#light splintered and sewn

[iron-dogwood]

A small animation of Feanor, inspired by @antlered-vixen's heart-wrenchingly beautiful Feanor/Fingolfin fic "Light Splintered and Sewn"! Only a few more chapters to go!

(Made using FlipaClip.)

[iron-dogwood]

@antlered-vixen

"Light Splintered and Sewn" has 300,000+ words.

Insanity.

(I love it.)

Love when writers do an insane amount of unnecessary research for their fics. I follow an author that did like 8 months of intense research into 14th century Scotland so they could write smut about it, and guess what. It was some fucking incredible porn AND I learned about old Scottish politics

[deckofmanymore]

"In truth, you were a cannibal long before the Helcaraxë."

My attempt at drawing a Fingolfin inspired by @antlered-vixen 's amazing fic Light Splintered and Sewn - quote is from chapter 29, in which shit really hits the fan my fucking god

[hybriddhthepoet]

Marionette by HybridDH

Art by ghosty_entity

https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

In the darkened room, a stage unfolds,

where velvet curtains shield tales untold.

There in the dim light’s soft, faint sway,

a marionette waits, bound to obey.

Threads stretch high, veiled and taut,

puppet and shadow caught in thought.

With porcelain skin and painted smile,

she waits, unmoving, docile, beguiled.

An unseen hand pulls; she shudders awake,

a dance begins, each step to partake

in muted hums, a silent sway,

as joints align in ghostly ballet.

Her glassy gaze is fixed and wide,

unblinking, drawn from side to side,

eyes unfeeling, blank, and cold,

secrets too deep, in silence told.

The stage, her world of fabric walls,

a prison fashioned for lifeless dolls;

each step marked by the strings’ command,

a measured move, a forced demand.

She spins, she twirls with delicate grace,

her movements bound to an endless place,

and though she glides with a quiet charm,

her dance is bound, and free of calm.

There’s a murmur low, a command unclear,

whispers cold as winter’s cheer,

echoes scripted in her ear,

words that she feels, yet never hears.

Buttons for eyes, stitched mouth set wide,

she’s hollow within, though painted with pride;

the smile sewn on, the laugh confined,

a mask that cracks yet holds the line.

Around her, dolls on taut-held threads,

pinned to their parts, lifeless and led.

In faded lace, they watch and wait,

bound to their roles, resigned to fate.

One doll stands cracked, with splintered seams,

a rosewood figure, worn of dreams—

she’s cast aside, her purpose done,

no longer danced, no longer spun.

For every twirl and every bow,

she’s merely part of another’s vow;

the stage grows larger, yet so small,

a muted echo, a silent call.

And as she bends in practiced arc,

she wonders if this role left a mark—

a phantom tale, a puppet’s jest,

a marionette swayed at fate’s behest.

The strings grow taut; she cannot stray,

locked in this strange, perpetual play,

her movements guided, whispers hushed,

in satin gloves, her spirit crushed.

But under the mask, beneath the paint,

a flicker stirs, though ever faint—

a silent plea, a wordless cry,

for freedom’s hand, to sever and untie.

At last, the dance draws to a close,

she’s set back down in static repose.

And as the hands drift out of sight,

a tear escapes, frail in the light.

A single drop, a trace of grace,

a glint of life on her painted face.

[spiced-wine-fic]

FFS @antlered-vixen You’re in the 1% of brilliant writers who are writing (or have written) in the Silm fandom. Laurels for you all the way. (Trust me, I am a reader).

I actually squealed when I saw you'd posted a new chapter of light splintered and sewn, had to pause to calm down because it caught me off guard.

Keep up the great work <3

Oh gosh, thank you so so so much. Nothing makes me happier than people who are still on board with Light. Thank you for taking the time to be kind and encouraing. Truly. Sorry for the unpredictability! I used to update weekly when I had a lot of pre-written parts, but the major surgery I had had me "catch up" to myself and now I'm writing as I go, with only a skeleton. It tends to take ten days or so, with chapters this size! Also, I feel extremely embarrassed posting my chapter updates or progress on tumblr because my brain is "lmao you're not a real writer like (insert people I admire) you can't be doing that". So I'm just ambushing people in a park with my long trenchcoat out of the blue, wiggling my brow, going "hey you psssssst would you like a 20k word chapter of elf politics, elf intrigue, elf gender and elf kink?"

[takami-takami]

Anew.

includes— hawks x reader. angst. hurt/comfort. minors dni.

warnings— gn!reader. loss of wings and regrowth. nightmares. keigo tends to your wounds. blood description.

You lose your wings for the first time. It does not feel like the first time, but Keigo is there to patch your wounds. Keigo is always there to patch your wounds.

Keigo knew a thing or two about sprouting new feathers from the flesh of one's back. The splintering of new appendages, raw and awakened for the first time like freshly-birthed infants from the womb.

He cared for your seraphic wings. Preened them like his own quirk, cleaned them as if they were sewn to his own back.

Taught you how to care for them, too. 

Taught you for the first time the truth, that they grow back. Soothed your worries that they never would.

Taught you how the ache means it's working. Means there's feathers bubbling anew, waiting to burst forth from the flesh. 

Keigo sat with you in the living room at three in the morning. You had screamed yourself awake again that night, the whimpering in your sleep morphed to aching, pained howls. Like night terrors, the sting of it, night terrors that didn't stop when you awoke.

You knelt on the floor with Keigo at your back on the couch. The room was silent and dim, save for the distant crackling of the fireplace. Your eyes remained locked forward, watching the burning pyre stoke itself to life, swallowing more oxygen to burn. The light of it flickered like fireflies in shades of warm amber and cold red, blinking awake and asleep.

The color red bubbled in tiny dots around the growth site of your new wings. Keigo said nothing as he dabbed cotton rounds designed for skincare against the blood. You both slept at your place last night, so he didn't have access to the usual supplies he tended to patch his own feathers up with. He would make do.

Keigo's wings were in relatively good shape that day; a little stubbier than usual, still recovering from being seared to the base from a fight with Dabi.

The white of the cotton soaked up your red. You didn't wince, but Keigo hummed an appreciative sound for your bravery regardless. 

"How many times have you lost yours," you whispered. 

The question was meek. Tentative. Keigo didn't wince, but you placed an appreciative hand on his knee for his bravery regardless.

"Mm. Lost count a long time ago, dove," he said, and shifted to rummage through your first aid kit for antiseptic ointment. 

At that, you stiffened, causing Keigo to halt in his verbal tracks to clarify.

"It's not necessarily a bad thing— not to me, at least," he continued, squeezing a dollop onto his thumb to apply to your wound. "Kinda reminds me that they can still grow back, in a way. Like I'm challenging the big, bad mother hen that's nature, ya' know?"

You suppressed a snort, barely able to hold back a smile. 

"You would say that," you chided.

"Oh, whatever do you mean?"

You rolled your eyes. "That. Anyone ever tell you that you're more like a puppy than a bird?"

"If you count as anyone, then yes, dove. You're special, though." Keigo pulled back, getting a better look at his handiwork. "Stretch them out for me, 'kay? Need to see how far they're coming along."

With painstaking effort, you complied. 

Judging by the pleased hum, your wings must have been coming along quite nicely— not that you'd know the difference, of course.

You've never healed before.

"Keigo?"

"Mm?"

"Does it ever stop hurting?"

He paused.

You were worth so much more. You were worth so much more than this and it splintered Keigo's heart, made him want to clutch you to his chest. And so he did, kneeling down behind you and wrapping his arms around your center.

You felt his chin move slightly atop your head when he spoke.

"It does. And then it hurts again, but you're stronger." A kiss on your hair. "And then it stops, and then it starts again, and every time it tries to swallow you, but you get bigger and bigger." A kiss to your temple. "Until the hurt can't fit you inside it anymore. And you wonder why you were ever so scared to feel it in the first place."

Your eyes burned more than your back. They burned more than the cinder of your fireplace.

"And I love you," Keigo added. "And you're going to be okay. I swear to God, dove, you're going to be okay."

"You promise," you asked, leaning into the warmth that enveloped your heart.

"I swear on my wings."

[leejenowrld]

my love letter for ‘back to you’ and to all of you

it’s been two days since i posted the final chapter of back to you, and i still don’t think there are words big enough for what this feels like. maybe there never will be. i’ve been sitting with it, letting it echo in the quiet spaces, feeling every laugh, every scar, every stolen sunrise this story gave me. i’m emotional, i’ll be honest. my eyes sting every time i think about these characters, this universe, and the way you all held it with me. it feels impossible to say goodbye, so i won’t. i can’t. this was never meant to be a farewell.

writing this story was never gentle. it was never easy. it was born from everything i never said, everything i was too afraid to feel out loud. every single word is a piece of my heart, sometimes splintered, sometimes sewn back together. i didn’t plan for the pain to go so deep, or for the joy to bloom so bright. i didn’t know mark and areum’s loss would shatter me as i wrote it, or that healing would look the way it did, broken, slow, then suddenly full of light again. i didn’t expect the weight of taeyong’s death to ripple out the way it did, or that the story would linger so long in the ache of four years lost between jeno and y/n, the stretch of silence and distance that almost became forever. i didn’t foresee taesun’s brief, beautiful life breaking me open on the page, or how writing those tiny hands and bright hopes would change what i thought grief could hold. if you wept, i wept first. if you felt seen, it’s because i wrote until i saw myself in every crack, across every long night, every family dinner, every fight and forgiveness and trembling reunion, every goodbye that became a second chance. every character, every heartbreak, every moment of joy, i lived it all alongside you.

please, take this series gently, let it move through you slow and soft, and let it be a kindness to yourself. this world is heavy with all the truths i never wanted to leave unsaid, full of every secret and every quiet hope i tucked into its corners. it’s the gentle closing of so many arcs, and the windows thrown open for whatever your own story holds next. these characters are as real to me as anyone i’ve ever known; they changed me, and i hope in some small way they change you too. more than anything, i hope back to you becomes a place of comfort, a story you can return to on any night you need softness, a universe that welcomes you home for as many rereads as you ever want. let it be your safe place, always.

the universe outgrew me. it became a wild garden i just tried to keep up with, a universe too alive to control. what started as a single story spun into a constellation, families tangled, lovers lost and found, betrayals forgiven and not, and second chances blooming where nothing else would grow. if you find loose threads, if you still have questions, good. the ask box is open for a reason. please, fill it. ask about the ones who slipped between the lines, nahyun and her haunted legacy, the cold shadow of her father, jihyo’s quiet courage, how the babies love and how they receive love, yangyang’s mystery and the love that almost slipped through his fingers. i want every question, every theory, every ache. this world isn’t done growing, not even now.

this universe has become so much more than a story. it’s a home. every time you reread, every time you think about the characters that are so adored and loved, please keep the story alive. please, don’t let it end. keep coming back, even if i’m posting new things, even if years pass and the world feels different. back to you will always be here, exland, infinite and welcoming, waiting for you to find your way home. and please believe me when i say: this is not goodbye. i refuse to close the door on this world. message me, comment, reblog, send asks, tell me what you’re feeling every time you reread, what you’re wondering, what you want to see. reread, fall in love again, help me keep every heartbeat alive. if you keep loving it, it will never die. even if you don’t reread and curiosity gets the best of you, you know where my inbox is !!!

to every single character—this is my love letter to you.

y/n: a lighthouse singing to every lost ship, you carve melodies into silence and turn your scars into stars, a mother who builds kingdoms out of tenderness and flame. your voice is a key, unlocking doors for every soul shut out in the cold, a verse that turns loneliness into legacy. your love—bold, unyielding, eternal—makes every dark room brighter, every broken piece holy.

jeno: the storm that learned to kneel in a sunbeam, hands inked with old numbers and new vows, you run until the world bends soft around you. your heart, stitched together from splinters and sweat, beats like thunder for every child who never knew safety until you. on the court or in the quiet, you choose gentleness again and again, turning old pain into new devotion.

junseo: sunrise in a boy’s body, gold-lashed and wide-eyed, you are hope made tangible, the fresh page every family aches to write on. you give away your heart with every small kindness, every hand you hold, every giggle echoing down the hall. you are the future—sweet and unafraid, the answer to every prayer that was whispered in the dark.

serin: a comet in baby form, wild light and honeyed laughter, you spin chaos into joy and make rebellion look holy. your hands are full of glitter, your pockets full of dare, always pulling the others into your orbit. forgiveness tumbles from your mouth faster than anger; you burn and rebuild every day.

mark: the oak tree grown from a single, stubborn acorn, you anchor everyone in a storm, roots tangled in the old ache of loyalty. your laugh is the sound of doors opening, your silence the shelter that keeps everyone safe. you choose love, every day, even when your heart cracks open to let the light in.

areum: the lens through which every broken thing finds its beauty, you gather shattered light and thread it into stories worth keeping. your hands know the shape of grief and how to soften it, arranging loss into bouquets for the living. you are the archivist of hope, memory’s gentle keeper, forever making space for love that never dies.

taesun: the wish whispered between breaths, a heartbeat too brief, you live on in lullabies and the empty space at the table. every dream your family has is a doorway you left open, every sky a canvas you painted with invisible stars. you are absence that aches, presence that soothes, the reason the night always feels a little warmer.

chaeun: the petal that never wilts, gentle as morning dew, you cry when laughter gets too loud, then reach for a hand to hold. your sweetness is the balm, your patience the quiet spell that makes every storm pass softer. you are the thread that mends, the hush between heartbeats, loving with the kind of sincerity that makes the world slow down.

jaemin: the sunrise dad, all honeyed warmth and gentle teasing, arms always open for every lost child and every new beginning. your laughter builds a home before the bricks are even set, your patience a harbor for every small soul who drifts your way. in every bedtime story, you stitch hope into sleep and give your daughter a forever place to land.

haeun: moonbeam in a yellow dress, laughter like windchimes, you walk through the world with impossible wonder, loving until you overflow. you speak in a language of light, healing wounds you can’t see, kissing the air for brothers you never met. your spirit is made of gold ribbon and second chances, every day a new beginning, every night a wish sent to the stars.

karina: the prism girl, reflecting everyone’s secret colors, you move like poetry through a crowded room, unafraid to burn or be burned. every look is a secret shared, every word a door left ajar, you gather broken pieces and call them art. loyalty is your backbone; you are the storm and the shelter all at once.

shotaro: the heartbeat of the dance floor, a sunbeam in sneakers, every joy you feel is contagious, every sorrow short-lived. you build family in circles and song, laughter your native tongue, forgiveness your fallback. when you move, you teach everyone else how to fly.

ryujin: steel spun into grace, you cut through silence with a single look, never letting fear be the end of your story. you are a hand on a trembling back, the first to leap, the last to leave, always carrying fire in your gaze. loyalty is your compass; rebellion, your inheritance.

donghyuck: the spark in the dark room, chaos and comfort knotted into one, you make every secret worth telling. you speak in riddles, love in jokes, and cry when no one’s watching—your devotion never in question. the world is brighter for your noise, safer for your softness.

chenle: the golden thread through every tangled friendship, a grin that undoes a day’s worth of pain, you turn trouble into tradition. you’re a mapmaker for the lost, a lighthouse for the restless, always louder, always loving. when you laugh, even the grownups become children again.

ningning: the melody that lingers after the music stops, you carry every heartache like a verse in a song. your joy is infectious, your anger dazzling, your love a wild, necessary thing. you are always the last to give up and the first to forgive.

yangyang: the horizon always just out of reach, you are the reason adventure never ends, the friend who turns exile into home. your laughter bridges continents, your arms the softest place for the broken. change is your dance partner; hope, your oldest friend.

irene: the mother of second chances, spine like silk and iron, you built a family out of fragments and loved them into wholeness. your wisdom is a shield, your embrace a refuge, your legacy the space you made for everyone to start again. when you love, you leave the door open for anyone who needs to come home.

doyoung: the steady flame in the storm, voice of reason and mercy, you are the quiet that follows chaos. your hands have learned the shape of forgiveness, your patience the foundation on which futures are built. with every gentle word, you mend what fear tries to break.

seulgi: the morning after the hardest night, eyes always searching for the light, you turn sorrow into foundation and survival into beauty. your kindness is the house everyone gathers in, your resilience the thread that weaves every family back together. you forgive more than most, and in doing so, teach everyone how to begin again.

taeyong: the ghost at the edge of every family photo, a storm that taught everyone the cost of silence. your shadow stretches long, but your story is a lesson in breaking the chain, in becoming more than what hurt you. even in your absence, you are the warning, the line drawn, the vow never to repeat the past.

nahyun: a lesson carved in glass and shadow, you are the mirror that shatters and wounds at once. you are the venom in every secret, the storm behind a perfect smile; chaos in silk, cruelty with a crown. your name is a warning, a bruise, a chapter closed—proof that not every ghost deserves a home in the light.

jihyo: the quiet architect of safe places, a healer’s soul hidden in laughter, you make every gathering feel like a homecoming. your patience is endless, your strength quiet but fierce, a backbone for those who think they have none. with every kindness, you teach the world that gentleness survives, that love can be the loudest voice in the room.

coach suh: the architect of second chances, a storm in a whistle, you are the reason lost boys come home whole. your voice is gravel and gospel, tough love with tenderness folded in; every hard lesson a secret blessing, every win and loss a place to grow. you build teams the way others build families: brick by brick, heart by heart, believing fiercely that every kid deserves someone in their corner—no matter how many times they fall.

every minor character, every parent, every coach, every friend: you are the secret constellation behind every hero’s journey, the background music that never fades. you’re the dinner table set for too many, the hallway echoing with laughter, the quiet voice reminding us that no one is too small to matter, no one too lost to be found. the adults are roots and branches—some scarred, some blossoming—holding up the wild tangle of children who spin around them like planets. coaches, with their whistle prayers and patience, are guardians of second chances; parents, both living and gone, are the ghosts who tuck us in, the legends who teach us how to stay or how to leave. even those who broke us are inked in the story’s veins, teaching that family is made of blood, yes, but mostly of choice—chosen, fought for, grieved, forgiven. every soul who passed through this world leaves a shadow, a kindness, a warning, or a welcome. found family is the myth we write together, the kind that says: you are seen, you are held, you are never truly alone. every story belongs to all of us, in the end.

the core themes of this fic—the heartbeat at its center—are the things i hope you’ll carry with you:

• not abandoning what’s broken. like jeno’s childhood jersey, the story refuses to give up on things frayed at the edges. it’s about loving what’s been hurt, honoring scars, seeing value in what others cast aside.

• second chances are real. even when the world tries to convince you that you’ve missed your shot, there’s always a way back. you can build a new ending.

• love survives silence, distance, even betrayal. no matter how many miles or years stand between you, if it’s real, it will find a way to persist. love outlasts what tries to break it.

• family is chosen, built, and fought for every day. this universe is full of found family, the kind that sticks around even when blood doesn’t, the kind that picks you up and patches you together.

• healing is not linear. progress is messy. sometimes you spiral backwards before moving forward. it’s still healing.

• there’s power in vulnerability. the bravest thing any character does is let themselves be seen—messy, raw, afraid. the moments of honesty are the moments of freedom.

• grief and joy can coexist. the story doesn’t erase pain, it folds it in—shows that new life, new laughter, can exist right beside old aches.

• redemption is for everyone, even those you least expect. forgiveness is never easy, but it’s never out of reach. every character has the chance to choose better, to reach for light, even if they’ve spent years in darkness.

and above all, love is always worth the risk. always.

i poured my heart out here, truly. back to you taught me it’s okay to be vulnerable, to be broken, to let myself be seen. now i want to hear from you, please, pour your hearts out, too. tell me in the comments, send me an ask, leave a reblog on this post: what did back to you teach you? how will you remember it? what lines will echo? what scenes live in your heart? this is a love letter where we’re all the authors. this is a shared universe, i welcome you with an open heart to share and confess whatever you crave to tell.

this story saved me. it healed parts of me i didn’t know i was allowed to mend. it brought me friends from every corner of the world, and i know it did the same for others. this universe is where i learned to put language to pain, where i found community, where i could be as vulnerable as i dared. i will always treasure that. i can’t wait to share more with you. below are pinterest boards, playlists, a community you can find home in, the masterlist so you can keep reliving your favourite moments, here’s magic that built this universe. you’ll have the links to the soundtracks and visuals that made every scene shimmer for me. please use them, share them, fall deeper in love. this story belongs to you now, just as much as it ever did to me.

♬ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ✎ 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 🎧 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

to every soul who ever commented, screamed in the tags, left a little heart or a thousand words, who laughed, raged, or wept with these people—thank you. you didn’t just read these chapters, you breathed life into them. every whisper, every reaction, every late-night message made this universe real, gave it gravity, made it feel like coming home. you made this world bigger, brighter, softer, truer. you made me braver. you gave these characters their legacy. this is never a goodbye—how could it be, when you’ve sewn your own love into every line? the universe will always be here, lights on, arms open, waiting for you to return. i promise, i will always find my way back to you. thank you, with everything i am, for loving all of this so fiercely, so tenderly. please—stay, talk to me, help me keep this heartbeat alive. i’m endlessly grateful you’re here, and always will be.

and to my orbi—the keeper of secrets (she knew what the ending would be from the very start hehe, the exclusive perks you get if you become one of my closest friends... joking), the guardian of the best plot twists, the genius behind so many of the moments you all hold closest. none of this would exist the way it does without you. you held my hand through every tangled brainstorm, sat up for hours as we picked apart endings and rewrote beginnings, and somehow always saw the story’s heart before i did. so many of the things readers adore—those gasp-worthy reveals, the aching resolutions, even the fic name back to you—they were born from your mind first. you’ve held every secret, protected every unfinished arc, believed in every wild direction i wanted to go. you loved this universe with me when it was still just scattered notes and unspoken longing, and you gave me courage to write with my whole chest. thank you for your devotion, your ideas, your laughter, your honesty, your unwavering belief. you’re in every line, every scene, every heartbeat of this world. i love you, endlessly. @hyperbolicheart

with all my love, sophie 🫶.

[fatbishonen]

"Absurdly, Ñolvo’s mind conjured the image of his ribcage as a canopied bed, and Fëanáro curled there like a wearied beast. Blood would drip down thickly, cover him whole."

@antlered-vixen, from Light Splintered and Sewn

More details under the cut

Digital painting by me, with final canon compliant burn scars added by the author himself! Here's my original version:

I had a lot of fun painting this, though I'm still getting used to the software I'm using on my tablet so I kinda fucked the image quality. Lee's fic is so good, it's what got me to read the silmarillion. I highly recommend it, but heed the tags! It will make you cry, laugh, jerk off and possibly spend a good chunk of time making fan art

[elronds-library]

Light Splintered and Sewn [WIP]

by LeetheVix (@antlered-vixen)

So Fëanáro does not die cursing under the stars. It softens his temper a little, binds him tighter to his sons. Still, he remains himself - self-aggrandising, wilful and thorned. So Ñolofinwë does not lose his youngest in the battle of Lammoth, and receives weregild. Begrudgingly, for the good of all, he will co-operate. Yet, though a good man, he is no less proud and ambitious. Can they find a healthy way to co-exist? Perhaps not. They are a little too awful to one another. Still, they will try. Meanwhile, Elu Thingol is reasonably concerned, Artanis and Celeborn court, Findaráto is more than meets the eye, and Lúthien cannot remain uninvolved for too long, even as her own fate looms. Can a somewhat better united Beleriand stand against Morgoth?

Mature, No Archive Warnings

Words: 397,630

[arahusk]

Day 4: Secrets For HuskWeek2025.

-

Husk heard a whisper that was like the soft hissing of cockroaches.

It was no surprise that it was Niffty who was trying to call him over, giving him a frantic wave as she peeked around the handle of her mop. Almost as if it would hide her, and with her tiny size, it nearly did. Her eye shone like a house on fire, the light of it reflecting off her sharp teeth.

Husk sighed. But he saw nothing else in her hands, and no weird creepy-crawlies in her hair, so he walked over from his bar, moving to the secluded hallway. He expertly bypassed the puddles of pail water that were still soaking the carpets.

"What is it, Niff?"

The maid was gripping the handle until it nearly splintered in her grip. She must have been really excited about something.

"I got a real good secret about the boss for you~!"

He frowned. "What makes you think I want to even know it?"

Niffty giggled, her pupil dilating. "Because it's so tasty."

Curiosity killed the cat, as they say. But he was already dead and buried, way over six feet under. What more could be done to him really?

That, and he knew Niffty wouldn't let up until she told him.

"Fine, spill it."

This was gonna be either stupid or horrifying. But after seeing Alastor devour several sinners alive, he was sure he heard it all. The only secret Niffty could have known was whether Alastor liked his corpses grilled or crispy.

"Okay, but you have to promise you won't tell anyone else!" Niffty quickly leaned her mop against the wall and its peeling wallpaper. "It's a forbidden kind of secret."

He did all he could to not roll his eyes. "Does the boss secretly watch game shows on the TV set downstairs? Promise I won't tell a soul for this awful scandal of his."

But what he didn't expect was when Niffty pulled out something from her pockets. It looked like...some sort of raggedy doll, one that was completely in her liking, down to the single crimson button to serve as an eye. It had black thread sewn on its face for a smile, and even wore her exact style of dress, down to the little blood splatters.

He knew Niffty was absurdly young at heart, but this was pushing it. "So, uh... new hobby of yours?"

It seemed likely when Niffty also pulled out a needle, holding it delicately in her other hand. But she shook her head.

"Alastor made this. I just helped!" She grinned. "He likes sewing up dolls of us!"

Husk instantly knew he wasn't going to like what she would say next.

Niffty balanced the needle in her fingers, looking ready to stab something. She gazed at her mini-self with fondness, even with the numerous patches sewn over its limbs.

"Alastor said he used to make a bunch of these when he was alive. But, he only makes dolls of those he likes and wants to protect! And he gave me this!" She hugged it tightly, giggling off-key. "He says I can be trusted with it now. And that he made sure the hair would always stay soft and that the pretty dress won't rip!"

Husk remained quiet. This was a mistake. He shouldn't have stayed. Yet, it was like those very needles Niffty always carried was pinning him to this very spot.

"He also has a doll of you." She raised her singular eye to him. Engulfing red, with only a tiny pinprick of black. "It's so cute and cuddly! He even uses real fur and feathers for it. He lets me pet it, hehe."

It was his own. He didn't even question it. Husk remembered waking up one morning to find his arm a little less fuzzy. He remembered feeling his wings with stings of pain, as if someone had pulled out the feathers in nondescript places.

"Where is it?" he asked. He didn't specify. But Niffty always had a scarily quick mind.

"Oh, Alastor still has it. It's safest with him, he says. He told me that he always makes sure you're taken care of, since you'd just lose it in a game of blackjack."

Husk gripped his fists. Jackass. His wings shivered. "Niff, why are you telling me this?"

Niffty smiled so ecstatically. "Alastor wanted you to know his secret. Isn't that great?"

No.

Niffty didn't notice his silence. She was still cuddling her doll, made of cotton, stitches, and magic. She then pressed a fingertip against the needle's point, the sharp prick seemingly jogging another memory.

"Also! He said once I told you this..." She laughed, tickled at whatever little comment Alastor must have said. "He said, 'Let Husker know I'm always here to lend him a hand!'''

It was then that Husk felt a palm against the small of his back, fingers shifting through fur.

He whipped his head around, his tail flicking, and his wings outstretched. Yet no one was there. It didn't matter. He felt that same hand tighten, fingers massaging his waist.

It could touch him. It could caress. It could also rip off his spine. Carve into his flesh. Pull him apart limb from limb.

Husk was still. He swallowed, turning back to Niffty. "Yeah. Alright, thanks. Heard that loud and clear."

Niffty smiled, looking so pleased. "You're welcome! Now we both know the boss's darkest secret!" Then she skipped away, leaving the mop behind so she could enjoy her gift from Alastor.

Knowing his boss, he probably Niffty-proofed it so she wouldn't hurt herself. Or maybe, he knew she would love the feel of needles in her skin and that it wouldn't matter. Not for her.

Husk shivered, even long after the hand on him had left.

Maybe at night, he would feel such hands on him again, cradling like he was something so precious. So fragile. So breakable.

The dolls were for their protection, Niffty had said.

He had to believe that with every inch of his soul, or he'd never be able to sleep.

[iron-dogwood]

A small sketch inspired by a scene in Chapter 14 of the [Feanor/Fingolfin] fan fic "Light Splintered and Sewn". Exhausted Feanor, enjoying a rare moment in the bath.

[antlered-vixen]

Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion - Fëanor. A scene from chapter 2 of Light Splintered and Sewn, where Fingolfin meets his brother again after the Crossing, over the Mithrim, and Fëanor is sadly still rather insufferable. And unfairly handsome.

[justjudethoughts]

"My life isn't interesting, I wish I lived in a story world." But you do. Don't you see?

Every person you have ever met is better than your most favorite characters because they are real. They are flesh and blood and bone. They have dreams and aspirations and stories that would make you laugh until your side hurts and others that would make you weep.

Every place you have ever lived has left its mark on you, formed you in some way. Your life is a series of sequential events that change you and build you and help make you the person you see when you look in the mirror. You think thousands upon thousands of thoughts a day, and you have a certain, unique way of processing the world around you. It's been built by every part of your life.

There are themes that repeat in your life, a little golden strand of thread that shows up again and again, in new and surprising ways. We love when an author weaves themes through stories because that's how it is in our own lives--all of human history is a magnificent tapestry we can't quite see yet, but we get to find some of the patterns, the threads, the bits that weave together here and there and we get to take part in them. And sometimes, with glorious serendipity, those dandelion wishes you made as a kid come true decades later.

I'm sure you've seen that post that says you are made up of pieces of everyone you have ever loved, and it's true. But more than that, you are made up of the love of thousands of generations, all of your ancestors who lived and laughed and cried and loved to get you here. Years upon years of suffering and joy and sweat and blood and heartbreak and beauty and humanity. You come from all of that. You are a part of all of that. You are a piece in a story filled with magnificent characters---dashing heroes, harrowing villains, and some people stuck somewhere in the middle, wondering where it is they belong.

Fantasy worlds are only so beautiful because this one is. You can't build something out of nothing, and every author who has ever created a world pulled from this one. The Silver Sea in the Voyage of the Dawn Treader is ethereal because lilies are. The Shire is cozy because pastures and small cottages are. 35 Portland Row feels like home because messy kitchens and warm, yellow light, and burnt toast and laughter feel like home.

Don't you see?

You are real. You are wonderfully real and alive. You are splintered and broken in a million ways but you are beautifully, gloriously human. You are more important, more unique, more unrepeatable than any of your favorite characters--because no matter how skillful the author who wrote them was, they are not as skillful as the Author who wrote you.

You live in a world where you can read the words of someone long dead, and feel that you have found a kindred spirit. You can try a bunch of types of tea and coffee and pick your favorite one. You can memorize lyrics to a song and show it to a friend and say "this is what my soul sounds like when it breaks."

You can feel.

And feeling means it will hurt sometimes. But it means you are real. It means you are alive. It means you can be moved by love and life and beauty and sorrow.

And one day, when the shadow has passed, when this world has come to an end, we'll see the whole tapestry. We'll see how all the dark bits inadvertently gave victory to the light. And how the picture is more glorious for the broken bits, shattered and sewn back together, than it ever would have been, had we never left the Garden.

[aspens-whump]

Mending spells are for objects, healing spells are for people. That was one of the very first things Whumpee learned from Mentor as a spellcaster. Though they weren't quite sure what caused this difference, they also weren't one to test it. Every spell Mentor taught had been passed down and refined for generations, so Whumpee trusted that they had good reason for emphasizing that such a distinction existed.

Well, at least, they never intended to test Mentor's instructions. Now that they'd tripped and fallen into a ditch full of jagged rocks while looking for spell components in the woods, they were considering it as an option.

A boulder scraped against them on the way down, leaving a thick red streak of blood along the edge of the ditch. They groaned as they lay on their side. Each frantic, shallow breath sent a wave of stabbing pain through their body, undoubtedly because of a broken rib or two. As their mind stopped spinning, they realized they were clutching at a large gash that ran across their stomach.

They pushed themself into a sitting position, still cradling their stomach. "Mmnh... Somebody. H-help! Please!" Tears ran down their cheeks, stinging the cuts that dashed across.

Moments passed, yet there was no response. Whumpee began to try to call out again, but they were taken by a coughing fit and fell onto their back. They winced, feeling blood spatter from their lips.

Whumpee cursed themself for using up their one health potion earlier in the day on a stupid scraped knee. And then foolishly separating from the rest of their party, which was surely hours down the path by now. They hadn't even properly learned how to cast a healing spell, one of the more difficult spells to learn, thinking that carrying around a potion meant they wouldn't have to.

At this point, even if a mending spell wasn't specifically meant to heal, they figured it had to be better than nothing. And they knew it well, having used it to repair things countless times. They closed their eyes in an effort to calm themself enough to focus. They took a shaky breath, rested one hand above their stomach and clutched their spell focus with the other, and whispered the spell.

A soft light shone from Whumpee's palm. It flickered for a moment before fading away. Whumpee propped themself up on their elbow to look, only to find that the wound continued to flow steadily, coating their fingers with sticky blood. Nothing had changed. They sank to the ground again, defeated, when they felt a warm tingling sensation across their skin.

A scream tore through their throat as their flesh started to warp, twisting into strips and sprawling across the wound like vines. The pain left them writhing on the ground and choking on splintered cries.

"... Ple-please... It hurts! Make it stop!" They weren't sure to who or what they were calling, but it didn't matter. Every desperate plea went unanswered in the empty forest, as the magic continued its work undisturbed. Whumpee sobbed with each surge of pain. Every movement sent a sharp, burning pain from their wound, but they couldn't hold still, not like this.

Finally, the pain slowed down to a dull, throbbing sensation. Whumpee shuddered and carefully pulled themself back onto their elbows to look. The wound didn't look much better than before, other than having some rough strands of flesh stretched across as if it had been clumsily sewn over with rope. At the very least, it seemed like the spell had pulled the wound shut by a little bit and slowed the bleeding.

Whumpee stared up at the sky. Though they'd left in the bright afternoon, the sky was now fading to a warm purple, speckled with a few faint stars. If this was the best they could heal themself, they had no better choice than to wait and hope someone found them, and soon.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Crystal Palace and the Cat King (Bar-Meet AU)

“You fascinate me,” he says with a crook of the lips in a tone that could be condescending or complimentary, but mostly just seems mildly awed- and she can work with that.

The neon lights flash bright and bold against the two of them as they make their way to the dance floor, pink and purple strobing against golden curls and amber eyes and the glitter against his skin, and he’s like no one she’s ever been with before and yet-

And yet, he’s like every person she’s ever dated before. Every person she’s ever been before. Lonely and messy and a splintered heart sewn together by your own flesh.

And maybe it’s a good thing that he’s at ease in his own skin. That he wears his clothing like a second skin. That his body is his own, not something that he’s fighting against, not something that he’s trying to claim as his own.

No, he is himself in the ways that others might judge him for, but he can’t be bothered to notice the stares.

No, he’s staring at her. Only her.

-aletterinthenameofsanity, red lips and lip gloss (touch me, baby, put your lips on mine)

I thank these walls, my hideaway

My sanctuary to worship the pain

I never thought I'd leave the cave

But I'm more curious than afraid

This blinding light, this reckoning

There's more to life than suffering

But there's still time, it's not too late

Nothing will change until I change

-The Crane Wives, Arcturus Beaming

@myrmidryad @dont-offend-the-bees @anything-thats-rock-and-roll

@every-moment-a-different-sound @tumblerislovetumblerislife @purplecladmerchant

@dear-monday

[thisiscatherinesworld]

A snippet from my book

PROLOGUE

The planes of reality bubbled up through the rotting fingers of the Beldam, whose pitiful excuse of mimicked flesh melted off of Her blackened bones and down into the treeline. Time itself began to boil. It seeped into fur and feathers and scales.

The forest's creatures quivered. They felt something— deep, primordial.

The rabbits screamed. The wolves howled.

Blood boiled. Veins erupted in silent sacrifice, each vessel bursting with a hiss. Steam rose, twisting into the air, whispering from the Beyond.

Animals withered in pain as their hearts gave out.

The forest rumbled in fear. It knew. Knew doom was inching closer.

The Beldam’s cracked nails, caked with specks of Earth and crusted over with dried blood, clawed at

the molten planes. The forest started to spark, as if electricity was shot through the bark. The branches flooded with a light that shone black as poison seeped into the leaves of the willow, oak, and pine. 

A nest of twigs and grass fell from the canopy, and a robin cried out in despair. Its eggs were lost among the chaos underfoot.

The ground did not shake in terror. It just gave in, collasping in a manner that alluded to an unseen battle.

This was not the first time the Beldam fought with the order Her Enternal Father, The Bloom That Was constructed. She loved to break the binds that were there to protect the Nauture and the Men and the Beasts and the Cosmos. There was a slow, labored moan from the Garden of Eidhen. Long and sluggish, like everything in the eternal wood. Something was stirring, as if it was a rodent trapped in a box. It pitter-pattered around underneath the rock, not in celebration, but in the slow, laboring movement of all that crawled and blotted there.

The ground ripped like taut hide. Not suddenly. Not apocalyptically. Simply on and on and on and on, like a ticking of a clock doomed to tick tick tick tock for the remainder of Time.

At first, the smell—rot, foul honey turned to taste, graveyard stench foul enough to retch on. Then the roots pulled up, slimy and dark, dragging stone and ash along behind them like carrion they could not shake off.

The orphanage bled as it ascended from Hell. Blood slicked the walls; mortar oozed like sap—thick, slow, dark. Bricks sagged beneath coats of moss and centuries of soot. Iron railings curled upward and out of the Earth like twisted ribs, skeletal and broken. The gate hung next, rust-eaten and collapsed inward, its barbs catching the light like fresh wounds.

Every window was shut—until they weren’t. Stained glass eyes flew open in unison, casting saints in colored light. Their mouths were sewn shut, expressions carved from old grief, their faces lit not by sun, but by something more ancient—older than flame, colder than ash.

And the others—if they could still be called that—rose from the mud like grave-born statues. Wings splintered, faces worn down to blank stone. Moss grew where eyes once were. One gripped a rusted key. Another held a blade dulled by centuries.

They didn’t speak. Not as sentries. Not as souls. Only as witnesses. Silent, their gaze drifted after the dust swirling in the air—measuring the shape of something coming.

And heat, heat that didn't feel right. A demonic warmth, simmering from underground.

Last stood the bell tower, twisted and slanted, reaching for the heavens. The bell never rang. But the air rang anyway.

St. Agana Children’s Home was born.

The Beldam reached her spider-like fingernails deep into the ear canals, and from the earwax crafted some men and women out of it. Their clothes were made from the leaves She hastily ripped off the oak, pine, and willow, and skinned the foxes and bears to construct shoes.

To fill their empty insides, She poured Her spiders down into their guts, and gave them some of Her eyes. Then, put her webs into their skull. 

The Beldam’s work was then done. She chucked her  Spiderlings into St. Agana Children’s Home, where they would work to fill the bottomless pit of her stomach.

She cackled, grinning down at Her monstrosities. Their purpose is simple—harvest the purest souls of the Universe for their ‘Our Lady’— and they would fullfil it throughout the centuries.  

The Beldam would not cease until her bottomless stomach was filled and cemented down.

She would not cease, even if it meant splintering the planes of reality.

Tearing a hole in the fabric of the Universe.

Undoing the bindings of Time.

Unleashing every sin onto the Earth.

Driving the cosmos into anarchy.

Opening the bunker with them chained down inside it.

She would not cease, even if it meant destroying everything and nothing that was forever and never, forever.