#there doesn't seem to be as much structure

[keferon]

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

___________________

Magical Golem Prowl anyone? ‘,:) This story exists in the same universe as Spellbound au. and Monster hunter au and ties them together so I highly recommend you read all of them.

The fic under the cut⤵️

He seemed to be nothing.

The emptiness that infinitely defined his nonexistent self bounced off the metal plates and glinted in the droplets of still-warm energon. He was nothing, but there was so much around him that the space was like an infinite buzz of cluttered noise. The voices above him sounded excited. The metal slab beneath him was cold and hard.

“Good. Now you need to put a piece of your armor on this. Somewhere it will be in plain sight and easily reachable.”

“Oh...wouldn't it make more sense to hide it under the armor? I mean, it's an obvious weak point.”

He idly thought, his hands felt numb.

“No no, that's the whole point. You're using an artifact you haven't fully studied and you don't know exactly how it's going to turn out. If it goes crazy and becomes dangerous, you should have an easy way to destroy it. Where's the artifact by the way?”

The tinkling of metal.

The sound of a crystal clattering against armor.

Warm hands on his head.

“Here.”

“Excellent. Now. This will be the base on which the entire spell will be held, so you want to hide this artifact very well and secure it carefully so it doesn't break by mistake.”

Did he have hands too? He was nothing, why did he have hands? It didn't make sense.

Orion took a couple steps away from the table and stood pensively.

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave, hitherto distracted by an almost invisible spot on his shoulderplate, glanced leisurely over Orion's shoulder

“Golems don't need much to function. You made a good shell. The magical structure is strong as well, I see.”

Orion hesitantly pointed to the golem's forehead, decorated with a neat sharp chevron.

“I added some things that weren't in your instructions and I think I made a mistake somewhere.”

“Golem making is a complex skill, don't give up if it doesn't work right awa...you know what, actually no, you did everything right.”

Orion shrugged in frustration.

“Then why won't it move?”

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“ Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion walked back over to the table with a quiet “oh” and nervously clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

The emptiness that forever defined his nonexistent self stammered. He wasn't nothing. He had a purpose and that purpose shaped him, put strength into his numb limbs and molded his lack of thought into naked intent.

He wasn't nothing. He was a void, but suddenly that void had a direction, no matter how meaningless it sounded.

He stopped being just nothing. He became his purpose. And it felt so right that it was unclear how he could ever have been anything else before.

He opened his optics.

Orion, who apparently hadn't expected that the thing he'd made specifically for it to move would move, jerked back with a funny sound.

On the opposite side, Shockwave nodded proudly, returning to the spot on his armor that even in the bright lights of the workshop only he could see.

“I believed in you.”

_________

“Oh my god! How do you sneak up on me so quietly every time?”

He wasn't nothing anymore. He was a whole long list of instructions and rules. His creator sat him down at a table and meticulously listed everything he could and could not do. Handed him many books and ordered him to attend a huge number of lectures. He now knew who to bow to if he passed them in the hallway and who to avoid. He had learned hundreds of names and thousands of titles. Learned how to pretend to be a real Mech, even though he wasn't.

The world around him was complex and confusing, but he found that this complexity had its own patterns, linked together in a bizarre web of systems and sequences. It was worth pulling on the right end, and the meaningless facts organized themselves into something much more manageable.

Everything made sense. The planet revolved around a star. Mechs rejoiced when they got something that improved their quality of life. Energon burned, producing energy. Big things tended to be heavier than small things.

The world was divided into Mechs and monsters...and him.

He was inclined to be...quiet.

His creator - he'd asked to be called Orion - twitched when he found his creation standing right behind him.

He was very talented at finding Orion wherever he was. And very light compared to most things his size. Like everything else it made sense. He wasn't a Mech, he was just an empty shell. An armor summoned to life by magic. His footsteps were as quiet as a mini bot's. Whatever Orion called it, he wasn't 'sneaking' on purpose.

A few cycles later, Orion accidentally bent one of its finals when he turned around too quickly, startled by the quiet footsteps behind him.

He named him Prowl. It was...not exactly logical, but there was a certain sense to it. Prowl nodded and agreed. He always agreed with everything Orion said, even if it didn't make sense at all. Orion's opinion took a higher priority than anything else.

Until it didn't.

Until Orion gave him a focused look and told him that he should argue if he thought it was necessary.

Until Orion put the servo on his shoulder and said something along the lines of....

“You can disagree with me if you think my opinion is wrong. I'm not asking you to go against me. I'm not perfect and I can't be the one absolute point of reference for everything. You can and I'm sure will be smarter than me about many things. I want you to tell me if I'm wrong and what I should do about it.”

Like…well….like an absolute fool.

This concept was new. Prowl wasn't built to argue. He was made to obey orders and to serve a function.

Orion smiled slyly. At least it was probably a smile behind his mask that made the corners of his optics lift.

“It wouldn't be considered a disobedience of my order if I ordered you to disobey it. Don't you think?”

Prowl opened his mouth to agree out of habit, but then changed his mind mid-motion and closed it back. It...it didn't make sense. It made sense that was breaking under its own weight. It was mercilessly mixing up all of his pre-learned patterns for talking to Orion. If he agreed with that logic now, it would mean accepting its use. If he protested, it would also mean accepting it, but in a bit more embarrassing way. Just when he was thinking of simply retreating silently to the nearest shadow and banging his head against the wall, he heard a quiet chuckle and realized that Orion had been amusing himself for some time now, watching him struggle.

Prowl decided that verbal responses might be overrated and frowned his face in the most believable expression of displeasure he could portray.

Orion broke out into laughter.

________

“What exactly is my goal?”

Orion looks. Curious. He stops talking to Shockwave and leans back on the bench.

“Right now, to study these journals. I already told you.”

Prowl nods to indicate he heard him and continues

“Studying serves a future purpose. Studying for the sake of studying would be meaningless to me. What is my final goal?”

“To assist me” Orion says slightly confused. ”Within the best of your ability of course.“”

“Аh. Assist in the fulfillment of your goal.”

“Well. I'd say so, yes.”

Prowl nods

“And what is your goal?”

Shockwave, who has been sitting next to them the whole time looks like they're a couple of previously unknown to science species he's just personally discovered.

Prowl ignores him.

“I...you remember the separation between Mechs and monsters, right?” asks Orion cautiously.

“Yes.”

“Mechs...are unfair to monsters. Monsters are cruel to Mechs. It's a needlessly violent situation that I want to...try to. Fix.”

Prowl frowns to indicate that the information isn't completely clear.

“You're a member of the order of hunters. And...” he shakes his head toward the nearest window ”...you have a considerable number of hunters under your command. Your job involves destroying monsters.”

Shockwave makes some sort of quiet amused sound and props his chin up with his hand.

Prowl ignores him harder.

“My job is to bring peace.” says Orion “You don't have to kill monsters to do that. You can negotiate with them. Find a compromise. Coexist. I...I guess basically, I'm trying to make the world a little better?”

Prowl doesn't look impressed. He's actually making a special effort to not let Orion think in any way that he might be intrigued by the whole endeavor.

“You do realize that's a disproportionately large goal for just one Mech, right?”

Orion shrugs awkwardly

“That's why I made you.”

__________

Ratchet puts aside his tools and critically examines his work.

“Don't touch that and it will heal normally.”

Orion smiles gratefully

“Thank you.”

Ratchet is important to Orion. They are close and very valuable friends to each other. The two of them look peaceful now, despite the fact that Ratchet threatened Orion when he first showed up in Sick Bay, so Prowl decides it would be a socially acceptable moment to start talking

“Orion, you're wanted at the Council.”

The second half of his line is drowned helplessly in two startled exclamations at once. Orion, to his honor, calms down almost immediately, but Ratchet continues cursing for a while.

Prowl doesn't wait for him to finish. The Council meeting is earlier than usual today and Orion has already had a few occasions of misbehavior. It's in his best interest to at least show up on time this time.

“Shockwave asked me to tell you to hurry. I will add that showing up at the last minute will not be good for your reputation if you are still hoping to convince the council to let you take more units.”

Ratchet .....stares.

“Primus' rusty hinges, Orion, who's that? Did they assign a nanny to you?”

Orion twitches his finals playfully and immediately crinkles in pain, remembering that one of them should have been left to heal.

“Remember when I wanted to find an assistant? Well...”

Ratchet casts an increasingly more suspicious look at Prowl. Prowl decides that friendliness is overrated and limits his expression to a barely perceptible tilt of his head in response.

“...Shockwave recently helped me figure out how to create golems and I figured if I couldn't find anyone I could trust, I might as well...make one. So. Ratchet meet Prowl.” finishes Orion awkwardly.

Ratchet glares at Prowl for a while longer. Then he turns away and starts tidying up Sick Bay.

“I'm not buying it. I don't know where you found this guy, but you're not playing me. Nice poker face by the way.”

One of Prowl's wings twitches

“He wasn't lying.”

Ratchet snorts grumpily.

“Those...” he waves toward the next room ”...are golems.

There, behind the wall, several golems scurry around. They have medical staff symbols painted on their shoulders, and there is not a trace of thought in their eyes. Two are scrubbing the floors, another wiping the shelves and window sills clean of dust. They occasionally mumble softly under their noses or utter an inane “excuse me” every time they accidentally bump into each other. Prowl knows that if you ask any of them a question with more than one variable, they start babbling guiltily and shrugging their shoulders. They're stupid, but they themselves don't seem to care about that at all. They are their purpose. And their purpose is to keep things clean. They are pride because they are good at their job.

Prowl frowns. He's a headache. Because his "purpose" has been distracted by his conversation with Ratchet and will probably add another tardy to his list in the near future.

Orion begins (thank goodness) to move toward the door

“I've made improvements. There might have been...some not exactly allowed artifacts.”

Ratchet rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. Prowl can see that his face is already starting to wrinkle in that spot. Patient antics probably age Ratchet far more effectively than the passage of time itself.

“I...you know what...go before the Council sends a search party to look for you.”

Orion sighs and without further distraction finally walks out the door.

Prowl decides that Ratchet might be a good ally when it comes to managing Orion.

He nods politely goodbye before leaving.

______________

“I am different from them. Why?”

Orion puts down the document he's been working on and looks first at Prowl and then, over his head, at the other golems scurrying down the hallway with brooms and rags. He doesn't need to interject exactly who he thinks Prowl is different from.

“Do you want a philosophical answer or a technical one?”

Prowl reaches out and pokes somewhere in Orion's document

“ You missed a comma. Both.”

Orion obediently puts the comma in and folds up the document. His finals are twitching faintly. It could be a sign of concentration as well as distraction. Prowl has already figured out that Orion's body language is a double-bottom trap. For a Mech with this level of expressiveness, Orion is surprisingly difficult to read.

“Sometime quite a while ago during one of my expeditions, I found a unique artifact. A fascinating item, granting wisdom to anyone brave enough to use it.”

“I have a feeling a ‘but’ is coming.”

“You're right. The artifact's unique gift was also its curse. It fed so much information through the Mech's heads that it literally caused the processors of its owners to melt.”

“Oh. Good thing I don't have a processor then.”

Orion laughs quietly

“Indeed. You won't have that problem. And about the other part....Think of all the Mechs you know who are savvy enough about politics and available to work together at the moment.”

Orion gives him a moment before continuing.

“ What is the likelihood that the most trustworthy of them would betray me, for their own gain or out of fear?”

“ Twenty-eight percent,” Prowl informs.

And then hesitates a moment.

Orion is obviously a smart Mech. Not smart enough to single-handedly dominate the political arena, definitely not with his ideals and ideas of what's right. But smart enough to realize it. He knows what he wants and he also knows he can't achieve it alone.

Prowl looks at Orion, who just stands there, eyeing him, without in any way trying to continue the conversation.

Orion is idealistic, and therefore often mistaken for stupid. He isn't. Orion doesn't just know that he can't succeed alone, he knows that everyone else knows it too. He thinks this knowledge will be used against him when the opportunity arises. He's right. By Prowl's count, at least three suspiciously clever Mechs were going to sweet-talk their way into becoming Orion's assistant one way or another before... he appeared.

One of the janitor golems runs past them down the corridor. He doesn't turn around, doesn't even slow down or cast a curious glance. His only goal, his only interest is cleaning. The rest of the world might as well not exist at all.

Prowl thinks he's not that different.

Orion apparently reads the understanding from his face, because he nods contentedly and starts walking further down the hall.

“You didn't take yourself into account when you made the statistics, did you?”

Prowl follows him silently on his heels. Not close enough to be familiar, but not so far away that the conversation stops being private.

“The sampling condition was all mechs. I am not one.”

“That's true” Orion shrugs “You have no loved ones that the Council could use to influence you. You have no desires to be bought by their fulfillment. And while I cannot say with absolute certainty that you will never be capable of going against me...” Prowl starts to open his mouth to object but Orion gestures him to stop, “...no no no no, let me finish. And while I can't be sure you'll never betray me, I at least know for sure that before you met me you had no reason to do so. Do you understand?”

Prowl understands. It makes sense. He still feels the need to argue back, because it is part of his function to do that.

“I would never betray you. I'm not capable of it.”

Orion twitches his finals. Without seeing his face Prowl assumes it is a sign of doubt.

“You are a creature of intellect, Prowl. I am a Mech of ideals. Those two things don't always combine well.”

______

“Foolish and presumptuous.”

Prowl ponders that his function could be much easier if he didn't have to constantly try to balance what is right and what is right in Orion's eyes.

“If you were spotted, the Council would have good reason to assume this isn't the first time you've done something like this.”

“No one noticed,” Orion tries, but Prowl doesn't let him finish that thought

“No one has seen you, because you're lucky. You can't count on it being a permanent occurrence! You undermine your own position by giving the Council grounds for suspicion, you...”

Prowl stops, still pointing his finger accusingly somewhere on Orion's chin. Shockwave, who has witnessed the scene, makes an impressed face and steps closer.

“I swear, you're probably the most capable golem maker I've ever had the pleasure of teaching, Orion. If I hadn't seen that guy on your assembly table, I would never know.”

Prowl takes the statement as a compliment, but doesn't feel the need to show it outwardly. Shockwave, as one of the few who knows about him not being a real Mech, doesn't take offense to it in any way.

“Did I interrupt something dramatic?”

Prowl snorts, because the gesture maintains just the right amount of judgment for his situation.

“Orion is once again harboring a monster instead of killing it or letting it escape.”

This news immediately enlivens Shockwave's posture. Prowl knows he's an even bigger fan of collecting suspicious side projects than Orion. Their friendship, frankly, will one day bury either one or both of them. Prowl just hopes his presence will be enough to sway the percentages when that happens.

Orion doesn't try to deny anything.

“One of my squads encountered a ghost near the northern border. I couldn't... listen Shockwave, he's a good guy. He just needs to be given a chance to show it.”

“Can he talk?” there's almost visible stars in Shockwave's eyes..

Prowl slumps his shoulders helplessly, already knowing what's coming next. These two have done this dance a hundred times before. One of Shockwave's favorite side projects was a school for, as they called them, magically gifted and extraordinary Mechs. In fact, it was the largest den of various monsters that Prowl had ever seen. Every time Orion's hunting squads found a monster that could even remotely resemble a normal Mech, Orion would rush with happy optics to hand it over to Shockwave for care. There, the monsters were taught everything they needed to fit into the society of normal Mechs, but more importantly, they were given documents. Precious pieces of paper that granted their holders rights, freedoms, and protections as Shockwave's apprentices.

Prowl could appreciate the noble endeavor. He could also see clearly that with each addition, this school would become more and more of an inconvenient thorn in the Council's side. Just like Orion, Shockwave was happy to paint a brighter and brighter target on his own back for many cycles.

Orion, insensitive to danger that is not immediate, cheerfully begins to recite

“Can read, write, speak, even makes music.”

Shockwave nods happily

“Introduce us?”

Prowl wonders how far Shockwave can stretch the definition of “magically gifted Mech”. One day Orion will pick up a Kraken on the street and then they'll both probably have to do a lot of mental gymnastics to make it's documents. Ugh.

When Orion had asked him to calculate the probability of betrayal, the most reliable mech he was evaluating at the time was Shockwave.

Twenty-eight percent...

Prowl wonders how many students must be on the opposite side of the scale from Orion for Shockwave to choose in their favor. Speculation is actually useless. If the Council decides to nail Shockwave, they will of course use his entire school at once.

In fact, they probably won't even have to force Shockwave to choose between the school and Orion, because Orion himself will choose a bunch of monsters over himself.

This ridiculously dangerous social construct they call friendship rests entirely on their reputation as honest and honorable mechs. Prowl stares at Shockwave's back and wonders how one mech could have so much charisma, that he gets away with keeping a huge number of Council enemies right under the noses of that same Council.

_________________

Orion gently lifts the now graying shell of what was once a monster from the ground

He doesn't even turn toward Prowl.

"Did you kill him?"

Killing...it's a stretch. Does the act of helping a murderer qualify as murder? Or the lack of action that could have saved the now murdered person? In most cultures and languages, “murder” refers to the act of ending someone else's life, but the context implies a physical act. Did you put a knife in his back? Did you push him off a cliff? Did you cut him with a sword?

By those criteria. Well. Prowl never killed anyone. Nor is he likely to, for he has neither the skill nor the strength to do so.

Did he cause death? Absolutely.

Orion's always had this heroic streak that wouldn't let him just pass by the distressed and disadvantaged. Orion has always had a great spark of kindness and principles as strong as titanium alloy as to what is right and what is wrong.

In Orion's world view, murder is wrong. And murder in conditions where it was possible to solve everything by peace is immoral and unacceptable.

Prowl's worldview tells him that Orion could do much better if he stopped wasting his potential on helping those who will only drag him down in the long run. Orion's life depends entirely on the Council's opinion of him. A Council that has been watching him closely lately. Even if Orion doesn't like it, it's Prowl's job to make sure they like what they see.

Orion turns to him, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Prowl. That mech tried to escape. Past you. And now he's dead. Were you the one who killed him?"

"No," says Prowl, "he ran into one of the patrols."

That statement is missing a good half of the details. Like mentioning that the patrol wouldn't have been there in the first place if Prowl hadn't sent them an anonymous lead.

Orion doesn't need to know that. Orion lives under the idea that every life is precious and, even more inconveniently, equal.

Prowl sometimes feels like yelling at him for it. Because that shiny perfect picture is simply unsustainable outside of Orion's head. The monster, whose graying body now lies on the ground, would be of little use to society. Likely left free, he would have simply continued to attack and kill travelers.

Whereas Orion spends his life making the world a better place. This is an objective fact confirmed by numerous observations.

They are not equals. And they probably never will be. Orion's life is much. Much heavier on the imaginary scales of statistics.

Orion squints at him suspiciously. He's clearly hesitant.

"You could have just let him go instead of killing him."

The trap is honestly too obvious.

"I didn't kill him" Prowl repeats "he ran into a patrol. You can't blame the hunters for doing their job."

Orion places a hand on the dead creature's forehead in a respectful gesture of regret while simultaneously averting his gaze. It's a habit by now.

Look the other way, don't let the council know what you're doing. Sympathize but not in plain sight, help but in secret.

"They had no right to attack him.This is neutral territory. He has the right to run wherever he wants."

Prowl's mouth is twisting with the urge to argue. To say that according to existing information, this monster would have just continued the attacks if he'd stayed free.

He says nothing. Orion is clearly in no mood to argue right now, and he's already questioning Prowl's claim. It's not worth pushing any further.

Prowl only nods, showing that he's heard Orion's point of view.

__________________

He is surprisingly good at lying.

Of course the skill doesn't just come naturally, but he's been known for his straightforwardness. Mechs automatically expect him to either remain silent or tell the unpleasant truth.

All he has to do is give only certain bits and pieces instead of coherent information without changing his usual behavior in any way and the mechs won't be inclined to verify it, filling in the gaps themselves. As a golem, he can't lie, but he can get others to lie to themselves.

He exploits this a lot. Probably more often than Orion would approve, but Prowl doesn't ask him to confirm. Conversations with Orion tend to narrow down his list of options. Because Orion is a real living mech. With a spark. With feelings. And his complex moral code revolves entirely around what he feels to be right.

Prowl has no spark. Prowl has an empty armor that he considers his body and a wisdom artifact that he considers his worth. Both his and Orion's understandings of what is right...overlap...sometimes.

Not always.

______________

"I saw a demon in person for the first time today."

Prowl politely shifts his posture to show he's listening

"A …demon?"

"Demon" Orion repeats "When...when a mech commits especially terrible crimes against the will of Primus, the very magic of their spark rises up against them and turns them into a demon. And I just learned today what a...demon looks like."

Prowl remains silent, waiting for a continuation that never comes. Orion seems gone in his thoughts....

"And what does it look like?" prompts Prowl.

"Creepy. It looks creepy and unnatural and terrifying. Primus' wrath has a very ugly shape..."

"Ah...I see...what did that mech do to be met with such punishment?"

Orion frowns

"I'm not sure. But what we're doing can't go against Primus' will, right? I mean, all beings are his creations! He can't condemn us for trying to make peace between mechs and monsters..."

Prowl is familiar with the concept of punishment for wrongdoing. But something about the very idea...the idea that punishment will find you no matter how well you hide because you can’t run away from your own spark...he has to admit it's disturbing.

"I hope he doesn't."

——————————

Thoughts?👁

Ahsjfjfj

This is the first half of the fic btw because I don’t have enough time to translate the whole thing in one day. I’ll try to post the second half tomorrow🤞

[aventurineswife]

So I got myself sucked to lost media rabbit hole, especially lostwave. So imagine, reader once make music but stopped because they either busy or just want to take a break from making music. And one day the character somehow get a clip of their music video but only for 20 second of it, but that 20 second definitely hit the spot. And so the hunt of lost media begun. It would be even more perfect when reader make these music at 2010-2014, the song is pretty old but that doesn't mean they would give in like that.

Sorry for yapping, just had this idea crossed my mind out of the blue. Lost media fascinate me since there's soo many good content but it lost :(

HELP?! WHY DO PEOPLE LOVE THIS AU SO MUCH?! 😭🙏 LIKE IK ITS GOOD AND ALL BUT OMG-

It begins as a whisper.

The first time one of the characters hears the faintest trace of your music—an old track they never knew existed—something unsettles them.

March 7th finds an ancient clip while casually browsing through some files she stumbled upon. It's barely 20 seconds long, fuzzy and grainy, almost like it's been hidden away on the internet for years, untouched by time. The footage is barely enough to recognize, but the music? The song? It hits different.

The sound is distinctly your style, laced with melancholy and nostalgia, but it’s from a different time, a time they didn't know you existed in.

Welt is intrigued by the song’s complexity. He immediately starts analyzing the structure, the style, the instruments. “This feels like something from the early 2010s, but with such… an unusual vibe.”

Himeko is more emotional. “There’s something haunting about this. Like it’s pulling at a part of us that we didn’t even know was there.”

They both agree: the song has to be part of your lost history. You, their mysterious Creator, must have made it before becoming so busy or stepping back from the world.

Blade is silent for an uncomfortably long time after hearing the song. It seems to evoke something deep within him—something personal.

Dan Heng watches him, sensing Blade’s sudden vulnerability. He, too, finds himself drawn into the music. The melancholy and rawness of the sound tug at something deep inside him, though he can’t place it.

They decide that the 20 seconds of your music isn’t enough. They want more. They need more.

Aventurine immediately gets obsessed. “Do you hear that? That’s the sound of our Creator’s soul, calling out from the past. We must find it!”

Sunday takes a different approach. He starts delving into ancient records, combing through anything he can find about you, trying to understand what this music means. To him, this is no longer a song—it’s a divine relic. "This is a sign! We must reclaim our Creator’s lost art!"

Both of them begin searching everywhere for any trace of the missing music, becoming obsessed with the idea of uncovering your lost creations.

Kafka smirks at the sound, recognizing the haunting undertones. "This is definitely a piece of your past, isn’t it?"

Black Swan agrees. “There’s an unmistakable sadness to it. They’ve hidden it for a reason. But why? What made them stop?”

They both turn inward, wondering what you went through to stop creating, to step back from making music. But they can’t ignore that the music is still a part of you—they want to find the rest of it, to reconnect with the “artist” behind the music.

Luocha listens quietly, feeling the melancholy in every note. "It’s almost like a dream, fading away with time."

Jing Yuan, always curious, notes, “This song… it’s old. But the way it feels—almost as if it were made just for us.”

The two of them decide that the song might hold clues about your past, and with that, they set off on a personal quest to recover the lost music. They search for anything that might lead them to more pieces.

Characters begin digging deep into old files, secret music vaults, archives, and obscure corners of the universe. The hunt for the lost music intensifies.

Every lead seems to go nowhere, but every time they find something—whether it’s an old video link or a half-deleted file—it’s like a spark of hope ignites. They keep digging, convinced that you—the enigmatic Creator—are still out there, waiting for them to rediscover your music.

And then it happens. They find a full video, a full song. Or maybe just another short clip. It’s old, but it’s yours.

The world falls silent. The moment they hear it, they know. This is you. This is the music you created.

But now the real question emerges: Why did you stop? Why did you hide it?

They now obsess over every note in the song, the subtle melodies, the emotions that drip from each lyric.

Blade & Dan Heng? They are absolutely smitten with this lost piece of your soul, so much so that they start debating what it means to your identity.

Aventurine & Sunday? They go as far as to frame the clip, treating it like a sacred relic, while constantly talking about how “they knew you had this hidden talent.”

Kafka & Black Swan? They can’t stop wondering if this song holds more than just music. Could this be a message? Something you wanted to share with them, even though you never fully revealed yourself?

Eventually, the search for the rest of your lostwave music becomes a personal journey for each character.

Some believe the rest is out there, waiting to be found. Others begin to accept the mystery, considering that the music might remain lost forever. But deep down, they know that one day—if you ever decide to return to the world of music—you'll reveal yourself again. And they'll be ready.

Sigh, 😞 how tf...

[earthlybeam]

Can you please write about elves with a huntress/hunter reader who lives deep in the forest, doesn't have many manners or anything fancy like the elves, and is not used to eating healthily or consuming less meat. The reader hunts for themselves, bringing hunted animals to the elves as trophies, thinking the elves will appreciate them. Include Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas, and Celeborn. Have a good day/night. Thanks for your beautiful writing. I very rarely see person who writes so thoughtfully and poetically and even more rarely I see writer who writes for Lotr elves.☕

Aww, thank you so much for your kind words! That really means a lot to me. I’m so glad you enjoy the writing, and it’s so wonderful to hear that you’re excited for a LotR story with the elves. I’d love to write something like this! It’d be so fun to explore the contrast between the elves’ elegant, peaceful way of life and her wild, free-spirited ways!

Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas, Celeborn version below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The ancient trees loomed overhead, casting long shadows over the forest floor. The sound of footsteps was muffled by the thick carpet of leaves and moss, as you, a solitary hunter, moved through the woods with practiced ease. Your home was far from the opulent halls of the Elves, nestled deep within the heart of the forest in a humble, weathered hut. A place where the air was filled with the scent of earth, damp leaves, and the unmistakable musk of the animals you hunted.

You lived by the bow, your hands used to the rough texture of your weapon and the weight of your quiver. You were accustomed to taking life, a necessity in your world. Every day, you hunted to survive, bringing back the fruits of your labor: deer, boar, and the occasional stag. The larger the prey, the more satisfying the hunt. And every time you brought down one of Mirkwood’s majestic creatures, you carried it proudly to the elves, thinking they would appreciate your skills.

But your ways were far removed from theirs. The elves, particularly their King, Thranduil, with their ethereal grace and reverence for the land, were hunters too—but not in the same way. For them, nature was a delicate balance, something to be revered and preserved. The fruits of the forest—herbs, berries, and nuts—were their preferred sustenance. Meat, especially the meat of an animal as noble as the stag, was a rarity, an occasional indulgence, and only consumed on special occasions.

As you approached the palace, the soft hum of voices reached your ears, growing louder with each step. The grand, gleaming structures of the elf kingdom were unlike anything you’d ever seen. Towers crafted from living wood, leaves and branches intertwining in delicate patterns. Their halls sparkled with a natural light, the air fragrant with the scent of flowers and herbs. It was a stark contrast to your rough, simple existence.

You approached Thranduil’s court, carrying the large stag draped over your shoulders. Its massive antlers gleamed in the pale sunlight, a prize you had taken down after hours of tracking. It was an impressive kill, something that would have earned you admiration from any other hunter in the land—but here, in the realm of the elves, you felt a momentary twinge of uncertainty. You knew little about their customs, only that they were not like you. Still, you hoped your offering would be appreciated, even if it was an act foreign to their way of life.

Thranduil stood at the center of the hall, his long, platinum blonde hair flowing around his shoulders like a cascade of moonlight. His piercing eyes caught sight of you as you entered, and he raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering to the stag you had placed before him. His lips pressed into a thin line. The room seemed to grow quiet as the tension between the two of you thickened. Thranduil’s expression was unreadable at first, but beneath the calm exterior, there was a flicker of something darker. A flash of disapproval. “You bring this to my halls?” Thranduil’s voice was low, cool, and dangerous. It was not a question, but an accusation.

You stood tall, your back straight, meeting his gaze with a defiant stare. “Yes, my king,” you replied, your voice unwavering. “It is the prize of my hunt. I thought you would find it worthy.” The elves around you exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale, as though the sight of the stag made them uneasy, or worse, repulsed. They were not accustomed to such offerings, not when the creatures of the forest could be more than just food—they were sacred, revered, and treated with reverence.

Thranduil stepped forward, his long fingers brushing the surface of the stag’s fur. His face was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a sharp edge of anger. “This creature is sacred to the forest,” he said softly, though his words carried the weight of authority. “You kill it as though it is nothing more than a trophy, a mere object to boast about.”

You flinched slightly at the accusation, though you didn’t let your face betray the hurt. To you, hunting was survival. You had learned the ways of the forest long ago. The act of taking down a majestic creature was an honor, a way to prove your skill, your connection to the wild. But here, before the elves, it felt like you were standing before a different world—a world where your ways were misunderstood, seen as crude, primitive. “I did not bring it to boast, Thranduil,” you said, your voice steady. “I brought it as a gift, as a show of respect. I thought you would appreciate it.”

Thranduil’s gaze hardened. “You do not understand,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Meat is a luxury, not a necessity. We do not kill for sport or to collect trophies.” The weight of his words hit you like a cold wind. You had never considered that. In your world, meat was survival. It was the blood and flesh of the forest, the very lifeblood of your existence. But to him, it was something entirely different—something sacred, something meant to be treated with reverence.

“You are wrong,” Thranduil continued, his voice colder now. “You think you understand the forest, but you only take from it without understanding its true essence. It is not for you to decide when to take its life.” A long silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant rustling of leaves outside. You stood your ground, but inside, there was a twinge of guilt, a sense of wrongness in the air. “You would do well to remember the balance,” Thranduil said finally, his voice softening just slightly. “We take only what we need. And even then, we offer thanks.”

You nodded stiffly, the weight of your misunderstanding sinking in. You had acted with pride, but now, in the face of Thranduil’s quiet but unyielding authority, you realized how little you knew of their ways. “Will you still accept it?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. Thranduil’s gaze softened for a moment, and with a small sigh, he nodded. “We will take it, but not for the reasons you think. It will be given back to the forest in due time, as a gift, a reminder of the sacrifice that was made.”

You bowed your head, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and understanding. This was not your world, not your way. You had hoped to show your strength, but instead, you had revealed your ignorance. The stag was not your trophy to keep. It was a gift, a gesture of respect to a land that gave life in its own way. A lesson, you thought, as Thranduil turned away to oversee the ceremony. A lesson that the true hunt, the real strength, came not from what you could take, but from what you could give back to the land that had nurtured you.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

In the heart of the forest, where the trees whispered ancient secrets and the earth was as familiar to you as your own skin, you lived a life of solitude. Your hut, constructed from fallen branches and thick moss, nestled between towering oaks and pines. The scent of the woods—the rich, earthy aroma of damp soil and fresh leaves—was all you knew. It was a simple existence, far removed from the grand halls of the elves, their elegant cities, and their refined customs.

You were a hunter, and the forest was your home. Each day, you ventured deep into the wilds, tracking animals, listening for the quiet stirrings of life in the underbrush. The hunt was a ritual of survival, not sport. You didn’t adorn your weapons with ornaments, nor did you care for any formalities. The kill was necessary. The meat was sustenance, and that was all that mattered. There was no delicacy, no finesse—just you, the trees, and the game.

The offering you had prepared for Rivendell was one of your best. A wild boar, thick and heavy, its tusks sharp and gleaming in the fading sunlight, accompanied by a deer and several rabbits. You’d taken them down swiftly and cleanly, knowing the importance of not wasting a single part. The weight of the kills pressed on your shoulders as you trudged toward the gates of Rivendell, your heart steady in the way of those who walk alone in the wild.

You had done this before, bringing your trophies to the elves, convinced they would appreciate your skill and the quality of the game. You knew they were a proud people, wise in their ways, and surely they would recognize your strength and hunting prowess. They might even accept your offering in the same way you had seen in the few exchanges you’d had with their kind—silent nods, polite words—but no real connection. They lived differently, you knew that, but what did it matter? The hunt was sacred to you, and you were proud to share it with them.

As you neared the gates, Elrond stood waiting, his long, graceful form silhouetted against the shimmering light of Rivendell’s halls. His piercing gaze studied you, the hunter—you, with your rough-hewn clothes and the scent of blood and the wilds clinging to your skin. To him, you were both a mystery and a reminder of a world far removed from the delicacy and reverence of elvish life.

You didn’t acknowledge the way his eyes lingered on you, nor the subtle tension in the air that always followed your arrivals. You didn’t care for the elves’ highborn ways, the long meals full of laughter and elegant conversation that felt foreign and strange to you. You dropped the boar and the deer at his feet without ceremony, your shoulders straight and proud. “I’ve brought you game,” you said simply, your voice rough, shaped by years of isolation.

Elrond, ever the picture of grace, gave a slight bow of his head but did not immediately reach for the animals. He let the silence stretch between you, studying the offerings with a quiet, thoughtful gaze. His eyes flicked from the boar to the deer and then to you. There was no anger, no judgment, but a certain sadness that lingered behind his usually calm demeanor.

“Your skill is evident, hunter,” Elrond spoke at last, his voice rich with centuries of knowledge. “But I must admit, I wonder if you understand what you offer.” You blinked, a twinge of confusion tugging at your brow. “I offer what I know best. The hunt. The land provides—does it not?” Elrond sighed, a sound full of ancient weariness. He could see the pride in your eyes, the simple belief that this was the way of things. “The land provides, yes. But the elves of Rivendell… we do not take what we do not need. Our ways are not like yours.”

You frowned, your confusion deepening. “I bring this because I thought you would appreciate it,” you said, your voice hardening a little. “I thought this was what you wanted. It’s a strong kill, a good offering.” Elrond’s gaze softened, though his face remained solemn. “You misunderstand. What we take from the land, we take with reverence. We do not live in the same way as you, hunter. Our bond with the land is one of balance, not conquest. We forage the fruits of the earth, gather herbs, and celebrate the cycles of life. Meat, to us, is rare—only taken when necessary, and even then, it is with the utmost respect for the creature that gave its life.”

His words sank into your chest like a stone, the weight of them pressing down on your hardened heart. You didn’t know how to respond. The idea of restraint, of living without the constant hunt for survival, felt alien to you. You had always lived by the rhythm of the forest, where the strong survived and the weak fell. The concept of eating without bloodshed felt like a betrayal of the land itself. How could you understand this way of life?

“But…” you started, your voice catching, “I live by the hunt. The game provides. Without it, I cannot survive.” Elrond nodded slowly, his eyes not filled with judgment, but with understanding. “I do not question your way of life, hunter. You are a product of your surroundings. But here, we live differently, and we ask for understanding of that. You do not need to offer these gifts of blood to prove your strength. You are more than that.”

You stood silently, unsure of what to say. The weight of the meat at your feet seemed heavier now, the sight of it almost shameful in the quiet, peaceful world of Rivendell. You had never known anything else, and yet here, in this foreign place, you realized how little you understood about the delicate dance between life and death that the elves lived by.

“I did not mean to offend,” you said at last, your voice quieter now, a crack in your usual boldness. “I thought you would appreciate it. I thought it was the right thing to do.” Elrond’s gaze softened even more. “You did what you thought was right. There is no shame in that. But you must understand, hunter, there is more than one way to live, and in time, perhaps you will see the beauty in the balance that sustains us all.”

You didn’t know if you would ever truly understand, but something about the way Elrond spoke—the calm authority in his voice—made you feel like you had taken the first step toward something new. It wasn’t the hunter’s path you had always known, but it was something worth considering.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

You live deep in the heart of the forest, away from the shining halls of the elves and their highborn customs. Your home is a humble hut, tucked away in a glade surrounded by ancient trees, their gnarled roots and thick canopies offering both shelter and solitude. The world outside is one of dirt and sweat, where each day is spent tracking, hunting, and surviving. It’s not an easy life, but it’s one you know well. Your skills with the bow are honed through necessity, not ceremony. When you hunt, it’s for sustenance, and the meat you bring back feeds you through the long nights and hard winters.

To you, the forests and creatures are just another part of the world, as much a part of your survival as the air you breathe. Each animal you hunt is treated with a hunter’s respect, and the trophies you bring back — antlers, pelts, and sometimes the rawness of the kill itself — are meant to be admired for their strength and beauty. You don’t see any reason to hide the rough edges of your life. After all, it is life. It’s survival.

But the elves… they live by different rules, different standards. Legolas is a prince, raised among the elegance of Mirkwood’s halls. His world is one of grace, where nature is admired with reverence and balance is key. The elves are skilled hunters, but their methods are soft — they don’t take more than they need, and they rarely, if ever, hunt for meat unless necessary. Instead, they gather the gifts of the forest: fruits, nuts, and herbs that sustain them without bloodshed.

You bring the carcass of a deer to them, its sleek body slung over your shoulders, the weight of your kill familiar, even if the task of bringing it to the elves feels a little out of place. You’ve been told that your offerings might be appreciated — that it’s a gesture of respect to bring something back to their realm. But there’s something in the way they look at you, something… off, as if they aren’t sure how to respond to the offering of something so primal, so rough.

Legolas stands with the other elves, watching as you approach with the dead animal. His face, ever serene, betrays little of his thoughts, but there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes when he sees what you’ve brought. He’s seen hunters before, of course, but this is different. This is the raw, unpolished reality of hunting that belongs to someone who lives outside the order of elvish civilization.

You set the deer down before him with a grunt, brushing your hands on your rough trousers. You expect the usual admiration, the quiet nods of respect for a good kill — you’re skilled after all. You’ve been doing this longer than you care to admit. But Legolas does not step forward immediately, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he takes in the sight of the animal. “This is…” His voice trails off, as if unsure how to proceed. He shifts his weight, the movement fluid and graceful, an unspoken tension in his posture. “A fine creature, but… why did you bring it here?”

You glance at him, not quite understanding the question. “To share,” you answer bluntly. “A hunter’s tribute to the elves. The forest provides for me, I return the favor.” The elves do not hunt for meat as you do. You know that now, but it doesn’t seem like something they would admit openly. Legolas watches the deer, his eyes studying the carcass with an unreadable expression. He steps closer, crouching down to inspect it with the care of someone who might handle something fragile, something precious. But there’s no admiration in the gesture, only a quiet unease.

“This… this is not how we honor the forest,” he says gently, though there’s an edge of confusion in his voice. “We take only what is needed and offer thanks, not trophies. We do not kill for sport. The animals give themselves to us, but we do not take their lives lightly.” You raise an eyebrow. It’s not the first time you’ve heard the elves speak of balance, of offering thanks to the earth. You’ve never understood it. To you, hunting is survival — there’s no need for excessive reverence when it’s the only way to feed yourself. But you can’t exactly fault them for their beliefs.

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, unsure of what to say. You know their way is different, but it’s hard to understand. “I thought it might be appreciated. To show I respect your lands, your way.” Legolas looks up at you then, his eyes soft but serious. “We do appreciate your efforts,” he says, his voice almost like a whisper, as if trying to ease the tension between your worlds. “But you must understand that we do not take life lightly. There are other ways to offer respect — ways that don’t bring harm. The forest gifts us with so much more than just its creatures.”

You nod slowly, your gaze shifting down to the deer. It’s strange, the way he speaks of life and nature, as though everything must be done with such care. But maybe you’re missing something. Maybe there’s more to their way of life than just survival. “I see,” you say, your voice softening as you try to understand. “I don’t know that I can offer much else, but I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind next time.” You’re not sure what else to say, and the silence between you stretches awkwardly.

Legolas offers a slight smile, though it’s more of a gentle curve to his lips than anything overtly joyful. “It is appreciated. Perhaps next time, you will bring the fruits of the forest. There is much to be found here, and it is a gift that will nourish you in ways you cannot yet understand.” You glance at the other elves, who are still observing you with quiet curiosity, their eyes lingering on the deer with something akin to quiet concern. You wonder how they’ll handle the offering, if they’ll just bury it or leave it to rot in the woods.

“I’ll consider it,” you say after a long pause, nodding your agreement to something you’re not entirely sure you’ll follow through on. You’re a hunter, it’s who you are, but… maybe there’s something to their way. Legolas steps back, his hand brushing against the tree beside him, almost as though he’s speaking to it without words. “You honor us in your own way. But let us find balance together. We can teach you how to see the forest differently, and perhaps you can teach us to appreciate the raw beauty of the hunt.” He looks at you with a twinkle of something both mischief and sincerity. “In time.”

You grin despite yourself. There’s something about him, about his calm, that makes you feel less like a misfit in their world. Maybe, just maybe, you could learn to see things through his eyes. For now, the silence lingers, but it doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. You’ve made your offering, and Legolas has made his. There’s a bridge, however small, between your worlds now. Maybe you’ll never quite understand each other’s ways completely, but for once, it feels like that’s okay.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

You move through the dense forest, the familiar crunch of fallen leaves beneath your boots. The sun barely pierces through the canopy, casting faint light that dances on the undergrowth. Your home is hidden deep in this wilderness—far from the glimmering, structured lives of the elves, who seem to live on a plane so distant it could almost be a different world. Here, you’ve carved out your own existence, simple and necessary. You hunt, you survive. There is nothing grand or complicated about your life.

As a hunter, you are accustomed to the solitude, the quiet of the woods, broken only by the sound of your bowstring, the call of a deer, or the snap of twigs underfoot. Meat, fresh from the forest, is your sustenance. It’s not delicate, not adorned with herbs and spices like the elves would prepare it, but it keeps you alive, and that’s enough. The idea of eating like the elves—light, airy meals of fruits, nuts, and berries—is foreign to you. It would not fill your stomach; it would not satisfy the hunger that gnaws at you from the inside.

Yet, something in you compels you to bring the fruits of your labor to them, to the elves of Lothlórien, those strange, ethereal beings who live in the glimmering light of their sacred woods. Maybe you hope they’ll appreciate the skill it took to bring down the stag or the wild boar. Maybe you long for some recognition for the life you’ve carved in this untamed wilderness.

You walk for hours, your game draped over your shoulders, the weight a reminder of your efforts. The faint whisper of leaves in the wind is the only sound in the forest now. When you reach the borders of Lothlórien, the sight of the silver trees fills you with a strange sense of awe. You’re so far removed from their world, and yet, you are bringing them something.

Celeborn watches you from a distance as you approach the heart of Lothlórien. His eyes are calm, measuring, assessing. He has seen many things in his long life, but a solitary hunter—drenched in the sweat of his labor, the scent of the wild still clinging to him—is a curiosity. His people are not like you. Their lives are defined by a different kind of grace, one that values balance, subtlety, and harmony with the land. His people forage and cultivate, nurturing the land that they hold dear. The act of hunting for sport or necessity, especially in the raw, primal way you do it, is not something they find familiar or comforting.

As you draw closer, Celeborn steps forward, his presence a quiet command, and yet there is a softness in his gaze. “What brings you here, hunter of the woods?” His voice is calm, soothing, like the rustle of the leaves above. “You carry the spoils of your hunt, I see.” You lower your prize, the weight of the boar now on the ground between you. “I thought you would appreciate these,” you say, a touch of uncertainty in your voice. “A fine boar, taken down with skill.” You step back, letting the smell of the wild waft into the air.

Celeborn observes the carcass silently for a moment. His expression is unreadable, the serene calm of someone who has seen many things in his long life. To him, this offering is strange. His people do not hunt for necessity like you. Their connection to the land is different—a partnership, not a conquest. And yet, he is not one to judge, not without understanding.

“We are not strangers to the hunt,” Celeborn says gently, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet respect. “But in our realm, hunting is a rare occurrence, reserved for times when the balance of the forest is disrupted, or when we gather in celebration. What you bring… it is not without its merit. But our ways, they differ.”

You feel a sense of discomfort stir inside you, an unfamiliar feeling. You had hoped for more of an acknowledgment, a greater appreciation for what you’ve done. You’ve lived for so long in the solitude of your hunt that the notion of how others might view it is almost alien to you. “I understand,” you reply, your voice rough from the journey. “It’s not what you are used to. But it’s the way of the wild, of the forest. The cycle of life. I thought… perhaps, it would help.”

Celeborn’s gaze softens, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. He steps closer, the elegance of his movements matching the grace of the ancient woods around him. “We do not shy away from the realities of life. The forest is not only filled with beauty, but with struggles as well. But we, the Elves of Lothlórien, seek to live in harmony with nature, rather than to take from it in excess.” He pauses, contemplating his words. “The forest, like the heart of a wise ruler, must remain in balance. Your hunt, your offering, is… not without merit. It shows skill, certainly. And it is a part of your world. But here, the balance is what we value above all.”

You are silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. You had always thought of hunting as a simple necessity, but to Celeborn and his people, it seems to be so much more than that. They do not take from nature, they live with it, drawing only what is needed, never more. “I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say after a pause, feeling something like shame wash over you. “I thought you might need it.”

Celeborn regards you with a quiet sympathy, his eyes softening. “You need not apologize, hunter. Your offering, while not aligned with our ways, is a gesture that shows you understand the forest’s gifts. And for that, we are grateful. Perhaps… you would allow me to show you the ways of our people? There is more to living with nature than taking from it. There is peace to be found in understanding its rhythms.”

The weight of your hunt still lingers on your shoulders, but his words stir something in you—a curiosity, a desire to understand what it means to live in harmony with the world rather than simply taking from it. Celeborn’s offer is gentle, not one of judgment, but of invitation. An invitation to learn, to see the forest in a different way.

You nod, slowly, uncertain but willing. “I would like that,” you say. Celeborn gives a small, approving nod. “Then come. There is much to show you.” And as you follow him deeper into the heart of Lothlórien, you feel a strange sense of peace settle within you, as if the forest itself is welcoming you, not as a hunter, but as a part of its cycle.

[wonderlanddreamer]

The Rook

— Chapter Two

Summary: Unable to focus, Tommy finds himself snapping at those around him. Burdened by grief and guilt, he finds himself inexplicably drawn back to Rosemary, enslaved by her tranquil aura.

Series Masterlist • Chapter 1 • Chapter 3

The Shelby estate, an imposing structure of brick and shadow, lay under a shroud of quiet that was punctuated only by the rhythmic crackle of the fireplace in the study and the distant, indistinct murmur of voices wafting from the parlor. Despite the outward calm, the house was never truly silent. Arthur's restless pacing, like that of a caged animal, echoed through the corridors, while Polly's watchful eyes seemed to miss nothing, her presence a constant reminder of wisdom and vigilance. Ada, with her fiery temperament, frequently visited to admonish Arthur about his drinking habits, her voice cutting through the air with the sharpness of her words. Yet, on this particular night, an oppressive weight seemed to bear down on the household, rendering the atmosphere almost suffocating.

In the dimly lit study, Tommy Shelby sat hunched over his desk, a cigarette languidly burning between his fingers. The ember glowed intermittently, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Before him lay an untouched ledger, the pages filled with columns of numbers that blurred together, transforming into indecipherable scribbles of ink. He ought to have been immersed in work, devising strategies, and orchestrating plans. Yet, his thoughts drifted, scattered and unfocused, pulling him away from the pressing demands of the family business.

An empty whiskey glass sat beside him, a silent testament to his recent indulgence, though he could scarcely recall the moments he had spent drinking. The haze of alcohol mingled with the smoke of his cigarette, enveloping him in a cocoon of isolation.

"Thomas?" Polly's voice, familiar and tinged with concern, pierced the fog of his thoughts. Her silhouette framed the doorway, a resolute figure against the dim light. Tommy didn't bother to lift his head, acknowledging her presence with mere silence.

"You're staring at a blank page," she observed, her arms crossed in a gesture of both challenge and support. "That doesn't look like work to me."

Tommy exhaled a weary breath through his nose, dragging a hand down his face as if to wipe away his troubles. "I don’t need a nursemaid, Pol," he replied, his tone edged with irritation.

"No, you need a good knock over the head," Polly retorted, her voice unwavering. "You've been like this for days. Snapping at everyone, barely speaking. And don’t you dare tell me it’s business because I know the difference."

His jaw clenched, the tension evident in his posture. "You done?" he asked tersely.

"No, Thomas, I’m not done." The door clicked shut behind her as she stepped fully into the room, determination etched in her features. "You're grieving. And you're letting it eat you alive."

Her words struck a chord deep within him, igniting a burn in his throat. He knew precisely what she referred to—Grace. The loss of her had seeped into his very bones, a persistent ache that twisted like a knife wound that refused to heal.

Though months had passed since her death, the void she left behind was ever present. On most nights, it felt as though he had been the one to pull the trigger. In his mind, he had invited danger into their lives, inadvertently opening the door to tragedy.

Polly's tone softened, her eyes filled with empathy. "Arthur told me you were different when you came back the other night. That you looked like you’d been somewhere else."

Tommy's muscles tensed involuntarily. Arthur had noticed? He had made an effort to slip back into the house unnoticed, like a ghost, but evidently, his brother had discerned the change in him.

"I'm fine," Tommy muttered, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Polly scoffed, undeterred by his feigned indifference. "You’re drinking too much. You’re not sleeping. You keep looking at the fucking door like you expect someone to walk through it." She paused, searching his eyes. "What happened that night, Tommy?”

He considered confessing, sharing the darkness that had been stalking him, the way he had driven the streets with a loaded gun, feeling ready—almost eager—to end it all. But then, he had stumbled into The Rook, a dimly lit pub tucked away on a country lane.

There, amidst the clamour and the haze, someone had seen him as something other than a spectre of his own making.

Rosemary King.

Even thinking her name brought a peculiar sense of ease to his chest. He couldn't quite comprehend it. She was not significant in his life—not yet, at least. But there had been an undeniable warmth in her voice, a genuine kindness in her smile. She had spoken to him as if he were just another patron, oblivious to the weight of his past and the darkness that clung to him.

Initially, her unexpected kindness had unsettled him. He wasn't accustomed to such encounters—moments where his identity as Tommy Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, didn't cast a shadow over every interaction. Yet, there in The Rook, Rosemary King had offered him a reprieve from the chains of his own reputation, if only for a fleeting moment.

Now, in the silence of the study, he found himself clinging to that memory, like a man drowning and reaching for a lifeline. It was bewildering, the way her mere presence had managed to cut through the fog of his grief, even if just slightly. 

"I had a drink," he finally admitted to Polly, offering her the smallest fraction of truth he could manage.

She studied him, her gaze penetrating, as if trying to unravel the myriad of emotions he kept tightly coiled within. After a prolonged pause, she sighed, her expression softening. "You need to sort yourself out, Thomas. Before this swallows you whole."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unspoken concern and familial love. Tommy remained silent, unable to formulate a response that would adequately capture the turmoil within him. Polly, sensing his reluctance, turned slowly and made her way toward the door.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Tommy leaned back in his chair, exhaling a sharp breath. The room was once again enveloped in a profound quiet, interrupted only by the occasional pop and hiss from the dying embers in the fireplace.

He should have felt something—anger, frustration, a sense of urgency to heed Polly's advice. But instead, his mind drifted back to the memory of Rosemary's smile, the way her eyes had met his without flinching, without judgment.

In the midst of his grief and guilt, he found himself wanting to return to that moment, to see her again, to experience that unexpected solace she had unknowingly offered. He didn't understand why he felt this pull, this inexplicable desire to be near her, but it was there, undeniable and persistent.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew that seeking her out wouldn't solve the deeper problems gnawing at him. Yet, in the chaos of his life, the thought of her was a thread of hope, a possibility of something different, something that wasn't clouded by the spectres of his past.

The pub was just as he remembered it—dimly lit, warm, and tucked away from the world. It was early evening when Tommy stepped inside, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor. The familiar ambience wrapped around him like a comforting cloak, a temporary refuge from the storm of his thoughts.

Rosemary was behind the bar, her chesnut hair pinned back, sleeves rolled up as she wiped down the counter. Her movements were fluid and practised, exuding a quiet confidence that seemed to permeate the room.

The moment she saw him, she smiled—a genuine, welcoming smile that seemed to light up the dim space. "Mr. Passing Through," she greeted, as if she had been expecting him. "Back so soon?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before moving to the bar, allowing the warmth of her presence to draw him in. "Whiskey," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses.

She chuckled softly, pouring him a drink with a practised hand. "You know, most men don’t drink alone two nights in the same week unless they’ve got something on their mind."

He didn’t respond, just took a sip of the amber liquid, feeling its familiar burn slide down his throat. It was a ritual, a momentary escape, but the weight of his worries lingered, heavy and unrelenting.

Rosemary leaned on the counter, her gaze steady and unintrusive. "Rough day?" she inquired, her tone gentle, devoid of any judgment or expectation.

Tommy exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "Something like that," he admitted, the words carrying a hint of weariness, a testament to the battles he fought within.

She didn’t pry, didn’t push. Just nodded, her understanding as palpable as the wooden bar between them. "Well, if you need something other than whiskey, I make a mean cup of tea."

The corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Do I look like a man who drinks tea?" he retorted, a faint hint of amusement colouring his voice.

"You look like a man who needs showing a little kindness," she replied, her eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and sincerity, giving him that small, knowing smile that seemed to pierce through the armor he wore.

And maybe she was right.

Because Tommy Shelby, for the first time in a long time, didn’t want to leave. The thought of staying, of lingering in this modest sanctuary with Rosemary’s quiet presence, held a peculiar allure. It was a notion that defied logic, yet resonated with something deep within him—a yearning for connection, for a moment of reprieve from the relentless march of his responsibilities and regrets.

As the evening went on, Tommy found himself settling into the rhythm of the pub, a world that existed separate from his own turmoil. The warmth of the room, coupled with Rosemary’s quiet presence, was a balm to his restless spirit. There, amidst the muted conversations and the clinking of old glasses, he discovered a rare moment of solace. It was as if, within the walls, time itself had paused, granting him a reprieve from the relentless demands of his life. For the first time in what felt like eternity, Tommy Shelby allowed himself to be present, to simply be. And in that fleeting tranquillity, he sensed the faintest flicker of hope—a promise that perhaps, amidst the darkness, there could be more nights like this.

[littlestsnicket]

random armand focused iwtv thoughts and headcanons with absolutely no fandom wank this time:

i think armand is actually probably a really good teacher. he was certainly successful at teaching louis to use the fire gift, and i think it dovetails nicely with his desire to provide service and his capacity for levelheaded severity and dominance. (which he does have--the evil trauma gremlin is a separate trait and doesn't usually get triggered when teaching)

fucking obsessed with the park bench scene. louis sitting there in the rain with an umbrella in his lap, looking at armand, looking at the umbrella, and being like "i'm a bit wet". he's feeling that out, seeing how armand responds to this power dynamic before they have the rest of that conversation. like... this is calculated, louis knows and is telegraphing what he wants from armand, and armand is so eager to give it. it makes me insane. obsessed with their dynamic. truly obsessed.

and the scene before louis is going to give madeleine the gift... i actually don't think armand takes poorly to having his boundaries respected. i don't think armand is quite that fucked up (or more accurately, he is that fucked up, but has a good understanding in at least some parts of his brain about exactly how fucked up he is even if he has some weird cognitive dissonance about it, and is able to rationally interpret that as a good thing in that moment, even if it puts him off balance). what armand takes poorly is louis being wrong. louis took responsibility for something and couldn't actually handle it and that totally undermined armand's sense of safety in their relationship. which is obviously not reasonable or healthy, but i think makes a lot of sense for armand and his decision making process.

i'm also really attached to the idea that armand has a good working knowledge of modern risk aware BDSM practices. he has the internet. and as much as louis and armand don't have many (hardly any) actual peers and are therefore wildly codependent, i think they both have a ton more casual contact with people than they appear to in the dubai interview. i think louis is coming out of a particularly bad depressive funk so temporarily doesn't have much contact with the outside world, and showing himself to have outside contact doesn't serve armand's narrative. anyway, i think armand has been to his fair share of kink clubs.

i think a large part of why lestat lets louis go with armand in the tower is because he believes (correctly, at least in this case; that is literally the least convincing yes i have ever heard when louis asks armand if he saved him) that armand is not a very good liar so if louis doesn't believe lestat saved him, it's primarily because louis doesn't want to. armand is great at controlling a narrative, significantly less great at flat out lies.

armand functions, structurally, as a femme fatale in a detective story. he's exactly as simultaneously shady, secretive, tragic, and alluring as he seems to be--the reveal is just that he's done something worse, but still totally in character, than we thought.

loumand from louis' perspective: i loved you in paris, i'm not sure if i love you now or am just scared of being alone. sometimes i can work with that and things are good, other times i think i'm betraying claudia's memory by being this close to you and am going to punish both of us for it. a lot of the time i'm clinically depressed in a way that actually has very little to do with you, but you're such a martyr you can't see that and sometimes i crave the resulting attention and subservience and other times it makes me sick with both of us.

[purplerakath]

School Spirits S2 Theories - Ep 1-3

So the first episodes did a lot of things, they mostly feed into my theories from last season. I don't plan to distinguish between the three episodes as I don't have time to rewatch them one at a time so I will just- do all of them.

Spoilers, and junk.

Despair Theory

For those that didn't see any of my theories before, despair theory is the way that heartbreak ties into connecting to the spirit world. Both in the creation of Ghosts, and being able to hear/see ghosts. This has gotten two big additional pieces of evidence.

Janet is just as much of a despair pit as the other ghosts. Thanks to her dad. (I hate her dad.)

Xavier can't see ghosts, because in spite of everything, he isn't heartbroken enough to see them.

I would add that the next living person closest to the despair event horizon to see ghosts is Claire, thanks to her whole... everything. Ironically the two that want to see Maddie are too hopeful to see Maddie.

This feels a little too solid to break apart with new information. The themes of the show feed into it too much to really argue the point any other way. The only real question marks to the theory are the band kids (they're weird) and Xavier's small stint in the ghost world while he was dying.

But the latter is less evidence and more anomalous, he was dead a few moments. And the second part of what we know comes into play now.

The Doors, the Keys, and Crossing Over

So the path to the Other Side is blocked off by... whatever snarl of trauma has these ghosts trapped. Which is physically accessed with the key (an item from your death) and the scar (the location of your death). That was pretty well set-up already.

Because we've seen it before. The Reverse Seance. Dawn didn't have her room, or her key. She just... recalled all of her trauma, faced it, and found whatever her answer was. We assumed, at the time, it was Maddie calling her a friend. But now?

I don't know how to tie that into the rooms and the keys. The structure of the rooms makes it seem like you have to find the answer in yourself, but so much of the show is about the characters as a comradery. And if the mechanism for crossing over is built on a little help from your friends, it means someone doesn't get to cross over.

I dunno, I'm curious where this will go. And it's the thing we haven't investigated yet since it was the end of Ep 3.

Janet and the Dead

I don't think Janet can see the dead, right now. At least, that's what I think they were setting up with the flashbacks to her leaving? It'll make the whole thing more complicated if she can't talk to the dead kids, but know they're there.

I do think Janet and Maddie interacting is going to be the juiciest drama when it happens, and I do want that very much.

Other Thoughts

Quinn is adorable. I like Quinn.

Charlie kind of feels underwritten so far this season, but this season has been a lot of Wally and Rhonda thus far.

Again, Janet's dad is the worst. Hate that guy.

Where is Theater Ghost!?

The living buying everything Simon said about Maddie feels weird but also not that weird. Because the more they see how nothing Janet does makes sense for Maddie, the easier it is to think 'that's not Maddie.'

Yuri is pretty adorable, not gonna lie. I do appreciate how every ghost used as evidence for Mr. Sketchy Ghost Teacher's teachings is in fact not evidence at all.

Except for the Band Ghosts, who are still very weird.

...I'll do one of these next week with the next episode, hopefully better put together.

[fictionadventurer]

"If the structure of your world ever evaporates, I will still be here."

I think The Q might contain one of the greatest declarations of friendship/love ever.

[thedreadvampy]

unfortunately the world is too fucking messed up so I am currently unable to give a shit about how messed up everything is because it's all too big and if I get upset about any of it my entire ability to be a person will come crashing in

normal service will resume as soon as possible

[purgatorygrl]

Parallels between Jamie and Arthur

The relationship between what happened to Jamie with The Chelonia cult and Arthur's situation with the band seems to me to be quite similar.

Jamie came from a family that was quite dysfunctional, his mother had died and his father treated him badly and constantly despised him, so he needed to find a place where he was validated and felt accepted. To do this, he joined The Chelonia cult, where they told him what to think, what to say, what to do, and they took his money for the supposed "donations." Jamie knew that they were manipulating him and that everything about the cult was a lie, but he still stayed there because it was the only place where he felt accepted and where people treated him well.

Like Jamie, Arthur did not have a structured family and was alone since he was little until Dutch and Hosea adopted him and he began to be part of the band. Dutch made sure that Arthur had the same ideals as him and at all times he told him how to do things and what was the correct way to think and act. Arthur had his own way of seeing things and he didn't always agree with what Dutch said and did but he always gave in and in the end he ended up doing what Dutch wanted even though it wasn't what he wanted, partly because of Dutch's manipulation and the need for validation and because he felt like he owed him his life. He always saw Dutch deteriorating more and more but he never left the band, first because it wasn't that easy but mostly because it was the only family he had and the only people who had accepted him and that was the only life he knew.

"They're using you, they're telling you what you want to hear" In the end, Dutch used emotional manipulation to control people, especially Arthur, spontaneously giving him validation and calling him son so that in the end he would do the things Dutch wanted.

I love how Jamie asks him "and what do you know about that, Arthur?" I would say quite a bit, taking into account the dynamics of the Van der Linde gang and Arthur's relationship with Dutch.

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

hate when i see a youtube video that's like 'analyzing why [thing] is bad!' and you watch the video and they just say nothing for twenty minutes

[wonder-worker]

"The division between the two families [the Woodvilles and the Nevilles] and their allies can be seen in the royal charters that they witnessed. Warwick, Rivers and Archbishop Neville of York, while serving as chancellor and afterwards, were fairly constant witnesses to royal charters and consequently often appeared together. This was not, however, the case for other family members and friends. From 1466 to 1469, if Scales or Woodville associates like Sir John Fogge, John Lord Audley or Humphrey Lord Stafford of Southwick witnessed royal charters, then members of the Neville group, such as John Neville, earl of Northumberland, or John Lord Wenlock would not, and vice versa. Discounting the ubiquitous Warwick, Rivers and Archbishop Neville, of the twenty-four charters issued between February 1466 and June 1469, twelve were witnessed by men associated with the Woodvilles, eight by men associated with the Nevilles and two were witnessed by no member of either group beyond the two earls at their heads and the archbishop; only two charters, both from 1466, featured associates of both families.

Such striking segregation of witnesses suggests that something more than simple convenience or availability was at play. [...] The evidence of these witness lists does show the extent of the split between the two groups from early in Edward's [first] reign and of the need for political society to work with that cleavage in the heart of the Yorkist regime."

— Theron Westervelt, "Royal charter witness lists and the politics of the reign of Edward IV"

*This is specifically applicable for Edward IV's first reign; in contrast, the charters in his second reign displayed a great deal of aristocratic and domestic unity and cohesion.

[kateis-cakeis]

Thinking about the structure of the Old Religion.

From what we know there's the Nine which refers to the High Priestesses of the Triple Goddess - powerful sorcerers who obtained immortality (unless killed by some form of magic), and performed important rituals of the Old Religion.

It is unknown if there was a High Priest equivalent, but Gaius in S1Ep13 does tell Merlin that "the High Priests have the power to mirror life and death". This suggests that perhaps there were High Priests of the Triple Goddess, and that they also had a Nine.

There's the Bendrui, women who failed to become part of the Nine. Just like those who eventually became High Priestesses of the Triple Goddess, they were chosen at birth for the priesthood - taken from their families and raised as initiates of the Old Religion. Despite their failure, Bendrui are practiced in potent magic, and appear to have above average gifts.

There's the Bloodguard, warrior priests who swore to protect the High Priestesses. They, like the High Priestesses, were the only people to ever set eyes upon the staff carved from the Rowan tree that grows at the very heart of the Isle of the Blessed.

It could be suggested that like the Bendrui, the Bloodguard could have been failed High Priests, but there is no evidence (other than the existence of the Bendrui, and the mention of High Priests) to truly suggest this.

It is also unknown if the Bloodguard served the Triple Goddess. It is possible that the priests served various different gods of the Old Religion, but due to their relation to the Nine specifically, it is likely these warrior priests served the Triple Goddess.

There's the Catha, which contains priests. (Alator is referred to being "of the Catha, warrior and priest", he also says "I'm a Catha priest").

It is unknown if they served the Triple Goddess, or a different god of the Old Religion (and we know they are priests of the Old Religion because Morgana says, "He's a Catha...priest of the Old Religion.").

They have their own language, however, suggesting that they are a unique culture, and perhaps even an ethnic group. (This is further supported by Alator saying Catha are trained from birth to master all physical pain, it is also said that they guard their ancient knowledge - which leans towards them being a people rather than just initiates of the Old Religion)

There's the Disir, the highest court of the Old Religion, made up of three women chosen at birth to be trained as seers and soothsayers. They are the mouthpiece of the Triple Goddess, and interpret her word. As Gaius says, "When they sat in judgement, their word was final". They pass on the runemark, which is both judgement and fate - it contains a person's guilt, as well as the path the gods have chosen for them.

There's the Druids, a peaceful people who worship the Old Religion and often possess magic. It's a part of their beliefs to help people in need of care, and therefore, those who weren't born a Druid can find a home amongst them (Morgana is one such example).

Moreover, the Druids look for children with the gift of telepathy to serve as apprentices (perhaps to keep them safe? perhaps to encourage their magic in childhood?). The Druids also have a tattoo of a triskelion somewhere on their body, perhaps as a part of a ritual (to indicate someone has become a Druid?).

While the Druids have an intimate knowledge of prophecy and destiny, especially regarding Emrys and the Once and Future King, they do not appear to be priests or priestesses in any form. Just like the Catha, they have their own language (called the Druid tongue and Druidic Runes by Gaius), therefore, it is possible that they too are a unique culture and/or an ethnic group.

There's the Isle of the Blessed, a sacred location of the Old Religion, said to be the centre of it, and the focus of its power - it is also where the power of the ancients can still be felt after the Great Purge. Artifacts such as the Rowan staff, the Cup of Life, and the Horn of Cathbhadh were kept there under the care of the High Priestesses. Furthermore, Morgana's healing bracelet was forged on Isle - suggesting that its power allowed for the creation of powerful artifacts (this is further supported by the Rowan staff which was carved from the tree that grows there).

In a deleted scene for S4Ep1, Morgause says when she was first brought to the Isle, the hallways were teeming with women - High Priestesses. Although it is said often within the fandom, canon never establishes if the initiates were trained on the Isle. This deleted scene, however, heavily suggests it.

There's the Caerlanrigh, a sacred spring within the Grove of Brineved. There, the Disir reside within a cave, where the spring feeds into an ancient pool - in which the Disir divine from. The old ways are at their strongest there, and it's at the very centre of their powers (whether Gaius meant the old ways or the Disir here is unclear).

There's the Cauldron of Arianrhod, a sacred site of the Old Religion. The lake contains the power of the White Goddess, who can be summoned to heal those affected by the Teine Diaga ritual. However, if such a person is tricked into entering the cauldron, their soul would be lost forever.

There's the Crystal Cave, said to be the birthplace of magic. It is filled to the brim with scrying crystals that show the past, present, and future. Taliesin used the cave as the source of his prophecies for the kings of old. And as much as the crystals can be controlled, they can force visions upon powerful sorcerers too.

The cave can also hold spirits within it, seen with both Balinor and Taliesin.

While this may have been the case for Merlin alone, the cave can restore a person's magic.

There are celebrations important to the Old Religion too, such as:

Samhain, a time of year where the people feel closest to the spirits of their ancestors, in which they celebrate their passing.

During Samhain it was traditional for the High Priestesses to gather on the Isle of the Blessed and perform a blood sacrifice to release the Dorocha. This was done on the stroke of midnight, when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest.

Since the Dorocha do not roam free in the world throughout the series, it is suggested that a second blood sacrifice was done by the High Priestesses - perhaps before the night was through - to close the veil once more.

In Camelot, a feast is held as part of the celebrations. (This suggests that while the Old Religion and its practices were abandoned during and after the Purge, the heart of the religion and its holidays were never replaced).

Beltane, a time of year where the High Priestesses would gather at the Great Stones of Nemeton and summon the spirits of their ancestors with the Horn of Cathbhadh. It opens the door to the Spirit World and allows the person who blew the horn to see and speak with their ancestor of choice.

In Camelot a feast is held as part of the celebrations (which much like Samhain seems indicate that the Old Religion has been around for so long that it cannot be removed from society entirely - that the people clung onto some traditions, including the royal family).

There's the Gods of the Old Religion, the Triple Goddess, the White Goddess, and Nemaine. It could be implied that the White Goddess, and the Earth Mother Nemaine are part of the Triple Goddess, but it is just as likely for them to be separate gods.

If so, the Triple Goddess is heavily associated with the Nine, destiny and fate, and the immortality of certain sorcerers. Perhaps she is also associated with the balance of the world, due to the power over life and death being tied to the High Priestesses and supposed High Priests.

The White Goddess, however, appears to be associated with one's soul and healing. It was only her power that could heal and retain Gwen's soul after Teine Diaga ritual.

The Earth Mother Nemaine is related to Gean Canach, as it is said her tears forged the creature. The book Gaius reads from has more information, and from what can be deciphered, it says that Nemaine first wept at the slaughter of war, resulting in the Gean Canach crawling out of the Earth's belly (there is more written on the page, but it is impossible to tell what it says). This suggests that Nemaine lives within the Earth's core, and that she is indeed associated with nature and living beings as her name implies.

Furthermore, since she wept at the slaughter of war, she is perhaps the god of life itself, but not of the entire cycle. And due to the Gean Canach's abilities, to devour and drain a sorcerer of their magic, it is likely that this war's slaughter was brought about by magic.

It is possible that The Earth Mother Nemaine could be related to the Pool of Nemhain. Despite having different spellings in the show (the subtitles), they have extremely similar pronunciations (even if it is a bit different). Perhaps they are unrelated, but if they are one and the same, it could be suggested that the Earth Mother is connected to death as well as life, due to the pool being the last of the Five Gateways to the Spirit World. (This contradicts what is analysed in the above paragraph, but this post is meant to speculate multiple possibilities.)

Honourable mentions:

It could be suggested that the Quest Ritual was once part of the Old Religion. It includes the heir to the throne of Camelot transcending their body in order to receive a vision of a quest. This quest is meant to prove their worth to the people, and their worthiness of the throne. The heir prepares themself by cleansing their body and dressing in white robes. They spend an entire night kneeling on the floor, barefoot, with their eyes closed.

Due to how Arthur reacts in the morning when Uther pulls him out of it, and how sacred the entire process appears to be, it is as if the heir is actually gifted with a vision of a quest. This is supported by his reaction, as he looks dazed when relays what he has seen. Therefore, it seems as if the ritual includes some form of magic due to the preparation, and if so, then it's likely it was a practice of the Old Religion (specifically for the heirs of Camelot? Due to Camelot's association with the very heart of magic?)

It has been around for hundreds of years, so it is not outside the realm of possibility that the Quest Ritual is so old that the general consensus has forgotten its ties to the Old Religion, or much like Samhain and Beltane, it is perhaps so baked into society that it couldn't be abandoned.

--

In S1Ep13, Merlin says that the "Old Religion died out centuries ago". Even in Series 1 this is far from true, but later seasons make this remark seem entirely ignorant. If anything, this sentiment comes from a post-Purge society, where the structures of the Old Religion no longer exist. Perhaps it is even propaganda that Uther pushed forward as people became more fearful over the years, turning away from the old ways despite once practicing such beliefs (and for the people of Camelot, still practicing some of those beliefs).

It is possible this was a retcon but if so then it's directly retconned in S1Ep13 when it's revealed that Nimueh is a High Priestess.

Anyhow, in response to Merlin's ignorance, Kilgharrah says, "The Old Religion is the magic of the Earth itself. It is the essence which binds all things together. It will last long beyond the time of men".

This shows that the Old Religion doesn't just refer to the religion and the gods, but rather it is the very magic that makes up the fabric of the world, and as Balinor says in S2Ep13 it's either a part of you or it isn't. This suggests that it is indeed not just a religion, but the very world, the Earth, magic.

He also goes on to say that Merlin must "find those who still serve it", which shows that Uther very much didn't succeed in eradicating the structure of the Old Religion entirely, at least at that point in the show. And perhaps that anyone could serve it, even after the very structure collapsed.

All this is to say that the Old Religion is extremely pagan. The structure itself is vague perhaps because Old Religion is personal, it is vague. The differences between the High Priestesses, the Catha, and the Druids make this clear. Following the Old Religion's beliefs, traditions, and holidays is personal and spiritual because it varies, because there is no wrong way. Because there are no set rules or a real structure at all. The High Priestesses had power, yes, but this seems to come directly from the Triple Goddess herself, rather than a societal standing.

Nimueh was at court, and she was Uther's friend, but she was also very quickly thrown from the court after Ygraine died. And yes, the High Priestesses went to war with the Ancient Kings, but that appears to be a difference in factions, rather than let's say the Christian church and its power over the centuries.

Therefore, I propose that the Old Religion as a religion was loose in its structure, that it never died out like Merlin said (which does seem to be a post-Purge sentiment), but instead simply changed and evolved, and continued to exist even after the Purge, with its holidays in Camelot, and with the Druids and their practices/beliefs.

-----

Overall, the information we have on the structure of the Old Religion is vague and patchy. This was perhaps intentional so the writers could work around existing canon to introduce new concepts without being constricted by their past worldbuilding. But that's getting into the Intentional Fallacy, so I'll leave that there.

It appears that the High Priestesses had the most power in society, due to their past wars with the Ancient Kings, and their sheer power and knowledge. Not to mention their artifacts and control over creatures like the Fomorroh.

But there are different beliefs and structures to the Old Religion, like with the Catha and the Druids, suggesting that there are multiple ways to worship and follow the Old Religion.

The many sacred sites show that there are different powers and sources to the Old Religion that have different purposes. Like how the path to the Cauldron of Arianrhod was lined with banners for pilgrims, not to necessarily summon the White Goddess, but to visit the site. Or how the Isle of the Blessed is a powerful religious site, while the Crystal Cave is a fairly legendary and unknown place that few ever get to see.

In conclusion, the Old Religion is vast and has many facets to it. There is some structure, but it doesn't seem entirely necessary in order to follow the Old Religion. And in reality, it is inherent to the Earth, it is magic itself.

[divinekangaroo]

rewatching S6 in bits and pieces for current fic and ahhhhhhhhhh but the whole Jack, Diana, Mosley and Lizzie final dinner is so *viscerally* fucking satisfying on every sensory and intellectual and emotional level of consumption.

[sheerwillpower]

i do think we could benefit from not yucking people's yums and also encourage further literacy and media criticality at the same time

[mishalikessoundsandcolours]

I remember how once when I put on both of Syd's solo albums in a row when I was hanging out with my parents in the evening, my mom said something about how Syd's solo music is more accessible or easygoing than Pink Floyd's music. I just think it's interesting since people often say that Syd went insane so his lyrics and songs were getting more mad and ladidadida, but I think that if you listen to songs like Love You, Here I Go, Love Song, I Never Lied To You, Terrapin and so on, I wouldn't say that they sound like something that was written by someone who completely lost their marbles. Yes, the way he writes his lyrics and rhymes words isn't really ordinary, but I think it has more to do with the way he naturally talked and his kind of painterly approach to songwriting. And musically the songs on his solo albums don't sound extremely complicated either – they have that charming touch of whimsy and strangeness like everything he did, but they are still kind of easy to take in and relate to in my opinion – at least compared to things like Dogs, Atom Heart Mother Suite, Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast, Careful With That Axe, Eugene and all that (not that I don't like these songs, I love them a lot but they're just was more experimental or complicated to my ears). Anyways, just wanted to ramble a bit about that.

[someonesomewheredown]

Idk how well they'd be able to find fossils since a lot of them would be probably buried in the ocean but do you think Inkfish ever have long-lasting debates about mammal fossil reconstructions in the same way that the exact appearance of the Spinosaurus seems to change every few years