Reblog If You've Found Friendship Because Of Your Fandoms.

Reblog if you think it’s okay to platonically say “I Love You” to your friends

Jet Lag News Update

#1. Ben Threatened To Break His Legs If He Doesn't Get His New Switch Soon

"Our sources say this indicates the ever approaching filming date of s15, with the release of season 14 just around the corner."

#2. Breaking News: Adam Chase Asked The Public For Travel Tips Instead of Sam

"Trouble in paradise? Or was Adam Chase just not in the mood for Sam yapping about planes for three hours? Sam wants to know. No, really, Sam wants to know."

#3. Jet Lag The Game Turns Three

"Sam Denby, founder of Jet Lag the Game, diagnoses his child with developmental problems, co-founder Ben Doyle disagrees: 'It has drawn sooo many circles, Sam!' - co-founder Adam Chase remains suspiciously silent on the issue."

"Howl Jenkins is swarming in girls falling head over heels for him" factoid is actually a statistical error. Average girl is tired of his existence. Sophie Hatter, who falls head over heels for his stupid overdramatic face at least once a day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted

Oh good, at first I thought you were turning into Frankenstein.

i am creating an abomination please stand by

Reblog to hug prev

Please

Second Age De-Aging AU

(Title is a work in progress.)

The workshop looked as if it had recently contained a small to medium sized explosion.

That concerned Gil-Galad a great deal less than what had been left in the wake of that explosion.

Namely, a very small peredhel currently perching catlike on one of the few sets of shelves still standing and who was hurling every throwable object in reach at a wincingly placating Annatar.

The thrown objects were accompanied by what he first interpreted as a yowl, which was really only reinforcing the cat impression, right up until he belatedly realized it was actually a wail, at which point he had to remind himself that it was not at all appropriate for him to throw things at an emissary of a Valar. 

Even if he was almost entirely certain that, despite the seeming impossibility of the thing, the very small peredhel in question was Elrond.

Still. He was king. Kings did not throw things. Kings very calmly and not at all frantically demanded, “What happened?”

Elrond’s wail at last became intelligible words. “He lied!”

Gil-Galad switched his gaze to Annatar.

The maia was holding his hands out in a conciliatory fashion. “Dear Celebrimbor and I have been working on some things to better help Men preserve their minds as they age. Perfectly safe for both elves and Men, I assure you. Lord Elrond expressed a natural interest. I had no idea that with his . . . unique nature . . . it would react this way to his touch.”

“It exploded,” Gil-Galad said flatly.

“Not at all!” Annatar assured him. “It merely . . . affected his fea in an unexpected way. And it seems his hroa followed. At which point, he was unsurprisingly distressed . . . “

Gil-Galad reconsidered the explosion in the context of a highly frightened descendant of Luthien.

“ . . . and I am afraid that the resulting . . . incident . . . led to it . . . ”

Gil-Galad redirected his attention to the scorch marks on the workbench as Annatar very visibly searched for a word that was not “exploding.”

“And at which point in this process did you lie to him?” he asked pleasantly.

Annatar winced even more deeply. “He asked where his brother was,” he said apologetically. 

Gil-Galad went very, very still.

He remembered, very clearly, just how closely the twins had stuck to each other in the early days of their being sent to Balar.

He remembered, very clearly, the grief on Elrond’s face when Elros had sailed.

And he remembered, very clearly, the grief that even still had not vanished when the bond between them at last had fully snapped.

“I’m afraid in my distraction that I said that was an interesting theological question.”

And Elrond, even at this age, had put the pieces together between that statement and the aching void Gil-Galad was sure he still felt in his soul when he reached for his brother.

Maiar, he had to remind himself very firmly, did not view death as Men or elves did. Annatar had not intended his statement to lead to . . . this.

This was even now changing. Whatever expression was on Gil-Galad’s face must have convinced Elrond that it was not a lie after all because there were no more objects being thrown from the shelf.

Unless, of course, you counted Elrond himself, who was slowly but surely turning the color of bleached bone and sliding inexorably off the shelf.

Gil-Galad sprang for him, catching the far too light body just in time.

“Fix this,” he ordered Annatar, clutching Elrond to his chest. Elrond had gone deathly quiet, and he had to move his hand on Elrond’s back until he could feel the heartbeat through the ribs just to be sure it was still pumping.

It was not the correct way to talk to an emissary of the Valar.

Gil-Galad did not have enough left in him to care.

. . .

Several hours later, he still had not determined what precise age this version of Elrond was.

This failure was mainly because of what else he had discovered. Namely, that this version of Elrond did not want to talk.

Or eat. Or sleep. Or do anything, really, but curl up into the smallest ball he could manage and block out the rest of the world.

He did not object to Gil-Galad talking. Or singing. Or pacing.

He did object, after those first few moments, to being touched. Gil-Galad had set him down in the window seat of his borrowed office the moment he could. As far as he could tell, Elrond hadn’t moved since.

He also objected to Annatar’s entrance. At least, that’s what Gil-Galad assumed the infinitesimal tensing of his shoulders meant. It was tempting to drag Annatar into the hallway to just meet there, but that would mean leaving Elrond alone, and Gil-Galad felt . . . uneasy about that.

(The window was narrow. The window was covered with beautifully stained glass that some of the artisans here had apparently been experimenting with. The window was not that high off the ground, really, as elves usually considered things.)

(On the other hand: Elwing. Maedhros.)

(Even if Elrond currently remembered only one of those formative experiences, Gil-Galad was not in the mood to take any risks.)

“You have a solution?”

Annatar shook his head mournfully. “I have a better idea of what went wrong,” he corrected. “A solution will likely take weeks. Longer, perhaps. It is a good thing you accompanied Lord Elrond on this visit; I am not sure a messenger could have found Celebrimbor in time.”

Gil-Galad paused in his pacing. “In time,” he repeated.

“Since the dwarves have been so reluctant to share the location of their sacred places to others in the past . . . ?” Annatar’s voice hinted gently, embarrassed to repeat what Gil-Galad already knew.

He knew full well why a message might take a while to find Celebrimbor; the complications of Celebrimbor’s expedition with the dwarves of Khazad-dum falling, he was assured unavoidably, in tax year, coinciding with a few mix-ups in delegation and communication . . . 

But “in time.”

Were the effects going to get worse or - ?

“He’s a child,” Annatar said, very slowly, in response to the confusion Gil-Galad feared was on his face. “His fea will need to be nurtured. Preferably by a relative.”

“That’s just superstition,” he protested.

Annatar looked at him very oddly.

“ . . . I’ve heard,” Gil-Galad tacked on, like an elf who had certainly had two very present and alive elvish parents to nurture him throughout his childhood, and not at all like a feral former fugitive who had been raised by human bandits in the woods.

“From whom?” Annatar asked incredulously.

“Elrond,” he said after a slightly too long pause. He flicked his eyes hopefully to the child on the window seat; Elrond hadn’t so much as twitched. “He survived the first time around, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Annatar agreed after an equally baffled pause. “Forgive me for any indelicacy here, but you do realize that no matter how forsworn the sons of Feanor may be, they do still count as relatives . . . ?”

Right.

And Gil-Galad . . . did not.

Which shouldn’t matter, he told himself firmly. He had survived, hadn’t he? And he was perfectly fine.

Perfectly alive, at any rate. And any of his various moral shortcomings were just down to his personal failings. And the more practical side of his upbringing.

Definitely.

His eyes flicked worriedly to the very pale, very still, very small figure in the corner.

“I don’t suppose you have any advice in that direction?”

(Annatar did, as it turned out.)

(It did not turn out to be enough.)

. . .

He had felt guilty before about lying about his place in the Finwean family tree.

None of it came close to what he felt watching Elrond slowly wasting away.

He had lied and cheated his way to this point, and if this point got Elrond killed -

No.

He could stay here and pray Annatar finished fixing the device before his own deficiencies got Elrond killed.

Or he could take his company and ride hard for Galadriel.

Probably that would be the end of his masquerade; probably all that sharp edged suspicion in her eyes would turn to certainty and that would be that. Definitely of his career and possibly of his life.

But Galadriel was Elrond’s cousin; Galadriel was a mother. Galadriel would know what to do. Elrond would be alright.

(“I’m sure this isn’t necessary,” Annatar said as Gil-Galad’s guards prepared the horses. Elrond had let himself be hauled like a terrifyingly heartbroken statue onto one of them. “You must be a closer relative to him the sons of Feanor were; surely with a few more days of trying to bond with him - ”)

(He considered just blurting it out. ‘No, actually, he might be more closely related to you, considering that maiar blood.’ ‘No, actually, I wouldn’t know Finwe from a dead toad on the ground.’)

(‘No, actually, there’s something terribly wrong with me. Possible more wrong than there was with thrice kin slaying Feanorians.’)

(He smiled, instead, with a closed mouth. “I’m really not father material,” he said. “Lady Galadriel, I’m sure, will prove as ferociously competent as always in my stead.”)

(Annatar did not argue with this.)

. . .

(There weren’t any Feanorian guards with them. Gil-Galad had insisted after what had happened the last time he had let Elrond bring Farande to Eregion. He wasn’t sure if that was for the better or the worse now; if Elrond would be relieved to have a face he recognized or terrified due to how he recognized it.)

(At least that might be better than the terrifyingly hollow look that was currently in his eyes.)

(But it would be better soon, he assured Elrond. They would reach his cousin Galadriel soon, and wouldn’t that be nice?)

(Elrond remained curled in the tightest huddle he could manage by the campfire. He no longer bothered to wince when he was touched.)

. . .

Galadriel met them at the edge of the forest she had made her new home in, so at least the messengers he had sent had managed to find her. She gave her usual shallow courtesies to her nominal king, but her eyes were locked on Elrond.

Now, at last, was the moment to confess.

Gil-Galad slid from his horse. Carefully, oh, so carefully, he helped Elrond down. 

His ribs had been less prominent when the Feanorians had sent him to Balar.

“I couldn’t help him,” he said, his quiet voice sounding like the crack of doom through the silence.

“Of course you could not,” Galadriel said. 

Of course.

“His fea was orphaned once; it will not accept a replacement again. Not - ” And here, in the face of Elros, even she faltered. “Not under these conditions.”

A different, more dreadful doom wrapped around his heart.

If Celebrimbor had been deemed too difficult to find -

He noticed, dully, that Galadriel had come alone.

And that despite wearing a fine woven cloak against the snap of the late autumn chill she was carrying another one.

And a flute.

“Lady Galadriel,” he said slowly.

“Do you want to help him or not?” she snapped. She paused. “My king.”

“Oh, I want the help,” he said instantly, fervently. “I’ll welcome him into Lindon with open arms if he can do this.”

“Well,” she sniffed. “I don’t know that you need to promise that.”

“Especially since it seems you came well prepared with bribes yourself,” he said, nodding with considerable relief to the goods in her hands.

She looked down at them. “ . . . Yes,” she said. “Bribes.”

someone on twitter is trying to claim that use of an em-dash is an indication of AI-generated writing because it’s “relatively rare” for actual humans to use it. skill issue

Reading The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe with my son on Easter Tuesday and he was so shocked and confused and bereft when Aslan died. Then we had to stop for a very gloomy lunch before we could read the next chapter, and it hit me that he was getting a better understanding than anything we could have taught him about what the disciples went through on Easter Saturday. I mean, we had just been talking about it three days earlier, but of course when you know there's a happy ending coming, you don't really feel it. And Aslan was finally here, after all this hope and expectation, and he was meant to make everything all right again 😭 He'd even already made the connection to Jesus when the witch's gang were kicking and hitting and jeering at Aslan, but he never in his wildest dreams thought he would become alive again! The joy and wonder and absolute glee he felt in the next chapter — he figured it out just before it happened because he cottoned onto the homage — preached the whole thing more eloquently than I could ever have hoped. And oof, if I didn't feel it all with him, too, as if for the first time ❤️ Well played, Mr Lewis, well played.

Also yesterday I caught him saying "I say!" so a positive experience all round 😃