#like did we not all hear the same song???

[cityofmeliora]

Secondo lied about being able to speak Swedish, and Terzo lied about *not* being able to speak Swedish

this is honestly one of the funniest things i've noticed in the Ghost lore 😂

when Secondo performed live in Sweden, he would speak some broken / mispronounced Swedish words and phrases on stage.

at Terzo's very first concert, he called out Secondo for lying. Secondo couldn't actually speak Swedish. he was just trolling, and Terzo thought that was a stupid prank. unlike his brother, Terzo admitted he did not speak Swedish, and he asserted he would not troll the audience by attempting to speak Swedish on stage. he re-iterated this several times at concerts in Sweden.

PAPA EMERITUS III: My imbecile brother has somehow fooled you into thinking he can speak some fucking Swedish– pidgin Swedish. No more of that! I do not speak Swedish, OK? Linköping, Sweden (June 3, 2015) via Youtube and Instagram

PAPA EMERITUS III: How are you doing? It's nice to see so many of you here. What has it been, a little over a year? My brother told me about you. And you do know that I'm not gonna trick you with any fucking pidgin Swedish, huh? I know he fooled you into believing he could talk. He sounded like a fucking asshole. Stockholm, Sweden (November 13, 2015)

... except Terzo was also totally lying because later in the same concert in Stockholm, Terzo yells at the audience in fluent Swedish.

PAPA EMERITUS III: FATTA DET HÄR FÖR HELVETE! Stockholm, Sweden (November 13, 2015)

"FATTA DET HÄR FÖR HELVETE!" translates to something like "UNDERSTAND THIS, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

Terzo was so bad at maintaining this lie about not speaking Swedish. he continually insisted that he could not speak Swedish, but he also kept demonstrating that not only was he a fluent Swedish speaker, he was very familiar with the culture.

PAPA EMERITUS III: Good evening. How do you do? Alright, let me get this straight to you now: Despite the band being a Swedish band, I don’t speak Swedish, OK? But I can try. You wanna hear me try? You know, we got some awards which we are very thankful for, obviously. So I can say, “Jag är kåt, glad, och tacksam.” And I can say, “Plopp.” “Kexchoklad.” Bandit Rock Awards 2016 (January 19, 2016)

“Jag är kåt, glad, och tacksam.” means "I am horny, glad, and thankful."

"Plopp" and "Kexchoklad" are the names of two Swedish chocolate candies.

PAPA EMERITUS III: I know for a fact that here in Skåne you like your potatoes, huh? Spettekaka. How fitting, because this song we’re gonna do right now does have a culinary theme that you might like. Malmö, Sweden (February 25, 2016)

Skåne is the county of Sweden where this concert was performed.

Spettekaka is a Swedish dessert.

unless they're already very familiar with Swedish, an English speaker wouldn't know how to pronounce most of these words correctly, and Terzo does.

obviously, this is all because TF is Swedish and had trouble staying in character. but the lore implications are hilarious for Terzo HAHAHA. he loves to lie and he's so bad at it.

(BTW i actually don't speak Swedish! if you are a fluent speaker, feel free to correct my translations!)

[razorblade180]

Capturing the Spark

Weiss:*peeks into music room* Summer, sweetie? I can’t help notice you’re playing the same note for like…ten minutes.

Summer: *plucking string* I’ve reach creative bankruptcy.

Weiss:You’re sixteen. There’s something in there.

Summer:Nothing good.

She points at a decently sized pile of paper on the floor. Weiss takes a look at one and realizes it’s a whole song.

Weiss:Are these originals!? Why are they on the floor!?

Summer:I don’t like how they came out. Weeks and months of revising but they feel mediocre.

Weiss:Says you. A single opinion from a creator is damning in any art form. I could’ve listened.

Summer:You would’ve been too nice and supportive.

Weiss:Summer, I told your father he looked fat in the first tux he chose for our wedding. I will never willingly let you embarrass yourself in front of people.

Summer:…There’s been talk on the radio about my recent songs and concerts. People are saying I’m losing my spark, and they aren’t wrong if I’m being honest. Things feel…different.

Weiss:Could it be because you’re getting healthy?

Summer:Pfft, now you’re making me sound ridiculous. Yes, that’s exactly it. Being on stage feels weird now that I’m not fighting for my life. Is that wrong?

Weiss:Little bit, but I get it. Your life was on the line. Adrenaline was at an all time high.

Summer:Exactly! My body was cold and hot. I had to focus on staying myself while thousands cheered my name and had zero clue I was basically on a battlefield! Now I’m just performing.

Weiss:Haha, and that’s a bad thing? It’s gonna be an adjustment but you still have that spark. You don’t need your life on the line to bring it out. You also need to treat these songs better.

Summer:Mom, they’re garbage. My fans don’t come for me for darker stuff anyways.

Weiss:They are fruits of labor. Sure not all of them will be perfect, but not every song you make will be a hit and don’t have to be. Treat these like your puppy. Don’t throw them away because they’re a little all over the place.

Summer:Where is he right now?

Weiss:Bothering Jaune. Anyways, fuck your haters.

Summer:Wow!

Weiss:I mean it! You are the singer! You can’t make people like your music but you change the audience that fills your seats. They’re called fans because they help make you burn bright.

Summer:….

Weiss:The way I see it, you can change up your style and genre to better capture and represent the raw feelings that give you the spark, or bask in the irony of a crowd that loves you, but can’t fathom the real weight of your performance.

Summer:You’ve done that too!?

Weiss:I’ve written so many songs that come from my feelings being around my abusive father and most people don’t have a clue. We may be the entertainment at a concert, but we both know how easy it is to see the crowd as the real fools.

Summer:Yet when I talk like this, therapy gets mentioned.

Weiss:Hey, I’ve been to it many times. I know exactly who I am, and you will too. One day at a time. You’re not creatively bankrupt. You’re just not cashing in all the ideas you have.

And with that nugget of wisdom, Weiss kisses her daughter on the forehead before leaving her to think on it.

Summer:(Damn it. She’s gonna feel so proud about that line.) *grabs paper*……

xxxxxx

Weiss:*walking down stairs* I’m back. How’s the puppy?

Jaune:*holding him up* Air jail. Did you solve the one note wonder?

Weiss:Yeah, but it’s gonna get louder in sec-

🎶VVVVVRRRREEEERRRRR🎶

Both of them looked up as the sound of a distorted and almost wailing guitar started singing wildly. Jaune looked at his wife to see her casually head banging with a smug face. They weren’t even sure if the notes lead to something or if their daughter was simply going for it.

Weiss:It’s been awhile since I heard a eulogy like this.

Jaune:A eulogy?

Weiss:Can’t you hear it? It’s for the death of a pop star as we know her.

[witchofsparkles]

Medusa Ghost & Siren Soap. This was the first Ghoap fic i wrote... It has mcd, so be warned. I still like this one, if you love a little sadness too. I'm posting the full fic, putting the ao3 link for you if you like to leave kudos or comments.

Ghost was walking down a hill with a blindfold, blood dripping from a cut on his temple and wetting the black cloth on his eyes. He was trained for situations like this, but the blunt force trauma he got on his head was taking the ground off under his feet. With a stagger, his leg buckled after his last step and he found himself lying on his back on the grass. His breathing was uneven and he most likely had other injuries he couldn't feel because of the adrenaline.

Ghost closed his eyes for a moment, as if his vision wasn't dark before. The next time he opened them, Ghost realized he wasn't on the ground anymore and he had a nice blanket on him. When he noticed he could see properly, Ghost slammed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hand, just to be sure.

Ghost's eyes could literally kill a human. Turn them into stone, into statues. Ghost took the blanket off with his one hand and found his way out touching the walls. He was in a cave, Ghost was sure. The sound of his footsteps were echoing inside and the walls were curvy. And he was alone in there, but knowing there was someone strong enough to carry him, Ghost couldn't take a chance to lie motionless. And he didn't want to turn whoever the helping hand was into stone before at least nod a thank you in their way.

It took Ghost some time to adjust his eyes to the sun but the gentle breeze made him feel better. Then he heard a hum. A song. Ghost felt his muscles tense. The tiny voice in his head that told him to stop was silenced in a second, and Ghost found himself walking towards the source of the humming. He wasn't exactly aware of anything happening, like his logic was prisoned behind bars made of emotions. Sadness. Lust. Submission.

When Ghost came to it again and his mind was let free, he was sitting across someone with forest green wings and the same color, shimmering fish-tail. A siren.

Ghost's eyes were wide open, he knew creatures were real, myths were true and he was a walking proof of it being a Medusa. But it was his first time seeing one. The rumors has it that the sirens would lure the poor men into the sea to drown and eat them, and not one of it told that the sirens were actually beautiful. Ghost was so taken aback that he didn't realize his eyes were uncovered.

"You might wanna close them quick cause I can't sit here like a statue so long with my eyes closed. No pun intended."

Ghost squeezed his eyes shut without thinking. The siren's voice was powerful even though he was only talking. It made Ghost do what he wanted, Ghost knew it was a dangerous thing.

"Stop talking. Answer briefly." Ghost spoke with poison. And the siren answered back just as sweetly. "Yes, sir."

"Why did you take me?"

"Injured."

"Name?"

"Soap."

Ghost scoffed. "Seriously?"

Ghost couldn't see it but he felt Soap rolling his eyes. "What's yours?"

"Ghost." Ghost cuss at himself for answering. He heard Soap returning the mock. "Seriously?"

Ghost didn't back down."Your real name."

"Would you tell your real name to some stranger?"

Ghost talked with certainty. "Simon Riley." Shit. Shit. Shit.

"I didn't expect that. John MacTavish."

Ghost didn't expect that either. His whole life, he answered back to his superiors. No second thoughts. Even if he did have them, he did the questioning part to himself in silence. And now it was ruining his life. "Tell this to anyone and I'm slitting your throat."

Ghost waited for a minute to hear something back from Soap but it was all silence. He peeked behind his fingers to see if he was still there. Soap's head was turned to the sun and his eyes were closed as if he was there to sunbathe. "Still here. No talking."

Ghost was stunned. "Why? Shortly."

He heard Soap sigh. "I don't want to give orders unknowingly. It makes people uncomfortable."

Ghost checked in his brain and found no pressing feeling to give an answer. It made him feel sympathetic towards the siren. He was the one who turned people into stones without warning. He was the one who had to put a blindfold and learn to fight in darkness just so he could use his powers to kill his enemies and not his fellow soldiers when he wasn't paying attention. Ghost understood him. And to his surprise, Ghost didn't gut Soap out for manipulating him and instead he just thanked the man. He heard Soap sighed. "You have a nasty stab wound on your right side. Be careful sleeping." And Ghost knew that he was gonna be. And he knew he was gonna actually sleep, against his will. "Stop this. You're manipulating me."

"I don't want to." Soap's voice was sad and Ghost hated to be that person but Soap was making him do things he didn't want to. "I don't care. Stop talking."

𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘊𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.

Ghost went back to the cave and left Soap sitting on a rock and looking like he was out from an old painting of sirens. It was an unreal sight. The setting sun reflecting from the scales of his tail and broad wings casting shadows down the ground.

Dangerous. Ethereal.

He lied down on his left side and closed his eyes again. The stab wound was throbbing with pain but he was a soldier, it wasn't his first time getting injured on a mission. But against this, he slept through the night for the first time in his life.

Soap stayed at the top of the rock the whole night. He would be making a mess with his voice again if he had any anger or fright in him. A curse he got from his father, a curse he didn't deserve. He was born like this, and Soap was sure he didn't ask God to make him this way before his soul was sent down to the earth.

Bound to water. Bound to die alone.

Bound to be killed by someone with an earplug, whose relative he drowned when he was younger. Maybe with a knife to his heart or a gun to his head. Because he was aware of his sins, against his late mother's "it's not a sin if you didn't know you committed" sayings. Soap carried deaths on his shoulders when he didn't leave shore which no one came. His voice carried the bullet to the wast oceans.

A sniper.

Soap didn't talk again. And Ghost didn't open his eyes but neither of them leave. It would be easier if Ghost left. Ghost knew it. But he didn't. He couldn't, for some unknown reason. And Soap knew he could enchant Ghost to go away. To go back. But with an unspoken joint decision, they stayed. Soap would tap on Ghost's shoulder to indicate something, instead of using his voice. And with a blindfold, Ghost would touch to feel. Mostly the objects, sometimes Soap's fingers when he was handing the object. They went like that for some time. Ghost wasn't talking too much too, he wasnt a man of many words to start with but sometimes he felt the need to fill the silence. He told stories of his battles. The war he was fighting. He fought. His family. His dad and even a hint of what he done. The Roba, very briefly, just with a name. His wounds. His eyes.

Soap was always listening. Even though Ghost never saw it. But when Ghost was sleeping and nightmares came to haunt him, Soap would ease his worries with a whisper. And when Soap was sleeping, Ghost would watch him silently. He saw a face with half open lips to snore lightly, and closed eyes. But he assumed Soap's eyes were blue. He was a sea creature, of course his eyes were blue. And he wanted to see them up close. Ghost didn't really consider his own eyes as curse, never really hated them because it was how he managed to escape his dad. His old house was like a Britih museum when he left. But now, not be able to look at Soap's eyes was eating him alive.

"What color are your eyes?" Ghost heard his voice as a whisper but knew Soap heard and was looking at him. He didn't have an answer. Or rather, didn't answer.

"You can talk." Soap took a sharp breath. He wasn't talking for so long, his voice was hoarse and his throat hurt when spoke. "Blue."

Ghost knew it. He couldn't hold himself back from a tiny smile. A little tug of the corner of his lip. Soap saw it but didn't comment on it.

"What's yours?"

"Guess."

Soap didn't make a sound. Ghost found it odd first but then relaxed instantly. Happily, to his surprise. "I didn’t reply right away."

Ghost heard Soap's footsteps approaching. "Put some authority in your voice. Order me something."

Ghost didn't see it but Soap was biting on his lip. "Give me that knife on your west."

"In your dreams."

"Shit."

"Is that possible?"

Soap's voice was still hoarse but Ghost suspected it was because he was holding back tears. There was something broken behind it. "Mom always told me if I spend enough time with someone, my voice would lose its effect. I never stayed with someone. I didn't know."

Ghost didn't know whether to cry or laugh.

"Two fish in a tank..." Soap cut him with a frown. "What?"

"Well, if you tell me to shut up after this and I won't, we can be sure."

Soap burst in laugh at that and Ghost swore he was enchanted. It was Ghost's first time to make someone laugh. Soap saw the change on Ghost's face. "What?"

"I usually make people scream in fright and make them sob. This is new."

"And this is dark. I'm happy that I can finally talk and laugh without worrying if someone dropped dead."

"This is not dark?"

"Let's say we're colorblind."

Ghost smiled at that. He loved to hear Soap's laugh. Maybe it was the final stage of siren-manipulation before death and he woke up on the otherside after Soap gnawed him to his bones but he didn't care. Ghost was happy there. With or without talking or seeing. He was actually happy.

But it didn't take long. It never took long.

The relationship between them was different now. Ghost loved to hear Soap's laugh so he was making jokes sometimes. And he didn't know, but Soap was watching his face's every move to catch every little detail. Tugging of his lip because of an old and healed cut, nose scrunch.

Soap adored the nose scrunch.

But it all shattered down when heavy footsteps fall on the ground, yellings coming from the top of the hills. The hills Ghost came from.

His past caught up to him once again. Ghost screamed at Soap to get into water. It was the safest for him. And for Ghost. He knew he couldn't fight when his mind was on Soap and if he was dead or alive. Soap obeyed and disappeared under water. Ghost squatted behind the entry of the cave with his old weapon. A voice he didn't recognize called to him.

"Ghost! I know you're here. Come with us if you want to live." They didn't threaten him with Soap. Most likely they didn't know about him. Good. "Identify yourself!" Ghost's gun was ready, the safety was off.

"You don't know your owner? You don't know who made you?" It made Ghost froze on the spot. His last mission was against Roba's remnants. But he made sure every one of them was dead before leaving there.

"There's always someone left of us, Ghost. You're one of us." Ghost turned his head to the water. He didn't see but he could feel Soap's presence. Ghost turned back and unfold the fabric from his eyes. That shore was gonna turn into a garden gnome store soon.

After that it was all about blood and stone. If his knife and gun couldn't reach, his eyes could. Ghost left a bloody mess behind, but the owners of the blood on the ground were nowhere to be seen. If you didn't count the statues that can't bleed. Who was gonna say otherwise?

Ghost walked to the sea with closed eyes. He heard a splatter. Soap's head was above water and he could see the ground. He took a look at the mess and turned to Ghost. "You okay?" Ghost nodded. He was fine. It wasn't a different day. If anything, his time with Soap was different from the usual. The calm was not for him. He got used to it in his time at there. But now, when everything was unusually calm, panic squeezed his heart. Everything went silent for a second and Ghost instantly knew something was wrong.

"Soap?" Then he heard wings and felt the wind coming from them. Before he could say anything, he heard Soap's scream.

The next thing Ghost knew, he was on his back like the first day Soap found him but half of his body was under water now. Ghost got up and ran back to the ground with his eyes closed. Soap's scream was cut in half after a shooting sound with a grunt. Ghost knew what he was gonna see.

"Soap!" Ghost's hands found the one Roba that hadn't die yet and snapped his neck like a stick. His hands found Soap next. He knew blood. He was born in it. Bathe in it. Ghost knew what blood felt like under his hands, tip of his fingers, on his palms.

"Soap?" Nothing. Soap's heart was beating like a bird's wings under his hand.

"Johnny!"

"What a lovely way to wake up." Ghost heard him whisper. He found the wound. Soap was shot on the chest. Ghost's hands were shaking so much that he couldn't press on the wound.

"Just breath. Breath and I will wake you up like that for the rest of your life."

Ghost lifted his head and looked around frantically. He had to find a way to stop the bleeding. He could feel Soap's heart slowing down. He wanted to rip the world open with his bare hands. To punch a hole on the ground and strangle The Demon. To shot down The Angels. To kill God.

Ghost shut his eyes again. "Johnny..."

Soap didn't let him finish. He put his hand on Ghost's. They both knew it wasn't going to happen.

"Ghost. Look at me."

Ghost refused to do so. He wasn't going to.

"Simon."

Simon fought against it with everything.

"Si. Open your eyes. I want them to be the last thing I saw."

A gut wrenching sound escaped Simon's lips. He fought back. God knew he fought back. But Johnny used his last strength to made Simon do what he wanted.

Simon obeyed.

With tears streaming down his face, Simon opened his eyes and Johnny welcomed him with ocean blue eyes. His body started to turn into stone but there was a smile on Johnny's lips. He cupped Simon's face with his hand.

"Oh, I wouldn't guess. Two colors. Pretty. I will never forget them for the rest of my life."

With a last, sad giggle, Johnny turned into stone with a smile. Simon sat on the ground with a smiling and crying statue on his legs. He held the hands of it and touched the face. Tried to wipe the tears away, tried to kiss the lips. Wanted to cover the wound on its chest.

Couldn't do any.

He cried. He wept. He wailed. He bargained with God. Told him to take him instead. Wasn't he the one that was the sinner? The murderer? The killer? Didn't he take the lifes of innocents because his superiors wanted him to? Wasn't he the one that didn't deserve to live?

Then he got up. He took Johnny off the ground. Carried him to the rock Johnny would sit normally. When he was still breathing. A siren who would lure people with his voice.

He put him under the sun and over the ocean. Johnny loved these two, and Simon made sure he could watch them. Then went back to the cave. It was theirs. There wasn't anything to deny. It was his, and their, home. He didn't think about leaving. Simon made it a routine to wake up and sit with Johnny like always.

He knew he didn't deserve to live with all the blood on his hands. Not after Johnny died trying to save him.

He was eager to be punished. If his punishment was to left behind, to be left abandoned with a wish he couldn't dare to make.

He was eager to be punished.

So every morning, Simon sat next to Johnny and he protected Simon from the sun and wind under his wings. He spoke to him, talked about anything and everything he couldn't.

Simon didn't need him to answer.

Just listen.

[1800naveen]

Until.

Wander.

Tamlin often wandered around the Spring Court. For a while, he lived in his beast form. He felt a sense of freedom in that form. He could run, run, run, and nobody would stop him. But now, he was walking in his fae form. A feeling of melancholy surrounded the Spring Court, which was brought to its knees by his former lover and fiancé, Feyre Archeron, who was now the High Lady of the Night Court and both mate and wife to his former friend and ally, Rhysand.

He had caused her pain so in return, she did the same to him. Manipulating and scheming to make this Court fall. His people were taken in by Tarquin, High Lord of the Summer Court and Tamlin was grateful for his generosity.

"Be happy, Feyre." were the last words he told her before helping her resurrect Rhysand from the dead. In return, she wrote Tamlin a letter.

"Thank you. I hope you find happiness too." It was a kind gesture. But could he find happiness? She was the one to ruin the damn court and drove his people away. Homes and nature burned to ashes by the armies of Hybern.

A part of him felt a twinge of guilt. He let this happen to his own home. He should've figured out something was wrong. He also knew that not all of the blame fell on his shoulders. The forefathers of his bloodline would be disappointed, that's for sure.

Especially his father.

He could hear the words coming from his mouth. "How could you have let this happen? Let a Mortal-Made Fae destroy this Court? An abomination of a High Lord. A failure that I have to call a son." Tamlin remembered how his brothers threatened to kill him if he wished to be a High Lord. "Remember this, dear brother. Remember these words when you wish to think of the words "High Lord"." Weylin, the second-born, had whispered to him after he snuck into Tamlin's room at the dead of night.

"If you dare to pursue being worthy. To be chosen by father. To be his heir to the Spring Court. We will put an end to you and make sure you never see the light of day again. Do you understand?" Cian, the first-born, spat out. Tamlin could hear the poison, the venom intertwining in his words. The boy he had once been only nodded. He didn't have much power back then but it feels like he doesn't have much power even now.

Cupping his hands into the stream, Tamlin splashed his face to stop thinking about those thoughts. A gentle breeze made his hair sway. It was now down to his mid-back as it was once before.

Conflicted.

That was the word to describe how Tamlin was feeling. Conflicted.

A part of him felt smug for being crowned High Lord when his brothers terrorized him about it.

A part of him was glad that Rhysand and his father killed his family but not his mother. She was the only one who he mourned.

Tamlin loved his mother and he knew that she loved him too but when his father, Taranis, was being a tyrannical piece of shit, she turned a blind eye. How could a mother do something like that to their own child? To their own son?

A sigh left his lips.

His brothers were right.

Perhaps they knew the future of him and what would happen to the Court.

And a part of him wished that his brothers had killed him. He wouldn't have to be burdened with the title and responsibilities of a High Lord. The Spring Court would still be thriving. He wouldn't have to go through all this pain. But maybe in another life, he would be a traveling minstrel. He would go around and sing songs, speak of poems, limericks, ballads, but most of all, he could play his fiddle to his heart's content. He would have his own group that he would call his family. A ragtag team of misfits.

His own family that would love him, flaws and all. A family that wouldn't leave him behind.

It had been a gift from his mother for his tenth birthday. He had to carve his name into the fiddle so that his brothers wouldn't take it from him. Luckily, they didn't break it or toss it away as it kept him from High Lord. But they did make fun of it. However, Tamlin didn't mind. He had more talent in his fingers than his brothers had in their entire body. Besides being warriors and strategists.

A door creaked open. It's been a while since Tamlin was in the manor. It was a mess, of course. He really needed to clean it up. Most of the mess was created by him when he felt his emotions all pent up. And the rest came from him neglecting the home.

Now or never, Tamlin got to work. In an attempt to tidy up the manor to the best of his abilities. This would take a while.

The living room and kitchen were the only things Tamlin cleaned up. Some other time, he would clean the upstairs.

A broken mirror was on the ground, facing down. Tamlin carefully picked it up so that he wouldn't cut himself. Half of the shattered mirror pieces are still laid on the ground. He would have to fix it later with paste. The other half of the mirror was intact, showing half of his face. He went to hang it up on the wall of the living room.

"You've changed." Tamlin spoke himself as he stared into the mirror. The light in his green eyes was dimmed. Sadness and loneliness danced in his eyes in replacement.

A shell of a male.

He let his anger, frustration, and sadness consume him and he was now what people thought him of.

A beast.

A monster.

And a villain in the eyes of those he wronged.

He traveled far beyond the path of reason.

"What troubles you, Tam?" That voice. Tamlin hadn't heard it since he died. Killed by the woman he once loved.

Andras.

Brown hair tied back, rich tanned skin, and eyes the color of amber that were filled with mischief. That used to be filled with mischief.

"It's been a long time, my friend." Tamlin turned to face Andras. He stood there as a spirit. Was he going mad to the point he could see ghosts?

"It has." Andras' eyes darted from place to place as he studied the manor. "And what the hell happened here?" "A long story." Tamlin replied. "Ah yes. A story that I'm aware of." That made him still.

"How?" His voice was hushed but the tone was filled with uneasiness. "I've been wandering around the Court ever since I was killed. Prythian too but I prefer to stay here." Tamlin needed to sit down. He stumbled to the couch, putting a hand to his head.

"My job was done when Feyre put an end to my life but deep down, I knew it wasn't. And I was right. Because here you are, all alone with nothing but your sunken Court." "Thanks for your kind words, Andras. I love to be reminded of that." "You're welcome!" A stupid grin grew on his face.

Oh, how Tamlin missed it.

"I don't know what to do. I don't know where to start." Tamlin muttered. "With what?" "With everything." He fell back, hitting the cushions. Andras didn't say a word but walked up to Tamlin, helping him sit back up. "How are you touching me?" "Don't question it. Let me help." Oh, he hated those words. Tamlin never liked getting people's help. He believed that he could do almost anything on his own. It was one of his flaws; his hubris.

"Tell me everything. What happened?" Andras' face showed gentleness. "I thought you knew." "I know half. I did say that I wander around Prythian, not just the Spring Court."

Tamlin rolled his eyes but still, he told Andras everything. Under The Mountain, him locking Feyre up in what he thought was protection, becoming a double spy for Hybern, Feyre dismantling the Court, Feyre and Lucien leaving together, Tarquin taking in his people, Hybern's armies bringing damage to both Spring and Summer, the war, helping Feyre bring Rhysand back to life, and finally, Rhysand coming to mock him during Solstice.

A wince came from Andras. "That's rough, buddy." "Indeed." Now annoyed, Tamlin stared off into the distance. None of the males said a word to each other. Only let the silence fill the air.

A clock ticked calmly. Like a metronome.

"Tam, listen to me." Tamlin slowly turned his head to Andras, waiting for whatever Andras was going to say.

"Do you remember when you were crowned High Lord?" How could he not remember? He could still recall the memory, even though it had been centuries.

"May the Mother bless you and the Spring Court. All hail Tamlin Lysander, High Lord of the Spring Court!" Ianthe, his former childhood friend was the one to crown him.

All hail Tamlin, High Lord of Ruin.

Since that day, he knew that no amount of self-sought fury would bring back the glory of innocence.

"I do. And what does my coronation have to do with anything?" "Being a High Lord, you're in charge of the land and have duties to do. You're in charge of Spring. The land that is ever-changing." That was false though. The Seasonal Courts were in a permanent state of the season it represents. Mother, he sounded like a smartass.

"Spring is a new beginning. A new transformation. Staring over and staring anew." "What are you getting at?" Tamlin was starting to tire.

"What I'm saying is, you are the High Lord of the Spring Court. You are the land and the magic. You are Spring. So act like it." Tamlin raised an eyebrow.

"When flora begins to bloom, bloom alongside with it. When the light shines upon, shine and burn bright. When something new is planted, take root and grow. Change has always been and will always be possible. We cannot fix our past mistakes but we can reflect back on it, see what we have done wrong, acknowledge it, and grow." Andras took Tamlin's hand into his.

"To grow is to be reborn. To live is to suffer but to love as well. You are so much more than your fears. Than your anxieties, your anger, and your sadness." Woe climbed Tamlin like a ladder, tears threatened to fall but he wouldn't let them. He never did like to cry in front of people but with Andras, maybe it would be alright.

"You were the poet of us three but it didn't mean I couldn't pick up a few things." Andras shot a wink. Tamlin chuckled, the tears going back into the depths. Him, Lucien, and Andras. The death of their dear friend was hard on the both of them but mostly on Lucien.

He viewed him as his younger brother even though Andras was the second oldest; Tamlin being the eldest and Lucien being the youngest.

"I promise you this," Andras' grip got tighter. "I won't pass on until you are better. Until our home is better. I refuse to leave you until that smile of yours returns, until the light in your eyes is radiant like an emerald once more. I will not give up on you, so don't give up on me." "Thank you, Andras...Thank you." Tamlin whispered the last thanks, almost like a prayer. His head fell onto Andras' shoulder and his arms wrapped around like a snake.

He wanted to get better. He wanted to be better. He would get better, be better than the male he once was.

"Walk with me." Tamlin lend out a hand for Andras to take. Both of the males' hands clasped together.

They headed outside.

Birds chirped here and there. Woodland creatures scurried on the grass. The air was calm and chill. The sun was being to set which let the sky a beautiful orange, red, and purple.

Tamlin and Andras' hands were still intertwined. His thumb moved up and down softly, soothing on the High Lord's hand. Almost like a lullaby.

510 years, Tamlin had been alive. His childhood was one no child should ever have. He only had a few friends as making friends was a difficult task. Rhysand then came to mind. He remembered how Rhysand would find him everytime he had time to. He taught him fighting techniques that were native to Illyrians. They ate, drank, hunted, trained, laughed, and fought together. He even made wrote him letters, poems, and limericks. A memory played in his mind where the two were away from the war camps. Tamlin was resting on a tree as he played the fiddle and Rhysand rested his head upon his lap. Not that he minded. It didn't mean anything.

But their fathers ruined it and for what? A insipid rivalry?

Inside of him, Tamlin felt a small sense of hope that one day, they would reconcile. He was a fool to think it.

Rhysand was a winged insect (quite literally) while Tamlin was a funeral pyre. Sadness and anger crackled and twisted like flames within him.

A deep breath in and a deep breath out. Tamlin felt a heavy weight lift from his chest. Something in him stirred. Feelings and emotions.

Not the negative ones he grown accustom to but something new.

Hope.

It was the breath of fresh air that he needed.

Out of all of the Seasonal Courts, Tamlin assumed Spring wasn't all that important compared to Winter, Autumn, and especially Summer. But he was wrong.

Spring was life coming back into the lands and blossoming hope all around.

Summer, in many eyes, was the best season. A season of light, warmth, adventure, and happiness. But when Summer retreated, Autumn took its place. Leaves began to fall and colors changed from bright to dark, the temperatures cooled down and people would soon harvest for Winter was coming.

With Winter, brought the death of nature. The most deadliest season of them all. The night-darkness, would come earlier than before. Many things would come to an end but it wouldn't be forever. Celebrations would be held during the season; for family, for loved ones, for surviving another terrible winter, and a new year approaching.

And with this new year, things would change yet again. The snow will melt, the ice will thaw, and winter would bow as Spring came into blossom.

"For you." Tamlin broke from his thoughts to see Andras holding a rose in his hands. "Be careful of the thorns." He took the rose without worry. Not fearing if thorns would cut him.

"I love you, thorns and all." were the words he once said to Feyre. Who would he say the words to now? He had no lover. But he had himself.

"I love you, thorns and all." Tamlin said to himself, in the back of his mind.

He was not a monster.

He was no villain.

And until that day comes when he could prove it, he would work and work.

He would not spend his immortality in rage.

He would not let anger consume him, control him.

Until the light in his eyes shined brighter than a thousand suns.

Until he could love himself.

Until the day that he could look into a mirror, smile, and know that he was a lovely reminder of how beautiful change could be.

Until he was the true High Lord of the Spring Court once again.

(This is my first writing piece that I've shown people so I hope you'll enjoy or like it. His family never got names so these are my names for them. Lysander just fits Tamlin; It means "Liberator" or "Freedom".)

(THIS FEELS LIKE SHIT, UGH!!)

(Wait, would this be a Tamlin X Andras? I swear I didn't mean for that. AND YES, I REFERENCED TAKE ME BACK TO EDEN! IT'S A KICKASS SONG!)

@viktoriaashleyyx here's that add, hope you like it👍🏾

[gold-wolf-soldier13]

sorry but objectively ‘all I ask of you’ is a better song than ‘music of the night’

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

“because he never accepts that it's never been about righteousness--it's about repentance.” except javert killing himself IS repentance.

well, it’s like 12 different things, because bro had gone days without sleeping and very little food and water and he already had low self-worth and kept asking the amis to kill him and just assumed he was going to die AND THEN valjean upended his understanding of the world and morality. he was really going through it & there are a lot of overlapping reasons for why he jumps into the seine.

but javert is like Number One Most Responsible guy in the whole story. taking responsibility is his Thing (forever bitter the musical doesn’t include the punish me monsieur le maire scene). how else, in his derailment, could he atone for his conceived misdeeds other than by handing in his resignation to god? in the brick he had already left a note urging his superiors to treat convicts at toulon better, which is another step in his repentance (and another crime the musical commits by not including it). jumping into the seine was another step.

honestly a lot of ppl who like the book think the musical was dead wrong to exclude him from the big heaven group sing, because it COMPLETELY undermines the themes of forgiveness and compassion threaded throughout les mis. like the musical was simply wrong lol.

This is helpful context! I am still finishing the brick, although I have fully read the abridged version, and that detail about the letter wasn't included, so I didn't know that occurred! (And thank you for the message--this is a long response but I'd love to hear more of your thoughts!)

I agree that Javert is certainly deeply distraught and remorseful; like you mentioned, his worldview is literally falling apart, and his actions reflect his mental state. But his death isn't really repentance--in the sense that it's not what God would have wanted. To me it reads like a Judas situation: a desperate realization of a huge mistake, and doing the only thing you think can make it right, namely, ending it all. That's the just punishment for someone so wrong, isn't it?

But true repentance, meaning the repentance that the Lord desires, is about changing your ways, not "paying a price." Had Javert really understood the beauty of Valjean's mercy (an image of Christ's, just as the bishop's undeserved mercy was to Valjean himself), rather than killing himself, he would have lived to also become "an honest man"--in heart. One who could forgive and understand forgiveness, for himself as well as others. One who could recognize that he is not The Law, that he can fall, but that he can also be "brought to the light." One who could accept that men like Valjean, and men like himself, CAN change, and be changed.

It's tragic to me because so much of "Stars," and his character in the book as well as the musical, is about wanting to be righteous, to rise above his birth and the sinfulness he associates it with. It's about wanting to please the Lord by his actions. But in his end, he shows he never understood what God really wanted from him, and that's where my original phrase comes in: not righteousness, but repentance. To live, and face the man you were, knowing it's no longer the man you are. That it's never been about what you've done or can do, but about what's been done for you. That's the Gospel that he could never fully accept.

To use another example you mentioned, that misunderstanding drives why he asks the Mayor (Valjean) to punish him--in his worldview, mercy is unjust, or at the very least, unfair. Evil must be punished; "those who fall like Lucifer fell" receive "the sword." But "as it is written," God "desires mercy, not sacrifice" (Matthew 9:13). God would have wanted Javert to live, and Javert couldn't see that, and that's why it's devastating to me. In his misunderstanding of the heart of God, he misses what would have set him free from the chains of sin he's always been trying to escape.

That's why he's contrasted with Valjean, who (though he carries guilt about his past till the end of his life) is eventually able to face it and confess what he had done to those he loves. He knew there was mercy to be found, if only it was asked for. Javert was too blinded by pride and shame to realize it, and so, while broken, he never was able to truly repent.

For that, you must go on.

[emily-mooon]

Hey remember when I said I’d make a 16 song playlist for Jonathan that has angst in it? Well guess what folks! After months of not touching it, I finally finished it today! Here it is:

Hope you enjoy!

[josephtrohman]

it’s okay if you’re a music snob if you like fall out boy but if you’re a music snob who doesn’t like fall out boy you don’t deserve rights. hope this helps

[koishua]

growing up on diff kpop gens with my younger sister this is wild bc her le sserafim/nwjns/illit/kiof was my snsd/aoa/apink/girls' day/exid/gfriend/rv :( 4th/5th gen vs 2nd/3rd gen have CRAZY different energies it's fascinating

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: May 28

“Sebona Fi” by Yws Gwynedd

[lionblaze03-2]

sometimes I think about writing and singing music not because I’m an incredible singer but because no one has my fucking voice, especially in popular music, and its disheartening to be born a girl, told you’ll only get girl roles or try to voice match other girls, or ‘sing with the girls’ and then only be able to match male voices because you’re a fuckin tenor and not anything higher. I can’t think of any girl Broadway roles I can hit all the notes on. Most songs I love I have to pitch down for myself or use falsetto for singing along to. It bothers me a lot less now because I’m an adult who’s more secure in myself but as a teen in kids musical theatre it FUCKED with me, BAD style. And I know for a fact that even now when I hear people with a voice like mine singing I get excited and immediately invested in their work because they’re like ME, finally, for once. A brother in this world of being afab and having the voice of a recently pubescent boy forever. Maybe I should be that brother too.

[thelaurenshippen]

Hello! I'm loving Breaker Whiskey, it's so beautiful and it's also making me better at Morse Code, lol. I've got a question about episode 60, though, what's the music that's mixed into the morse and static? It sounds like a very old recording, and I love that sort of thing. Thank you for sharing your shows with us!

ahhhh this makes me so happy!! I LOVE that it's getting people into Morse Code, that thrills me.

(some spoilers below about episode 60 of @breakerwhiskey, including additional explanation from me that you may or may not want)

yes, the music mixed into episode 60 IS an old recording! it's a song played on a phonograph - I use a service called Splice to get a lot of the sounds I've put in a bunch of my shows, and there's a pack that's all sounds from vintage audio devices. there's a few of those sounds mixed into episode 60 - a phonograph song, the sounds of wax cylinders being played, and a recording of Thomas Edison explaining the phonograph - all of them distorted to be mostly unrecognizable.

the song file itself is just called 'phonograph song' - I think a bunch of audio engineers just recorded whatever they could off the vintage resources they had - but as far as I was able to glean from the lyrics (they're not that much clearer even undistorted) it's an 1860s confederate rallying song, which I thought would be just about the worst possible thing that you could hear played at random over a radio frequency. I wanted the sounds all together to be menacing, and Whiskey has talked a lot about the myth-making of America vs. the cruel reality, so it felt on theme.

that said, the phonograph sounds were chosen mainly for the literal quality of the sound - that tactile, fuzzy wax static - rather than any true story importance. there are story-relevant sounds mixed in there, but I'm not going to tell you what they are or what they mean!

[muttsona]

i hope i die, you broke my heart

[deus-ex-mona]

bribery may or may not have been involved in the pursuit of said discovery

[sullina]

so do people who don't have rhythm, when they hear a song, do they think that the notes are played just whenever (in regards to both timing and pitch) or do they know that there's a more or less predictable pattern to it, that when you have a melody consisting of exactly one note at a time, that a skilled enough musician can add more notes to it to make it sound fuller (less lonely) and (often) better?

[emeraldbabygirl]

Ok but bro Sun slaps it’s that lower key that sounds so good like I know nowadays if a song has any similar note even to another song people slap the plagiarism label on it like not saying it was or wasn’t but bruh every time I hear something that’s similar to another song I don’t scream plagiarism. Anyway I think the lower tone sounds super cool and even the part that sounds similar it’s cut up there’s a part in the middle that sounds nothing like wave and then it goes back to the wave-y sound.