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glorfindel-of-imladris · 8 months ago

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The Case of Erestor Half-elven

It’s been a hot minute since my last fandom meta, but this one I accidentally stumbled upon gathering notes for—would you believe it—a Glorfindel meta I intended to write. Man, I’m not even going to question the process, so let’s just get right on to it!

I like to joke around that there are only six instances when Erestor was mentioned in the entire legendarium, and by this I mean in The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, and The Silmarillion (in which he does not even appear in the latter two).

But let’s talk about the early draft of him that is often referenced in fandom. If one extends the search, in The Return of Shadow, which details the writing process of what ultimately would be The Fellowship of the Ring, Erestor does get a mention, and is described as follows:

“There were three counsellors of Elrond’s own household: Erestor his kinsman (a man of the same half-elvish folk known as the children of Lúthien), and beside him two elflords of Rivendell.” -- In the House of Elrond, The Return of Shadow

By the final version of The Lord of the Rings, however, there is no more reference to Erestor as Half-elven. The final published version goes:

"Beside Glorfindel there were several other counsellors of Elrond's household, of whom Erestor was the chief..." -- The Council of Elrond, The Fellowship of the Ring

By this final version of the story, the Half-elven trait no longer made sense for Erestor, and was replaced instead by him being Elrond's chief counsellor.

The nature of Half-elves

Tolkien acknowledges three unions of Elves and Men:

“There were three unions of the Eldar and the Edain: Lúthien and Beren; Idril and Tuor; Arwen and Aragorn. By the last the long-sundered branches of the Half-elven were reunited and their line was restored.” –Appendix A, Return of the King

One of the later themes Tolkien came up with surrounding the Half-elven line (which likely did not yet exist at the early stages of the story when he was first forming the fellowship) was how they united and reunited all the houses of the Eldar and the Edain. Beren was a descendant of the three houses of the Edain—the Houses of Bëor, Haleth, and Hador—while Lúthien was the daughter of a Sinda (Teleri) and a Maia. Idril was the daughter of a Ñoldo and a Vanya. Lúthien and Beren had Dior, who then had a daughter, Elwing, who wed Eärendil, the son of Idril and Tuor. Elwing and Eärendil then had Elros and Elrond, and the line was separated for many generations when Elros chose to be counted among Men, and Elrond among Elves. The two lines were reunited with the marriage of Aragorn and Arwen.

One important detail here is that before the “Choice of the Half-elves” that was later gifted to Eärendil, Elwing, and their children, the children born out of an Elf-Man union led lives akin to Men. Dior was able to rule Doriath at age 33, and Eärendil and Elwing married at 22. These, as we know, would have been too young for Elves, given:

“Children of Men might reach their full height while Eldar of the same age were still in the body like to mortals of no more than seven years. Not until their fiftieth year did the Eldar attain the stature and shape in which their lives would afterwards endure, and for some a hundred years would pass before they were full-grown.” -- Laws and Customs of the Eldar, Morgoth’s Ring

and

“The Eldar wedded for the most part in their youth and soon after their fiftieth year […] Those who would afterwards become wedded might choose one another early in youth, even as children (and indeed this happened often in days of peace); but unless they desired soon to be married and were of fitting age, the betrothal awaited the judgment of the parents of either party.” -- Laws and Customs of the Eldar, Morgoth’s Ring

After the events of the War of the Wrath, Eärendil, Elwing, and their sons Elrond and Elros, for their deeds in the war, were gifted with the choice to be counted either among the Eldar or the Edain. Eärendil, Elwing, and Elrond chose to be counted among Elves, and the choice continued on to Elrond’s children: Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir. Elros chose to be counted among Men, but in his case, the choice no longer extended to his descendants; every descendant of Elros was mortal.

The only thing I can conclude for why Elros’ line did not get to choose is because the Gift of Ilúvatar—that is, a death that transcends the world of Arda—trumps all other gifts. It is a blessing that followed the line of Elros—never mind that the latter Númenóreans did not all agree that this was a blessing at all.

A similar sentiment can be found in earlier versions of the Quenta Silmarillion, where Manwë said to Eärendil:

"Now all those who have the blood of mortal Men, in whatever part, great or small, are mortal, unless other doom be granted to them; but in this matter the power of doom is given to me." -- Quenta Silmarillion, The Lost Road and Other Writings

Although this was no longer included in the published Silmarillion, Christopher Tolkien still considered this in judging that Dior, son of Beren and Lúthien, would have been mortal, regardless of whether Lúthien was Elf or mortal when she begetted him.

Bonus extra: The fourth case of Elf-Man union

Despite the excerpt from Appendix A, there is another case of Elf-Man union that we know: Mithrellas and Imrazôr. This was alluded to in Return of the King when describing Prince Imrahil:

“...and with him went the Prince of Dol Amroth in his shining mail. For he and his knights still held themselves like lords in whom the race of Númenor ran true. Men that saw them whispered saying: ‘Belike the old tales speak well; there is Elvish blood in the veins of that folk, for the people of Nimrodel dwelt in that land once long ago.’” The Siege of Gondor, Return of the King

Although it seems as though this was only a rumor among Men, in the wider History of Middle-earth, Mithrellas is indeed mentioned to have been the spouse of Imrazôr who bore him children, of whom Galador was the ancestor of the princes of Dol Amroth. Of their line, it was said:

“But though Mithrellas was of the lesser silvan race (and not of the High Elves or the Grey) it was ever held that the house and kin of the Lords of Dol Amroth were noble by blood, as they were fair of face and mind.” The Heirs of Elendil, The Peoples of Middle-earth

The princes of Dol Amroth, of course, are mortal, and this does not contradict anything that has already been established. It is easy to imagine how, in a world where Elves and Men co-exist, there could be many other undocumented cases throughout the years. But what we do know is that no other Half-elf outside of Eärendil’s line would have led a long life by choosing the path of Elves. Therefore, if there were any other Half-elves in the Council of Elrond, aside from Elrond himself, they would have been not much older than Aragorn or Boromir.

Erestor’s age and role in Rivendell

We now return to Erestor. One of the clearest things in “The Council of Elrond” is the Elves’ reluctance to take the One Ring. Erestor is one of the most vocal about this, and this is one of my favorite themes to explore about his character in the Third Age.

Given the character's history in Tolkien's drafts, Erestor's narrative role seems to have always been to drive the Council of Elrond to its conclusion. Where people strayed from the topic (which then allowed Tolkien to expound more for world-building), Erestor's purpose even in early drafts was to bring everyone back to the task at hand. In addition to this though, thematically, I think Erestor eventually also represented the fading of the Elves. He is most known for his quick suggestion to give the Ring to Tom Bombadil. This tells us:

The Elves do not want anything to do with the Ring anymore, a sentiment that would be especially potent for one who was there during the Last Alliance, in the Second Age when Sauron was at the peak of his power; and

The time of the Elves is ending, and there is little more they can give to Middle-earth.

Granted, Legolas remained a member of the Fellowship and thus represented the Elves, but by Elven standards, Legolas was young, and did not have the weariness that someone older would have. Erestor reads to me as someone older, even older in spirit in comparison to Glorfindel.

‘We know not for certain,’ answered Elrond sadly. ‘Some hope that the Three Rings, which Sauron has never touched, would then become free, and their rulers might heal the hurts of the world that he has wrought. But maybe when the One has gone, the Three will fail, and many fair things will fade and be forgotten. That is my belief.’ ‘Yet all the Elves are willing to endure this chance,’ said Glorfindel, ‘if by it the power of Sauron may be broken, and the fear of his dominion be taken away for ever.’ ‘Thus we return once more to the destroying of the Ring,’ said Erestor, ‘and yet we come no nearer. What strength have we for the finding of the fire in which it was made? That is the path of despair. Of folly, I would say, if the long wisdom of Elrond did not forbid me.’ -- The Council of Elrond, The Fellowship of the Ring

Erestor has a weariness to him that is even notable especially beside Glorfindel's vitality, whom we know was reborn in Aman as though young again, with "the primitive innocence and grace of the Eldar" (Peoples of Middle-earth). Glorfindel, however, is a special case even among all Elves in the Third Age, while Erestor arguably would have been more representative of them, at least of the ones that remained in Middle-earth.

Another case to be made about Erestor being one of the oldest in Rivendell is by virtue of his status as chief among Elrond’s counsellors. Considering the population of Elves in Rivendell, this is no small feat. As Gandalf told Frodo:

‘Here in Rivendell there live still some of [Sauron’s] chief foes: the Elven-wise, lords of the Eldar from beyond the furthest seas. They do not fear the Ringwraiths, for those who have dwelt in the Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds, and against both the Seen and the Unseen they have great power. [...] Indeed there is power in Rivendell to withstand the might of Mordor, for a while: and elsewhere other powers still dwell.’ -- Many Meetings, The Fellowship of the Ring

So what is he?

The last quote about the Elf-lords of Rivendell is one of the main reasons why I say Erestor is likely of the Ñoldorin Calaquendi. This makes the most sense given his position in Elrond’s household and given the sorts of Elves that dwell there. Fortunately, this still gives us many options: he could be an Elf from Gondolin, from Nargothrond, even among one of the many houses of the Fëanoryn.

Could he have been any other kind of Elf? Sure! I even particularly have a soft spot for Erestor being Sindarin, but again, given his position, I would guess one of the older lines. Doriath, in particular, would make sense. Given how Elves seem to be “ranked” by wisdom defined by their exposure to the Valar and the rest of the Ainur, Doriath, with Melian’s influence, would have been a special kind of place.

Could Erestor still be Half-elven? My easiest answer would be that it’s unlikely. But! Do not despair! With fiction, really anything is possible. Erestor could be an exceptional Half-elf and that is why he is chief counsellor. He could still be a kindred of Elrond’s by some obscure line, such as an unrecorded child in the line of Beren and Lúthien, or as a popular fanon, either Eluréd or Elurín survived. Or he could just be the son of some other Elf and Man. But whatever version it is, Erestor Half-elven would not have had the choice of the Half-elves, and so likely would not have been alive beyond the lifetime of a Númenórean.

#erestor #meta #the way i accidentally churn out meta sometimes is just #i don't know #wow this took up a sunday #but!#i'm glad to have been able to lay down my notes for it #i do love erestor a lot #and i love the challenge that comes with piecing together canon for all fandom character studies #erestor's obscurity and the challenge he gives me is probably why i like this guy a lot #that and because #he stood beside glorfindel at a wedding #LMAO #let's not pretend it started as anything more than that #90's things #tolkien #the lord of the rings #the silmarillion and other histories

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lavendersugarplum · 1 month ago

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𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐍 | umbrella academy reader insert

𝟎𝟏 death of the monocle

"VANYA HARGREEVES."

In the hushed ambiance of the Icarus Theatre, the only sound that could be heard was the soft hum of the lighting, creating an atmosphere of serene anticipation. The judges, their faces etched with stoic concentration, eagerly awaited the next contestant who would ascend the stage to vie for the coveted first chair.

As Viktor Hargreeves stepped into the spotlight, a long-held dream of his, he rushed with a mix of excitement and trepidation towards the solitary chair that awaited him. Carefully setting down his violin case, he gently loosened the latches and extracted his prized instrument and sheet music. With poised grace, he positioned himself, delicately placing his violin beneath his chin on his collarbone, eagerly awaiting his cue to begin. The spotlight, resembling the pale moonlight, enveloped him, casting him into a mystical glow.

As the head judge readied his pen and poised his grading paper, Viktor drew his bow across the strings, conjuring the light and melancholic notes of his selected piece from Phantom of the Opera. With closed eyes, he surrendered to the ecstasy of the music, feeling the vibrations coursing through his being with every note. The sound of his violin sliced through the air like a knife, clean and sharp, leaving the judges spellbound.

~ ☂︎ ~

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄"

LUTHER

With a deep, guttural groan, Luther awakens from his slumber, his alarm clock blaring its sharp, jarring tune. The three shrill beeps pierce the air, rousing the large , scruffy and lumbering man from his deep sleep, his arm flailing limply through the air until it flops on the snooze button. The digital clock mercilessly displays the time as 23:28.

Rising from his bed with another groan, his large and muscular frame stretching to its full height. The knobby mattress beneath him never quite providing the support he needed, but he shrugged off the discomfort with a resigned acceptance.

Squeezing his formidable build through the cramped doorframe, Luther checks on the systems before entering the living space that has been his home ever since four years ago.

Four long years.

His eyes land on the small plant sitting on the counter, a glimmer of tenderness in his otherwise rugged countenance. His calloused hand reaches out to stroke its green stems, offering the gentle assistance that only he can provide. With a meticulous care that belies his imposing presence, he proceeds to water the plant, nurturing it with a silent devotion.

In this small, confined space that he calls home, Luther finds solace in the simple act of tending to this plant. It is a reminder of the delicate beauty that can exist even in the harshest environments, a symbol of hope that sustains him through the long, lonely days.

As he slips back into his suit, Luther's mind drifts to the endless repetition of his daily routine, a dull cycle that seems to have no end in sight. His thoughts are clouded with a sense of restlessness, a yearning for something more, something beyond the four walls of his cramped living space.

Yet, despite the monotony, Luther clings steadfastly to one unshakeable truth that has been instilled in him since childhood: the world needs him. This is the driving force that propels him forward, imbuing his every action with a sense of duty and purpose. He knows that his work may be thankless, his sacrifices unnoticed, but the knowledge that he is making a difference in the world is enough to keep him going.

As Luther steps out into the barren, desolate wasteland of the moon's surface, he is greeted by a stark and unforgiving landscape. The titanium door behind him closes with a resounding thud, leaving him alone in the midst of a cosmic world. With each step, he bounces across the dusty terrain, his footsteps echoing in the stillness of the lunar environment.

In his hands, he carries the latest accumulation of waste - a testament to the never-ending cycle of consumption and disposal that defines life on the moon. And yet, despite the tediousness of the task, Luther approaches it with a sense of purpose and dedication. For he knows that even the most seemingly mundane jobs play a critical role in the functioning of this fragile ecosystem.

As he reaches the trash compactor, Luther takes a moment to survey the vast expanse of the lunar surface before him. The landscape is bleak, yet there is a stark beauty in its emptiness. And in this moment, Luther feels a sense of awe and reverence for the harsh environment that has become his home.

With a deep breath, he tosses the week's trash into the compactor, the machine whirring to life as it devours the refuse. Luther watches with a sense of satisfaction, knowing that he has played his part in keeping this fragile ecosystem running smoothly.

~ ☂︎ ~

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎"

DIEGO

Amidst the chaos and terror, a young family huddles together, bound and gagged with duct tape. Their fear is visible as they watch helplessly while their father is dragged around by the back of his shirt collar, a group of masked men demanding to know the location of their safe. The harsh glare of a flashlight is trained on them, greatening their screams and adding to the sense of dread that permeates the room.

"Show me where safe is or your family's dead!"

As the intruders continue their assault, their victim cries out in desperation, pleading with them to leave his family alone as he is shoved past the living room. But their demands go unanswered, and the situation grows increasingly dire.

As chaos reigns inside the house, unbeknownst to everyone, a shadowy figure lies in wait behind the back door, patiently waiting for the right moment to make their move. With a calculated grace, they slip inside unnoticed, their movements fluid and silent.

In a matter of moments, the intruders are caught off guard as one of their own is yanked out of sight with a muffled yowl, swallowed up by the darkness. The sudden silence that follows is broken only by the sound of a sharp snap, a signal of the swift and decisive action taken.

For this masked vigilante, this is just another night on the job - a never-ending battle to protect the innocent and bring justice to those who would do harm. With each move, each calculated strike, they embody the very essence of stealth and precision.

Emerging from the shadows with the grace of a panther, a new figure steps into view, dressed in all black and bearing a cocky smirk. He is unlike any of the other masked men, standing out with his noir domino mask that outlines his eyes and conceals his identity. Around his torso are an arsenal of sharp and thin blades and knives, glinting menacingly in the dim light. He moves with a fluidity that suggest a lifetime of training and discipline, a master of his craft.

This enigmatic figure exudes a sense of confidence and control that sets him apart from the chaos and confusion of the room. Even as the intruders continue their rampage, he remains calm and collected, his focus unwavering. And as he steps forward to face the intruders, his blades at the ready, there is a sense of danger in the air.

As he surveys the room, his attention is drawn to the television set in the corner, broadcasting the weather. The contrast between the violence unfolding before him and the banal predictability of the news is striking, a reminder of the fragility of life and the unpredictability of the world.

But even as he takes in this unsettling juxtaposition, the masked figure remains focused on his mission. And with a fierce determination burning in his eyes, he steps forward to face the intruders, ready to do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of the family he has sworn to protect.

With lightning-fast reflexes and the confidence of a seasoned warrior, Diego springs into action, taking down the next accomplice in a matter of seconds. The intruders are left to wonder who this enigmatic figure is, and what he wants. But Diego gives them no answers, nor does he grant them the time to speak. Moving with a graceful efficiency, he takes down his targets one by one.

In the blink of an eye, one of the men is hurled into the glass table. The room is filled with the sound of shattering glass and startled cries as Diego dispatches each threat with ruthless efficiency.

In a flurry of swift and deadly movements, Diego dispatches half of the group, leaving their bodies scattered about like broken dolls, either dead or senseless. The room is filled with a deafening silence, broken only by the sound of shattered glass and labored breathing.

The remaining intruder is pinned to the wall, his body impaled by Diego's many blades. The masked vigilante stands over him, his face hidden behind the domino mask, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄"

ALLISON

Radiant and regal, Allison Hargreeves makes her grand entrance onto the red carpet, a vision in a fine velvet gown that drapes elegantly over her curves.

As she glides through the sea of people, her dress trailing behind her like a whisper, every eye is drawn to her, captivated by her beauty and magnetic charm. Her mere presence seems to light up the night, casting a spell over all those who are lucky enough to witness it.

And as she continues to make her way down the red carpet, the admiration and adoration of her fans and admirers only grows stronger. For in the face of such beauty and power, it is impossible not to be swept away by the sheer force of her presence.

A captivating smile graces Allison's face, a radiant beacon of light amidst the frenzied chaos of the paparazzi. As they clamor for her attention, she pauses in the center of it all, commanding the attention of every camera and onlooker.

Her smile only grows more luminous with each passing moment, a dazzling expression of her confidence and charisma. One hand rests casually on her hip, the other held up in a playful gesture, as she effortlessly poses for the flashing cameras.

For Allison, this is all just another day in the spotlight, a routine that she has mastered with effortless grace and charm. As she sends each camera a unique and arresting smile, it is clear that she is in her element, at home in the midst of the chaos that surrounds her.

And as the paparazzi continue to snap away, their wild cries echoing in the night, Allison remains the picture of poise and elegance, a true star in every sense of the word. For in the face of such adoration and attention, she remains grounded and humble, a testament to the power of grace and beauty in a world that so often values the superficial above all else.

But what she didn't notice were the sudden expressions of shock that washed over a starting few of photographers.

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔��"

KLAUS

With a languid grace, the slender and tall young man swings his leather-clad legs off the top of a bunk bed, his worn-out converse sneakers landing softly on the floor. He rises to his full height, revealing a figure draped in a long overcoat lined with black faux fur, layered over a thin netted tee shirt. His body is adorned with an impressive array of accessories, gleaming in the soft light of the room.

As he exhales, he throws his head back, his messy head of brown hair tumbling down his back in wild disarray. His smoky eyes due to the terrible misuse of eyeliner circling his eyes only serve to accentuate their piercing intensity, giving him an air of mystery and intrigue.

For this young man, the world is a stage, and he a bold and daring performer, unafraid to express himself in ways that others may find unconventional or even provocative.

And as he stands there, a vision of confident beauty and self-assurance, it is clear that he is unapologetically himself, a true rebel in a world that so often demands conformity and uniformity. For this young man, there is no compromise, no holding back - only the pure and unbridled expression of his most authentic self.

Klaus moves with a buoyant energy as he makes his way towards the exit, his steps infused with a sense of freedom and excitement. As he passes by the rows of bunk beds, his gaze drifts to a pale, sullen man lying atop one of them, a picture of despair and hopelessness.

For a moment, Klaus pauses, his eyes lingering on the man's haggard face and slumped posture. It is clear that he is struggling, lost in a sea of pain and confusion.

Without a second thought, Klaus approaches him, his voice soft and reassuring. "Hey, you," he says, his words carrying a warmth and kindness that belies his carefree exterior. "You okay?"

The man looks up, surprise and confusion etched on his face. But as he meets Klaus's gaze, he seems to relax, his features softening at the sound of his gentle voice.

Klaus offers him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Stay strong. I believe in you." His words carry a genuine warmth and kindness, a testament to the compassion that lies at the heart of his irreverent exterior.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Klaus continues down the row of bunk beds, his playful spirit undimmed by the somber surroundings. As he passes by one particularly surly occupant, he can't resist the urge to tease him, his voice laced with a playful sarcasm.

"And You? You not so much," Klaus chuckles, pointing at the scowling man seated on the bottom bunk but there his scowl soon casts upwards as he joins in on Klaus' chuckle.

With a heavy heart, Klaus reaches the front desk, where a rather bored and morose looking man stands guard, his eyes betraying the weight of the burden he carries. Behind him, a sign reads, Lakeshore Hills Rehabilitation, a stark reminder of the struggles that have brought Klaus to this place.

With a deep sigh, Klaus places a small ziplock bag filled with his meager possessions on the desk, sliding it forward with a sense of a seemingly believable resignation. "See ya soon, Klaus," the man mutters. Klaus offers him a small smile, a gesture of gratitude for the man's tireless work and dedication.

As the token spins through the air, Klaus's eyes follow its every arc, his fingers poised to catch it . And as it lands smoothly in his palm, he can feel the weight of the man's words echoing in his mind, a solemn reminder of the journey that lies ahead. The man offers him a final piece of advice.

"Stay sober," he says, his voice warning but kind.

At this, Klaus can't resist spinning around to plant a kiss on the token, sending the man a mischievous wink. And as he disappears from view, his laughter echoing down the hall.

~ ☂︎ ~

As the astronaut ascended the rough and gravelly terrain, the first glimmers of the sun's rays began to cling to his suit. With a sense of awe, he gazed out at the breathtaking view that lay before him. The blinding light of the sun illuminated every nook and cranny of the moon's surface, transforming it into a glittering expanse of stars.

But before he could fully appreciate the beauty of the moment, the rhythmic beeping of an incoming transmission disrupted his thoughts. An automated voice announced the message, and without missing a beat, The Spaceboy responded with a dismissive tone, "Tell them I'm busy!"

However, when he heard the name of the renowned Dr. Pogo on the other end of the line, Luther's demeanor quickly shifted. "Keep him on the line!" he commanded, eager to hear what the esteemed doctor had to say amidst the stunning lunar landscape.

With a powerful burst from his jet boots, Luther launches himself off the lunar surface and hurtles through the vast expanse of space. In a matter of moments, he finds himself back in the familiar confines of his ship, its darkened interior illuminated only by the glow of various screens and instruments.

The walls of his office are adorned with a patchwork of newspaper articles and framed magazine covers, each one a testament to his many adventures and triumphs. One such article catches his eye, its headline boldly proclaiming, "Mars Mission Failure: Spaceboy critically injured. Hargreeves performs experimental surgery to save his life." The accompanying image shows a diminutive Luther, reduced to the size of a guerilla, clad in a space suit that now appeared comically oversized.

Undeterred by the reminder of his past struggles, Luther strides purposefully toward his desk and picks up the phone, ready to tackle whatever challenges await him next.

"Any good news from Earth, Pogo?" Luther queried, his voice tinged with a hint of hope. However, his excitement quickly gave way to disappointment as the response came back negative. "You know I can't leave my post," he replied, his sense of duty resolute. "A threat may finally-"

But before he could finish his thought, the tone of the conversation shifted dramatically, and he was left unpleasantly surprised. "What? Oh. I see. I'm on my way," he declared, his voice now brimming with urgency.

Without hesitation, Luther made his way to the space capsule, a sleek one-seater that he knew like the back of his hand.

Luther's ever-attentive robotic companion stood at the ready, its metallic frame gleaming in the dim light. " I have readied your ship number one. Will you be requiring your razor pistol?," it announced, its voice crisp and clear.

At the mention of his code name, Luther couldn't help but bristle slightly. "Yes, and Ben?" he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of annoyance. "Remind me to reprogram you when I get back. Only my father calls me Number One."

Despite his irritation, Luther knew that Ben meant well, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the robot's unwavering loyalty. As he prepared to embark on his latest mission, he knew that he could count on Ben to be there every step of the way, taking care of his work space.

He settled into the cockpit and activated the launch program, the familiar hum of the engines filling the cabin.

Ben stood at attention as his ship prepared to launch into the vast expanse of the galaxy. With a sense of quiet reverence, the robot gazed out into the endless void, its metallic frame glinting in the starlight.

As the ship began to lift off the ground, the robot's voice rang out in a solemn farewell. "Godspeed, Spaceboy, Sir," it intoned, its words carrying a weight of respect and admiration for the heroic astronaut.

For a moment, the robot stood there, watching as the ship vanished into the darkness, a tiny speck of light against the backdrop of the universe. And as it turned to go, the robot knew that it would continue to stand vigil, keeping watch over the vast expanse of space, ever faithful to its duty and to the brave souls who ventured forth into the unknown.

~ ☂︎ ~

Diego's hand hovered over the carpet, his fingers poised to pick off one of the many bloodied knives that lay scattered among the hundreds of glass shards that littered the floor. With a sense of grim determination, he selected one and rose to his feet, turning to face the cowering family who huddled before him.

In that moment, his eyes met those of the father, who gazed up at him with a mixture of fear and gratitude. Though the man's mouth was covered with duct tape, his eyes spoke volumes, conveying a sense of deep appreciation for Diego's intervention. And even though his wrists had never been tied, the father had been unable to defend his family from the attackers who had descended upon their home.

Now, as Diego moved to assist the family, the father watched warily, still reeling from the shock of the attack. But even in the midst of his fear and uncertainty, he could sense the sincerity in Diego's gaze, a reassuring presence in the midst of it all.

Diego turned to the family, offering them a unharming gaze. "Your family is safe now," his voice filled with quiet conviction. Though the scars of the attack would linger for some time, he knew that they would eventually heal.

But before he could offer any further assistance, Diego's heart sank with a sense of dread as his eyes trained on the television. And when the all-too-familiar pair of cold, unforgiving, grey eyes appeared on the screen, he knew that this was no ordinary news broadcast.

For a moment, he was transfixed, his gaze locked on the image of the man who had haunted his nightmares for years. The eyes that stared back at him were filled with a malevolent gleam, a hint of the darkness that lurked within.

"We're going now live to a breaking story," the anchor announced, his voice crackling with urgency. And as the images flickered across the screen, Diego's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. The colors danced across his face, reflecting the tumultuous emotions that roiled within him.

~ ☂︎ ~

As Allison navigated the chaotic throng of photographers, her name echoed through the air in a frantic chorus of voices. But one voice rose above the rest, a desperate plea that pierced through. "Allison!" the photographer screamed, pulling her around to face him. "Have you heard the news? When was the last time you saw your father?"

Allison was momentarily overcome by a flurry of thoughts, her mind racing and drawing conclusions with a swiftness that left her feeling somewhat unsettled, given the frenzied environment in which she found herself. The news of her father had reverberated with such force through the media that it had ignited a veritable firestorm of activity, with the paparazzi descending upon her like a swarm of insatiable vultures, eagerly clamoring for any morsel of information that they could lay their rapacious hands upon.

But even as she felt a sense of unease gnawing at the edges of her consciousness, Allison forced herself to remain calm and composed. With a cool detachment, she shifted her attention to the next photographer, avoiding the man's desperate gaze as she moved through the crowd.

"Have you heard from your brothers?."

As the woman's question reached her ears, Allison's smile faded, replaced by a look of concern and uncertainty. She knew that something was amiss, could sense the undercurrents of tension and fear that lurked just beneath the surface.

The next comment, however, was the one that pushed her over the edge, a harsh jibe that cut her to the quick. Lost amidst a sea of noise and confusion, Allison struggled to make sense of what was happening, her gut telling her that something was terribly wrong.

And then, just as she was about to give up hope, her manager appeared at her side, pulling her away from the red carpet and into the relative safety of the backstage area. As they hurried along, a voice reached her ears, confirming her worst suspicions.

"Allison, will you wear Valentino to the funeral?"

~ ☂︎ ~

With a determined gait, Klaus strode through the shadowy alleyway, his body instinctively navigating the terrain while his mind drifted away to lofty realms. Yet, his reverie was abruptly shattered by the sight of the unmistakable figure cloaked in a dark hoodie, silently beckoning to him with a small bag of unknown substances tightly clasped in its grasp.

A smile flickered across Klaus's face as he approached, the money already exchanged before he even arrived. In a burst of effusive energy, he tackled the dealer in a hug, giving him a swift pat on the back before turning to make the exchange.

As he stepped back, a look of elation washed over Klaus's face, his lips tugging into a wide grin. With a sense of childlike joy, he backed away down the alley, planting a kiss on the baggie as if it were a cherished token.

For a moment, he stood there, twirling around and savoring the moment, a sense of pure happiness coursing through his veins. And then he hastily broke into a run, his heels clicking together midair.

~ ☂︎ ~

Klaus's body swayed limply with the motion of the ambulance, the blaring sirens echoing through his consciousness. The world around him seemed to blur and spin, his senses overwhelmed by the disorienting chaos of the moment.

In the next instant, the defibrillators were upon him, their jolts coursing through his body with a raw, electric intensity. With a heavy gasp, Klaus rose from the brink of death, his chest heaving as he grasped for breath through the oxygen mask that still clung to his face.

The rush of adrenaline and shock coursed through his veins, his entire body trembling with the intensity of the moment. With a wild cackle, he tore off the mask, his eyes alight with a reckless energy.

For a moment, Klaus stood there, his head shaking with a grin plastered across his face. And then, with a sudden collapse against one of the shelves, he surrendered to the overwhelming force of the moment, his body still trembling with the remnants of the high.

Klaus extended his left palm, the tattoo etched across it reading "GOODBYE," as he hoped for a high five from the EMT. With a laugh, the EMT complied, offering up his own hand to meet Klaus's in a resounding slap. He whooped with delight, his joy infectious as he and the EMT share a sense of joy.

But just as they were basking in the moment, a sudden disturbance from the portable radio TV caught their attention. Klaus's eyes flicked to the screen, his heart sinking as he made out the words "Breaking News" through a screen of static.

Klaus was beguiled by the hypnotic flicker of images that danced across the cramped screen, his eyes struggling to discern the elusive truth of what he was witnessing. The distorted voice of the broadcaster valiantly battled its way through the cacophony of sirens and into Klaus's nebulous mind, inciting a frenzied flurry of thoughts as he grappled with the gravity of the breaking news.

Adjacent to him, an enigmatic presence shared his rapt fixation, their inner turmoil mirroring his own perplexing mixture of emotions. Klaus was acutely aware that sobriety was not a prerequisite for comprehending the gravity of the moment, as the weight of the world seemed to bear down upon him.

And then, as if in slow motion, the words came through with a clarity that cut through the noise and confusion. "Moments ago, police reported the death of the most eccentric and reclusive billionaire..."

"So, the old man finally kicked the bucket, huh?"

~ ☂︎ ~

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍"

VIKTOR

The lullaby that falls from his fingertips comes to a sudden halt, as fast as the world comes back to him. All becomes silent as he hastily stands up awaiting the judges feedback.

As Viktor's fingers danced across the violin strings, he ended what sounded like a beautiful lullaby filled the air. The music came to a halt, and the world came rushing back to him. The room fell silent as Seven stood up, his heart pounding with anticipation, waiting for the judges' feedback.

The judges exchanged glances, lost in thought. Viktor could feel his breath catch in his throat as he waited for their decision. It was a moment of both fear and beauty, as Viktor's fate hung in the balance.

~ ☂︎ ~

As Viktor strides forward, his feet create a symphony of rippling puddles, each step producing a miniature wave that spreads outwards like a pebble cast into a still lake. The sound of his footsteps is the only noise in the quiet night, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional murmur of voices drifting through the air.

Despite the gentle bustle of the night, Viktor's thoughts are restless, his mind filled with the weight of the day's events. As he trudges towards his humble apartment, he can't help but reflect on the indignity of having to rely on a bus to get around, the knowledge that he cannot afford something as basic as a car gnawing at him like a persistent ache.

Viktor's nightly walk from the bus was so familiar to him that he could easily have made the journey with his eyes closed, yet this realization brought him no sense of accomplishment or pride. Instead, it served as a stark reminder of the normalcy and the simplicity of his life, a life that seemed to be devoid of any true meaning or purpose.

As he trudged along the familiar path, his thoughts drifted back to a time long gone, a time when he had dared to dream of a future filled with possibility and promise. But now, in the face of the daily struggles and the endless grind of his monotonous existence, those dreams seemed like nothing more than distant memories, a cruel taunt of what could have been.

At moments like these, in moments of the feeling lack. He can't help but to think back on what his life would've been like if he wasn't just an ordinary. What it would've been like to have his name plastered across the headlines and billboards. What it would have been like if he had been extraordinary. If he had been special. Just like the rest of his family. Instead of being the excluded appointed black sheep.

Viktor's thoughts are abruptly halted as he finds himself standing transfixed before a foggy window display, just a few doors down from his humble apartment building. His eyes are drawn to a television set, broadcasting the latest news that now shows him a grim picture of his father. The image captures the cold glint of his father's eyes, and below it, in bold letters, is the headline that sends a shiver down Viktor's spine: "SIR REGINALD HARGREEVES IS DEAD".

For a moment, Viktor is frozen in shock, his mind struggling to comprehend the enormity of the news. His father, the legendary figure who had loomed so large over his life, was now gone, leaving behind a gaping void that seemed impossible to fill. Memories of his father flood Viktor's mind, memories of a man who was both distant and imposing, a man who had shaped him in ways that he had yet to fully understand.

As he stands there, lost in thought, the world around him seems to fade into obscurity, and he is left alone with his thoughts and the weight of his grief. In this moment, the future seems uncertain and the path ahead unclear.

"Dad..." Viktor's voice catches in his throat, barely above a whisper, as the full weight of the news hits him with a crushing force. Hot tears well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over onto his cheeks, as he struggles to come to terms with the reality of his father's passing.

The rain begins to fall in earnest, a sudden downpour that blankets the street in a shroud of misty gray. The droplets pelt Viktor's face and clothes, mingling with the tears that stream down his cheeks in an unrelenting torrent.

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