnson, Josh Mosser, Michael Sechrist, Rotem Moav, and Pieter Schlosser. Their work has not only shaped the world of Destiny but also shaped the way we experience it, bringing Destiny to life with every note, every rhythm, and every orchestral swell.

For me, personally, as someone with sensory processing disorder, the music of Destiny is like a type of meditation—it helps me enter the world of Destiny, guiding me through the narrative, the emotions, and the connections I feel with every Guardian I meet. It's more than just a soundtrack; it’s a gateway to the world I’ve come to love. It helps me focus, helps me get into the mode of the game, and allows me to experience the story in a way that feels deeply personal and transformative.

Just as Star Wars would not have been the same without John Williams’ iconic music, Destiny would not have been the same without the incredible work of the Destiny music team. They have created an atmosphere that allows us to feel every victory and every loss, helping us connect with the story in a way that transcends language and dialogue.

So, as we honor Lance Reddick and the legacy of Zavala, let us also thank the musicians who have made Destiny more than just a game. They’ve made it a world—a world that feels alive, that pulls us in, and that keeps us coming back, no matter the challenges ahead.

Thank you, Michael Salvatori, Skye Lewin, C. Paul Johnson, Josh Mosser, Michael Sechrist, Rotem Moav, and Pieter Schlosser. Your music has guided us, and your art has shaped the very heart of Destiny.

And what did the vault of Glass told us 10 year ago in destiny 1 guardian make there own fate.

#Destiny #destiny 2 #LanceReddick #Zavala #DestinyMusic #destiny soundtrack #MichaelSalvatori #SkyeLewin #JoshMosser #RotemMoav #PieterSchlosser #FinalShape #DestinyLore #Guardians #LightAndDarkness #IntoTheLight #GamingCommunity #Youtube #Spotify

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apoloadonisandnarcissus · 1 month ago

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Understanding Tolkien Legendarium: The Fall

I already did an introduction post to Tolkien legendarium, where I explored the inspirations and core themes of the mythology. I recommend reading that post first, before this one.

In this post, I’ll be exploring the first core theme of Tolkien legendarium: The Fall (or corruption; sin).

As Tolkien tells us in his Letter 131, the core themes of his legendarium are connected: it's the lust [The Fall] to "cheat death" [Mortality] that leads his characters to chase power [the Machine/Magic], and in doing so, they are rebeling against Eru Ilúvatar (God). The Elves have two "Falls" in the legendarium (Oath of Feänor and War of the Jewels, and the Rings of Power), while only the Fall of Númenor is mentioned as concerning the race of Men, because "Men have fallen" before the events of the story.

It has various opportunities of 'Fall'. It may become possessive, clinging to the things made as 'its own', the sub-creator wishes to be the Lord and God of his private creation. He will rebel against the laws of the Creator – especially against mortality. Both of these (alone or together) will lead to the desire for Power, for making the will more quickly effective, – and so to the Machine (or Magic). Tolkien Letter 131

The Fall of Angels: Melkor/Morgoth and the Fallen/Corrupted Maiar

Before "The Fall of Men", we have another biblical event: the Fall of Angels, which is also referenced in Tolkien legendarium.

In Christian tradition, the Devil was, at first, a good archangel (Lucifer), made by God. In Tolkien legendarium, Melkor (like Lucifer) was created by Eru Ilúvatar as naturally good, but became evil by his own doing. Both Melkor/Lucifer radically and irrevocably reject Eru/God and his reign/authority. Like Lucifer, Melkor is also the disobedient and seductive voice, opposed to Eru, who makes other beings fall into shadow (death) out of envy.

And of these Melkor was the chief, even as he was in the beginning the greatest of the Ainur who took part in the Music. And he feigned, even to himself at first, that he desired to go thither and order all things for the good of the Children of Ilúvatar, controlling the turmoils of the heat and the cold that had come to pass through him. But he desired rather to subdue to his will both Elves and Men, envying the gifts with which Ilúvatar promised to endow them; and he wished himself to have subject and servants, and to be called Lord, and to be a master over other wills. Ainulindalë; The Silmarillion

Pieter Bruegel the Elder | The Fall of the Rebel Angels | 1562

Demons are, too, fallen angels; beings who once served God but rebelled against Him, aligning themselves with Satan. And this act of rebellion is a willful and conscious choice to oppose God’s authority and righteousness. In Tolkien legendarium, we find a direct reference to this in the Maiar who sided with Melkor, and followed him to Middle-earth (paralleling the “Fall of the Angels” to earth).

I suppose a difference between this Myth and what may be perhaps called Christian mythology is this. In the latter the Fall of Man is subsequent to and a consequence (though not a necessary consequence) of the 'Fall of the Angels': a rebellion of created free-will at a higher level than Man; but it is not clearly held (and in many versions is not held at all) that this affected the 'World' in its nature: evil was brought in from outside, by Satan. In this Myth the rebellion of created free-will precedes creation of the World (Eä); and Eä has in it, subcreatively introduced, evil, rebellions, discordant elements of its own nature already when the Let it Be was spoken. The Fall or corruption, therefore, of all things in it and all inhabitants of it, was a possibility if not inevitable. Trees may 'go bad' as in the Old Forest; Elves may turn into Orcs, and if this required the special perversive malice of Morgoth, still Elves themselves could do evil deeds. Even the 'good' Valar as inhabiting the World could at least err; as the Great Valar did in their dealings with the Elves; or as the lesser of their kind (as the Istari or wizards) could in various ways become self-seeking. Aulë, for instance. Tolkien Letter 212

In Tolkien legendarium, “The Fall” happens before the creation of the universe (Eä), and, so, the universe is “tainted” by evil, rebellion and discord.

This mean that every character in the lore is susceptible to corruption or sin (“The Fall”), due to their own free-will (except Eru Ilúvatar, for obvious reasons). Characters are free to chose to side with good = God/Eru or with evil = Devil/Morgoth, and deal with the consequences, accordingly.

"In this 'mythology' all the 'angelic' powers concerned with this world were capable of many degrees of error and failing between the absolute Satanic rebellion and evil of Morgoth and his satellite Sauron, and the fainéance of some of the other higher powers or 'gods'. The 'wizards' were not exempt, indeed being incarnate were more likely to stray, or err. Gandalf alone fully passes the tests, on a moral plane anyway (he makes mistakes of judgement)." Tolkien Letter 156

"The Fall" is, then "corruption", "fall into temptation" or "sin", as Tolkien elaborates in Letter 181.

The Original Sin: The Fall of Adam and Eve (or "The Fall of Men")

John Roddam Spencer Stanhope | Eve Tempted by the Serpent (detail) | c. 1870-1877

“The Fall” is present in both Christianity and Judaism, because this tale is part of the Old Testament, and is narrated in “The Book of Genesis” (when God created the world and the first man and woman – Adam and Eve). “The Original sin” (or “The Fall of Adam and Eve") is central to Tolkien world-building. Lust is the “original sin”, and the gateway to sin, and from where all other sins originate:

“The dislocation of sex-instinct is one of the chief symptoms of the Fall. The world has been “going to the bad” all down the ages. The various social forms shift, and each new mode has its special dangers: but the 'hard spirit of concupiscence' has walked down every street, and sat leering in every house, since Adam fell. We will leave aside the 'immoral' results […] The devil is endlessly ingenious, and sex is his favourite subject. He is as good every bit at catching you through generous romantic or tender motives, as through baser or more animal ones.” Tolkien Letter 43

St. Paul writes "cupiditas radix malorum": “the root of all evil is cupidity". “Cupidity” is greedy and lustful desire. This is motivated by the fact that Eve ate the forbidden fruit because "she saw it, was beautiful". There is lust for the forbidden fruit (the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil that Adam and Eve were instructed not to eat in the Garden of Eden). This is when “sin” is first introduced into the world, leading to their banishment from paradise. The themes here are: disobedience to God, and succumbing to temptation (evil).

“Lust”, in its biblical/catholic sense, is the misuse of the body, sexually. The opposite of “lust” is “temperance” and “chastity”. “Lust” is disorderly sexual desire, and the subordinated enjoyment of sexual pleasure (against God’s law). As such, it’s associated with the Devil.

One of the most common misconceptions about Tolkien legendarium it’s the “lack of sexuality” or “sexual matters”, but this is incorrect. We have countless examples of sexuality in the lore, from characters lusting after each other, to actual sexual assault. Tolkien also cared enough about sexuality to write several essays on the matter, namely about the Eldar sex culture and customs. It’s clear that the Elves try to be the “perfect Catholics” on his lore, and this reflects on their views of sex: premarital sex is frowned upon, repression of sexual desire, adultery is unthinkable, and divorce is forbidden.

Later in life when sex cools down, it may be possible. It may happen between saints. To ordinary folk it can only rarely occur […] Faithfulness in Christian marriage entails that: great mortification. For a Christian man there is no escape. Marriage may help to sanctify & direct to its proper object his sexual desires; its grace may help him in the struggle; but the struggle remains. It will not satisfy him – as hunger may be kept off by regular meals […] No man, however truly he loved his betrothed and bride as a young man, has lived faithful to her as a wife in mind and body without deliberate conscious exercise of the will, without self-denial. […] Out of the darkness of my life, so much frustrated, I put before you the one great thing to love on earth: the Blessed Sacrament [Marriage]…. There you will find romance, glory, honour, fidelity, and the true way of all your loves upon earth, and more than that: Death: by the divine paradox, that which ends life, and demands the surrender of all, and yet by the taste (or foretaste) of which alone can what you seek in your earthly relationships (love, faithfulness, joy) be maintained, or take on that complexion of reality, of eternal endurance, which every man’s heart desires. Tolkien Letter 43

Nevertheless, this is not so straightforward as it appears, because, as Christopher Tolkien tells us, these "Eldar rules" are how the Elves were meant to behave if Morgoth hasn't corrupted Arda, if "The Fall" has never happened, not how they actually behave in the legendarium, and that explains why the "contradictions" (Finwë; Celegorm and Curufin with Lúthien; and Aredhel and Eöl the Dark Elf) are not really contradictions.

In Tolkien lore, there’s a strong connection between sex and morality. This is clear on the most iconic romances on his legendarium: Beren and Lúthien, Aragorn and Arwen, etc., which follow the medieval tradition of Chivalric romance: adventures of knights, courtly love, codes of honor and chivalry, trials and tribulations in the pursuit of love and glory. “Courly love”, in the European tradition, is a highly idealized portrayal of human romantic relationships, that emerged in the medieval courts of the continent. Is a form of ritualized love between a knight (Beren/Aragorn) and his lady (Lúthien/Arwen), characterized by restrain, discretion and devotion. Tolkien himself talks about this, as well:

It idealizes ‘love’ - and as far as it goes can be very good, since it takes in far more than physical pleasure, and enjoins if not purity, at least fidelity, and so self-denial, ‘service’, courtesy, honor, and courage. Its weakness is, of course, that it began as an artificial courtly game, a way of enjoying love for its own sake without reference to (and indeed contrary to) matrimony.

The main “good” couples of the lore (like Beren and Lúthien, or Aragorn and Arwen) are, indeed, kind of devoid of sexuality (or it's very toned down) for obvious reasons. Tolkien himself associates sex with the Devil, and the same is true in his legendarium. Sexuality appears in connection with "corrupted" or "dark" characters.

It’s clear Tolkien sees the lustful side of relationships as something "sinful", but does this equal “evil”? No, because his characters (including the Elves) and the legendarium are complex, and this is not a pure Good vs. Pure Evil world, as Tolkien says himself:

Some reviewers have called the whole thing simple-minded, just a plain fight between Good and Evil, with all the good just good, and the bad just bad. Pardonable, perhaps (though at least Boromir has been overlooked) in people in a hurry, and with only a fragment to read, and, of course, without the earlier written but unpublished Elvish histories. But the Elves are not wholly good or in the right. Tolkien Letter 154

For Tolkien, is more about being on the “right side of History” (let’s put it this way) than being an immaculate hero. His characters are complexed and nuanced, as he talks about in his Letter 183:

"There are also conflicts about important things or ideas. In such cases I am more impressed by the extreme importance of being on the right side, than I am disturbed by the revelation of the jungle of confused motives, private purposes, and individual actions (noble or base) in which the right and the wrong in actual human conflicts are commonly involved. If the conflict really is about things properly called right and wrong, or good and evil, then the rightness or goodness of one side is not proved or established by the claims of either side; it must depend on values and beliefs above and independent of the particular conflict. A judge must assign right and wrong according to principles which he holds valid in all cases. That being so, the right will remain an inalienable possession of the right side and Justify its cause throughout. (I speak of causes, not of individuals. Similarly, good actions by those on the wrong side will not justify their cause. There may be deeds on the wrong side of heroic courage, or some of a higher moral level: deeds of mercy and forbearance. A judge may accord them honour and rejoice to see how some men can rise above the hate and anger of a conflict; even as he may deplore the evil deeds on the right side and be grieved to see how hatred once provoked can drag them down. But this will not alter his judgement as to which side was in the right, nor his assignment of the primary blame for all the evil that followed to the other side. In my story I do not deal in Absolute Evil. I do not think there is such a thing, since that is Zero. I do not think that at any rate any 'rational being' is wholly evil."

Morgoth is the ultimate source of evil and corruption in the lore

Christopher Tolkien weights on the significance of Melkor-Morgoth, which was enlarged to become the ground and source of the corruption of Arda: for this reason I have chosen Morgoth's Ring as the title of this book. It derives from a passage in my father's essay “Notes on motives in the Silmarillion” (pp. 394 ff.), in which he contrasted the nature of Sauron's power, concentrated in the One Ring, with that of Morgoth, enormously greater, but dispersed or disseminated into the very matter of Arda: 'the whole of Middle-earth was Morgoth's Ring'.

Morgoth is the Devil of Tolkien legendarium: "the Diabolus Morgoth did, and started making things 'for himself, to be their Lord', these would then 'be', even if Morgoth broke the supreme ban against making other 'rational' creatures like Elves or Men. They would at least 'be' real physical realities in the physical world, however evil they might prove, even 'mocking' the Children of God. They would be Morgoth's greatest Sins, abuses of his highest privilege, and would be creatures begotten of Sin, and naturally bad. (I nearly wrote 'irredeemably bad'; but that would be going too far. Because by accepting or tolerating their making – necessary to their actual existence – even Orcs would become part of the World, which is God's and ultimately good)" (Tolkien Letter 153)

Melkor/Morgoth is the one who corrupts God’s creation and is the symbolic archangel/Valar (like Lucifer was). Him being dragged in chains and imprisoned until the end of time also parallels a biblical event. Sauron is the chief satanist demon in the lore, the main servant and follower of Morgoth/Satan: Satanic rebellion and evil of Morgoth and his satellite Sauron; in which Evil is largely incarnate, and in which physical resistance to it is a major act of loyalty to God (Letter 156).

In Christianity, the Devil is seen as the creator of all kinds of sexual depravity, deviation and promiscuity in the world; the same way Morgoth was responsible for “corrupting” Arda. It's not surprising to find Tolkien associating “indominable lust” with both Morgoth and Sauron.

Them being magical and demonic creatures might indicate they have the ability to control whenever they want to reproduce or not. We know from the lore, that Morgoth bound himself to his physical form because of his non-stop corruption of Arda, but we do have strong indication that Sauron might, as well (probably connected with him placing a part of himself in the One ring, "fathering" it in a way).

On Note 5 (“Vinyar Tengwar”) of “Osanwe-kenta“, Tolkien writes:

The things that are most binding [to Valar and Maiar] are those that in the Incarnates have to do with the life of the hroa itself, its sustenance, and its propagation. Thus eating and drinking are binding, but not the delight in beauty of sound and form. Most binding is begetting or conceiving.

We do not know the axani (laws, rules, as primarily proceeding from Eru) that were laid down upon the Valar with particular reference to their state, but it seems clear that there was no axan against these things. Nonetheless it appears to be an axan, or maybe necessary consequence, that if they are done, then the spirit must dwell in the body that is used, and be under the same necessities as the Incarnate. The only case that is known in the histories of the Eldar is that of Melian (…) 'The great Valar do not do these things: they beget not, neither do they eat and drink, save at the high asari, in token of their lordship and indwelling of Arda, and for the blessing and sustenance of the Children. Melkor alone became at last bound to a bodily form...'

This might suggest that Morgoth became bound a physical form because of his “great lust”. ”Begetting and conceiving” might, indeed, mean more than just standard reproduction, because Morgoth did “begot” with creation and mastery of several races and creatures. However, the only other example of a Ainur (in this case a Maia) getting bound to a physical form in the lore is Melian, when she became pregnant with Lúthien (after reproducing with her Elf love, Thingol).

Then we have the fact that Morgoth might have been a serial r*pist. In “Myths Transformed” section of “Morgoth’s ring”, Tolkien has Morgoth sexually assaulting Arien, the Maia who ruled the sun, and was “the most ardent and beautiful of all the spirits that had entered into Eä with [Varda]“:

… afire at once with desire and anger, [Melkor] went to Asa [The Sun] and he spoke to Arie, saying: 'I have chosen thee, and thou shalt be my spouse, even as Varda is to Manwe, and together we shall wield all splendour and majesty. Then the kingship of Arda shall be mine in deed as in right, and thou shalt be the partner of my glory.' But Arie rejected Melkor and rebuked him, saying: 'Speak not of right, which thou hast long forgotten. Neither for thee nor by thee alone was Ea made; and thou shalt not be King of Arda. Beware therefore; for there is in the heart of [Asa] a light in which thou hast no part, and a fire which will not serve thee. Put not out thy hand to it. For though thy potency may destroy it, it will burn thee and thy brightness will be made dark.' Melkor did not heed her warning, but cried in his wrath: 'The gift which was withheld I take!’ and he ravished Arie, desiring both to abase her and to take into himself her powers. Then the spirit of Arie went up like a flame of anguish and wrath, and departed for ever from Arda; and the Sun was bereft of the Light of Varda, and was stained by the assault of Melkor. And [the Sun] being for a long while without rule … grievous hurt was done to Arda … until with long toil the Valar made a new order. But even as Arie foretold, Melkor was burned and his brightness darkened, and he gave no more light, but light pained him exceedingly and he hated it. Nonetheless Melkor would not leave Arda in peace …

The Sun was then forever “tainted” by the assault of Morgoth. And he would not abandon his plans of conquering Arda, on the contrary. But soon, he would come to hate every source of Light. And his physical was “blackened and burned, and his form was thereafter dark”.

The Dome of Varda must have been contrived after the ravishing of Arie by Melkor, in order to keep out the Sun’s polluted light, and Aman was lit beneath the Dome by the Two Trees. But on the other hand, it is an essential idea that the light of the Trees was derived from the Sun before it was ‘tainted’. […] the Sun is feminine; and it is better that the Vala should be Aren, a maiden whom Melkor endeavoured to make his spouse (or ravished); (10) she went up in a flame of wrath and anguish and her spirit was released from Ea, but Melkor was blackened and burned, and his form was thereafter dark, and he took to darkness. (The Sun itself was Anar neuter or Ur, cf. Rana, Ithil.)] The Sun remained a Lonely Fire, polluted by Melkor, but after the death of the Two Trees Tilion returned to the Moon, which remained therefore an enemy of Melkor and his servants and creatures of night - and so beloved of Elves later &c. (* [marginal note] But not to drive it away. It was necessary to have an alternation, 'because in Eä according to the Tale nothing can endure endlessly without weariness and corruption.’).

And the infamous Lúthien episode. There is an on-going debate on Morgoth’s intentions in this scene, but, in my opinion, and taking in consideration the incident with Arien, the “since he fled from Valinor” bit might indicate his intention was, indeed, to r*pe Lúthien.

"Then Morgoth looking upon her beauty [Lúthien] conceived in his thought an evil lust, and a design more dark than any that had yet come into his heart since he fled from Valinor. Thus he was beguiled by his own malice, for he watched her, leaving her free for a while, and taking secret pleasure in his thought." The Silmarillion

Tolkien comes back to this “evil lust” Morgoth felt for Lúthien on several works:

…Yet I will give a respite brief, a while to live, a little while, though purchased dear, to Lúthien the fair and clear, a pretty toy for idle hour. In slothful garden many a flowerlike thee the amorous gods are used honey-sweet to kiss, and cast then bruised, their fragrance loosing, under feet.

A! curse the Gods! O hunger dire, O blinding thirst’s unending fire! One moment shall ye cease, and slake your sting with morsel I here take! In his eyes the fire to flame was fanned,and forth he stretched his brazen hand.Lúthien as shadow shrank aside. ‘Not thus, O King! Not thus!’ she cried. …And her wings she caught then deftly up, and swift as thought slipped from his grasp, and wheeling round, fluttering before his eyes, she wound a mazy-wingéd dance…

The Lay of Leithian, The Lost Road and Other Writings

“Nay,” saith Melkor, “such things are little to my mind; but as thou hast come thus far to dance, dance, and after we will see,” and with that he leered horribly, for his dark mind pondered some evil.

Book of Lost Tales vol.2

Then Morgoth laughed, but he was moved with suspicion, and said that her accursed race would get no soft words or favour in Angband. What could she do to give him pleasure, and save herself from the lowest dungeons? He reached out his mighty brazen hand but she shrank away. He is angry but she offers to dance.

Commentary to the Lay of Leithian (The Lays of Beleriand)

Ungoliant came to resent Morgoth, but we also have indication the same to be true about Sauron himself: not only he went into hiding after his defeat at Tol-in-Gauhoth, but it was Lúthien threat of him returning to Morgoth in defeat that caused him to surrender:

'Oh demon dark, Oh phantom vile to foulness brought, to lies and guile, here shalt thou die, thy spirit roam quaking back to thy master's home, his scorn and fury to endure; thee he will in the bowels immure of groaning earth, and in a hole everlastingly thy naked soul shall wail and gibber - this shall be, unless the keys thou render me of thy black fortress, and the spel lthat bindeth stone to stone thou tell ,and speak the words of opening. 'With gasping breath and shuddering, he spake, and yielded as he must, and vanquished betrayed his master's trust

“Rings of Power” had Sauron talking about the tortures he endured at Morgoth’s hands, and this interpretation that isn't far off from the legendarium.

For Sauron’s character the only examples we have of him talking about “sexual matters” is “The Lay of Leithian”, in two occasions. The first, is with Angrim, who was searching for his wife, Eilinel, and was captured by Sauron (who reveals his wife is long dead, and has him killed after he reveals information in exchange for a free life with his wife):

Then Sauron laughed aloud. 'Thou base,thou cringing worm! Stand up,and hear me! And now drink the cupthat I have sweetly blent for thee!Thou fool: a phantom thou didst seethat I, I Sauron, made to snarethy lovesick wits. Naught else was there.Cold 'tis with Sauron's wraiths to wed!Thy Eilinel, she is long since dead,dead, food of worms, less low than thou.And yet thy boon I grant thee now:to Eilinel thou soon shalt go,and lie in her bed, no more to knowof war - or manhood. Have thy pay!'

This is Sauron saying “no more sex for you” before killing Angrim, which is probably meant to represent him as a corrupted character.

The other example is the sexualization Sauron does of Lúthien Tinúviel, whom, he knows, his master Melkor desires, and he plans to capture her and have her handed over to him and be rewarded for it. While the Elves talk about Lúthien “fair face”, “elvish face”, “the perfume of her flower-twined hair” and “lissom limbs” (to quote Celegorm), Sauron straight-out sexualizes her, calling her a “pretty fay” and describing her body as “fair, very white and fair”, and taunting the Elves on how “Morgoth would possess her in his lair”, and is puzzled by “Why laughs he not to think of his lord [Morgoth] crushing a maiden in his hoard.”

Here, Tolkien establishes a difference between the Elves reacting to Lúthien’s beauty and grace (face), while Sauron talks about her on sexual terms; her body, the r*pe subtext related to Morgoth, and him, sadistically taunting the Elves with all of this. Other synonyms for “fair” are “desirable”, “beddable” and “ravishing”. Tolkien often uses the word “fair” when describing Lúthien, but it has different meanings depending on the character who says it. And in Sauron’s case, being Morgoth's servant, is not the “purest” synonymous of “beautiful” or “enchanting”.

Lust and Greed

Tolkien uses “Lust” in connection with “power” and “jewels” (Silmarils/One ring/gold), but this can be interpreted as a metaphor for sexual temptation, as well. Mainly because of his Christian inspiration behind the whole story.

Some examples of Tolkien’s usage of the word “lust”, that might be interpreted as “greed”:

"The oath of the sons of Fëanor becomes operative, and lust for the Silmarils brings all the kingdoms of the Elves to ruin.“ "But also they [rings of power] enhanced the natural powers of a possessor – thus approaching 'magic’, a motive easily corruptible into evil, a lust for domination." ”Very slowly, beginning with fair motives: the reorganising and rehabilitation of the ruin of Middle-earth, 'neglected by the gods’, he [Sauron] becomes a reincarnation of Evil, and a thing lusting for Complete Power – and so consumed ever more fiercely with hate (especially of gods and Elves).“ "Now Sauron’s lust and pride increased, until he knew no bounds, and he determined to make himself master of all things in Middle-earth, and to destroy the Elves, and to compass if he might, the downfall of Númenor"

"Also so great was the [One] Ring’s power of lust, that anyone who used it became mastered by it…" "The Númenóreans attempted to take the Undying Land by force of a great armada in their lust for corporal immortality."

“Greed” is the disordered desire to consume (wealth, power); while “Lust” is the disordered desire to possess (something or someone). Lust is “consumption”, while greed is “hoarding”. Someone who is greedy wants more and more of something (not necessarily do anything with it); while someone who is lustful wants to do something with the thing it desires.

But “desire” that is not acted upon in Tolkien lore is not sinful, nor it’s a transgression of God’s (Eru) laws.

"Elves and Men were called the 'children of God', because they were, so to speak, a private addition to the Design, by the Creator, and one in which the Valar had no part. (Their 'themes' were introduced into the Music by the One, when the discords of Melkor arose.) The Valar knew that they would appear, and the great ones knew when and how (though not precisely), but they knew little of their nature, and their foresight, derived from their pre-knowledge of the Design, was imperfect or failed in the matter of the deeds of the Children. The uncorrupted Valar, therefore, yearned for the Children before they came and loved them afterwards, as creatures 'other' than themselves, independent of them and their artistry, 'children' as being weaker and more ignorant than the Valar, but of equal lineage (deriving being direct from the One); even though under their authority as rulers of Arda. The corrupted, as was Melkor/Morgoth and his followers (of whom Sauron was one of the chief) saw in them the ideal material for subjects and slaves, to whom they could become masters and 'gods', envying the Children, and secretly hating them, in proportion as they became rebels against the One (and Manwë his Lieutenant in Eä)." Tolkien Letter 212

Here, Tolkien establishes the difference between the “good” Ainur and the corrupted, and their attitude towards the children of Eru (Elves and Men): while the “good” wished to help and keep Elves and Men in God’s side; the “evil” wanted to corrupt them and lead them astray from God’s path. This sounds very theological, because it is. It's a "satanic rebellion" as Tolkien puts it.

The Fall(s) of the Elves

As I’ve analyzed on my introductory post to Tolkien legendarium, “Elves and Men are just different aspects of the Humane, and represent the problem of Death” (Tolkien Letter 181), and, the Elves have two Falls in the legendarium: Oath of Feänor and War of the Jewels, and the Rings of Power.

"There cannot be any 'story' without a fall. Not in the Beginner of Evil: his was a sub-creative Fall, and hence the Elves (the representatives of sub-creation par excellence) were peculiarly his enemies, and the special object of his desire and hate – and open to his deceits. Their Fall is into possessiveness and (to a less degree) into perversion of their art to power. All stories are ultimately about the fall – at least not for human minds as we know them and have them. Tolkien Letter 131

As Tolkien explains in his Letter 131, these Falls of the Elves are explained in "The Silmarillion":

"The main body of the tale, the Silmarillion proper, is about the fall of the most gifted kindred of the Elves, their exile from Valinor (a kind of Paradise, the home of the Gods) in the furthest West, their re-entry into Middle-earth, the land of their birth but long under the rule of the Enemy, and their strife with him, the power of Evil still visibly incarnate. It receives its name because the events are all threaded upon the fate and significance of the Silmarilli ('radiance of pure light') or Primeval Jewels. By the making of gems the sub-creative function of the Elves is chiefly symbolized, but the Silmarilli were more than just beautiful things as such. There was Light. There was the Light of Valinor made visible in the Two Trees of Silver and Gold. These were slain by the Enemy out of malice, and Valinor was darkened, though from them, ere they died utterly, were derived the lights of Sun and Moon. (A marked difference here between these legends and most others is that the Sun is not a divine symbol, but a second-best thing, and the 'light of the Sun' (the world under the sun) become terms for a fallen world, and a dislocated imperfect vision). But the chief artificer of the Elves (Feänor) had imprisoned the Light of Valinor in the three supreme jewels, the Silmarilli, before the Trees were sullied or slain. This Light thus lived thereafter only in these gems. The fall of the Elves comes about through the possessive attitude of Feänor and his seven sons to these gems. They are captured by the Enemy, set in his Iron Crown, and guarded in his impenetrable stronghold. The sons of Feänor take a terrible and blasphemous oath of enmity and vengeance against all or any, even of the gods, who dares to claim any part or right in the Silmarilli. They pervert the greater pan of their kindred, who rebel against the gods, and depart from paradise, and go to make hopeless war upon the Enemy. The first fruit of their fall is war in Paradise, the slaying of Elves by Elves, and this and their evil oath dogs all their later heroism, generating treacheries and undoing all victories. The Silmarillion is the history of the War of the Exiled Elves against the Enemy, which all takes place in the North-west of the world (Middle-earth). Several tales of victory and tragedy are caught up in it ; but it ends with catastrophe, and the passing of the Ancient World, the world of the long First Age. The jewels are recovered (by the final intervention of the gods) only to be lost for ever to the Elves, one in the sea, one in the deeps of earth, and one as a star of heaven. This legendarium ends with a vision of the end of the world, its breaking and remaking, and the recovery of the Silmarilli and the 'light before the Sun' after a final battle which owes, I suppose, more to the Norse vision of Ragnarök than to anything else, though it is not much like it.

The Rings of Power and the "Fall of Eregion" mark the second "fall" of the Elves in the legendarium: "at Eregion great work began – and the Elves came their nearest to falling to 'magic' and machinery. With the aid of Sauron's lore they made Rings of Power ('power' is an ominous and sinister word in all these tales, except as applied to the gods)" (Tolkien Letter 131)

"A sort of second fall or at least 'error' of the Elves. There was nothing wrong essentially in their lingering against counsel, still sadly with the mortal lands of their old heroic deeds. But they wanted to have their cake without eating it. They wanted the peace and bliss and perfect memory of 'The West', and yet to remain on the ordinary earth where their prestige as the highest people, above wild Elves, dwarves, and Men, was greater than at the bottom of the hierarchy of Valinor. They thus became obsessed with 'fading', the mode in which the changes of time (the law of the world under the sun) was perceived by them. They became sad, and their art (shall we say) antiquarian, and their efforts all really a kind of embalming – even though they also retained the old motive of their kind, the adornment of earth, and the healing of its hurts. [...] But many of me Elves listened to Sauron. He was still fair in that early time, and his motives and those of the Elves seemed to go partly together: the healing of the desolate lands. Sauron found their weak point in suggesting that, helping one another, they could make Western Middle-earth as beautiful as Valinor. It was really a veiled attack on the gods, an incitement to try and make a separate independent paradise. Gil-galad repulsed all such overtures, as also did Elrond."

"They [the Elves] are therefore 'immortal'. Not 'eternally', but to endure with and within the created world, while its story lasts. When 'killed', by the injury or destruction of their incarnate form, they do not escape from time, but remain in the world, either discarnate, or being re-born. This becomes a great burden as the ages lengthen, especially in a world in which there is malice and destruction (I have left out the mythological form which Malice or the Fall of the Angels takes in this fable). Mere change as such is not represented as 'evil': it is the unfolding of the story and to refuse this is of course against the design of God. But the Elvish weakness is in these terms naturally to regret the past, and to become unwilling to face change: as if a man were to hate a very long book still going on, and wished to settle down in a favourite chapter. Hence they fell in a measure to Sauron's deceits: they desired some 'power' over things as they are (which is quite distinct from an), to make their particular will to preservation effective: to arrest change, and keep things always fresh and fair. The 'Three Rings' were 'unsullied', because this object was in a limited way good, it included the healing of the real damages of malice, as well as the mere arrest of change; and the Elves did not desire to dominate other wills, nor to usurp all the world to their particular pleasure. But with the downfall of 'Power' their little efforts at preserving the past fell to bits. There was nothing more in Middle-earth for them, but weariness." Tolkien Letter 181

“The Elvish weakness is in these terms naturally to regret the past, and to become unwilling to face change: as if a man were to hate a very long book still going on, and wished to settle down in a favourite chapter. Hence they fell in a measure to Sauron’s deceits: they desired some ‘power’ over things as they are (which is quite distinct from an), to make their particular will to preservation effective: to arrest change, and keep things always fresh and fair. The 'Three Rings’ were 'unsullied’, because this object was in a limited way good, it included the healing of the real damages of malice, as well as the mere arrest of change; and the Elves did not desire to dominate other wills, nor to usurp all the world to their particular pleasure. But with the downfall of 'Power’ their little efforts at preserving the past fell to bits. There was nothing more in Middle-earth for them, but weariness.” Tolkien Letter 181

"Some reviewers have called the whole thing simple-minded, just a plain fight between Good and Evil, with all the good just good, and the bad just bad. Pardonable, perhaps (though at least Boromir has been overlooked) in people in a hurry, and with only a fragment to read, and, of course, without the earlier written but unpublished Elvish histories. But the Elves are not wholly good or in the right. Not so much because they had flirted with Sauron; as because with or without his assistance they were 'embalmers'. They wanted to have their cake and eat it: to live in the mortal historical Middle-earth because they had become fond of it (and perhaps because they there had the advantages of a superior caste), and so tried to stop its change and history, stop its growth, keep it as a pleasaunce, even largely a desert, where they could be 'artists' – and they were overburdened with sadness and nostalgic regret." Tolkien Letter 154

Using Sauron’s knowledge, Celebrimbor and Gwaith-i-Mírdain of Eregion, craft the “rings of power”. The "Elven motive" for these rings, as Tolkien tells us in his Letter 131, "prevention or slowing of decay (i.e. 'change' viewed as a regrettable thing), the preservation of what is desired or loved, or its semblance". However, these rings (including the Three) also "enhanced the natural powers of a possessor – thus approaching 'magic', a motive easily corruptible into evil, a lust for domination". The Seven and the Nine, however, "they had other powers, more directly derived from Sauron: such as rendering invisible the material body, and making things of the invisible world visible". And this "confer invisibility" is the only main difference between the Three and the others.

"Rings of Power" explored this "invisibility" with the character of Mírdania, in 2x05, while the Nine rings of power were being crafted

Tolkien considers the “rings of power” as the “second fall” of the Elves because they were attempting to “cheat death” by stopping decay and the passage of time (hence why he calls them “embalmers”), and, in in doing so, they were going against Eru (God)'s design. The only reason why Tolkien doesn't consider the Three as "evil", as he explains in his letters, is because the Elves motivation to make and wear them wasn't domination nor corruption of others, but they weren't "wholly good" either, far from it.

The Fall of Men: Númenor

"Men have 'fallen' – any legends put in the form of supposed ancient history of this actual world of ours must accept that – but the peoples of the West, the good side are Re-formed. That is they are the descendants of Men that tried to repent and fled Westward from the domination of the Prime Dark Lord, and his false worship, and by contrast with the Elves renewed (and enlarged) their knowledge of the truth and the nature of the World." Tolkien Letter 156

The most notorious “Fall of Men” in Tolkien legendarium is Númenor, as the Professor mentions in his Letter 131: “All through the twilight of the Second Age the Shadow is growing in the East of Middle-earth, spreading its sway more and more over Men – who multiply as the Elves begin to fade. The three main themes are thus The Delaying Elves that lingered in Middle-earth; Sauron's growth to a new Dark Lord, master and god of Men; and Numenor-Atlantis."

"The Fall of Man is in the past and off stage; the Redemption of Man in the far future. We are in a time when the One God, Eru, is known to exist by the wise, but is not approachable save by or through the Valar, though He is still remembered in (unspoken) prayer by those of Númenórean descent." 297 Drafts for a letter to 'Mr Rang'

Elves and Men are related and similar races, but partly different, and wholly divergent from the Ainur, like Tolkien tells us in Letter 131. Neither Men or Elves are of “divine nature” nor “higher beings”. Immortality and Mortality are special gifts from Eru to His children, and no Vala can alter this pre-destined condition: meaning, the Valar can’t grant immortality to Men, nor make an Elf mortal.

"The Doom (or the Gift) of Men is mortality, freedom from the circles of the world. Since the point of view of the whole cycle is the Elvish, mortality is not explained mythically: it is a mystery of God of which no more is known than that 'what God has purposed for Men is hidden': a grief and an envy to the immortal Elves." Tolkien Letter 131

"The Downfall of Númenor", like Tolkien explains in his letter 131, is "the Second Fall of Man (or Man rehabilitated but still mortal), brings on the catastrophic end, not only of the Second Age, but of the Old World, the primeval world of legend (envisaged as flat and bounded). After which the Third Age began, a Twilight Age, a Medium Aevum, the first of the broken and changed world; the last of the lingering dominion of visible fully incarnate Elves, and the last also in which Evil assumes a single dominant incarnate shape."

In the same letter, Tolkien elaborates: “The Downfall is partly the result of an inner weakness in Men – consequent, if you will, upon the first Fall (unrecorded in these tales), repented but not finally healed. Reward on earth is more dangerous for men than punishment! The Fall is achieved by the cunning of Sauron in exploiting this weakness. Its central theme is (inevitably, I think, in a story of Men) a Ban, or Prohibition [from ever sailing to Eressëa].” It’s their wish to escape their own mortality that causes the Fall of Men, and, as such, this is a topic for another post concerning the core theme “Mortality”.

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