One thing that both fascinated and confused me for a hell of a long time is just what exactly was going on with the Elves in The Lord of the Rings and if they’re so powerful, why aren’t they at the top of the social food chain forever and ever? Why weren’t they around more to help in the fight against Sauron during the War of the Ring? Why was their time over?
There’s no hard canon answer that’s super obvious, you sort of have to piece it together, as best I can tell, but I think there’s enough there (and I’m going to focus on the moments from the movies, as it’s easier) to understand, especially with these scenes:
It’s important to know that Elrond is 6,500 years old at the time of LOTR, Galadriel is well over 7,000 years old, and I think at least movie Thranduil is 6,500 years old as well. Which I talked about here, as well as talking about the War of Wrath and then the Battle of the Last Alliance over here. Also covered is that Elves tend to feel things really, really deeply, but most of what you need to know is: Those two wars were really fuckin’ long and a whole shitload of elves died and shit just kept coming back around, they’ve been battling Morgoth and Sauron for literal millennia.
There comes a point when you just get really goddamned tired in your very soul, when you see the same shit over and over again.
My intention is to talk about Thranduil’s isolationism, but this post will probably wind up wandering all over the place because jfc these elves are ridiculous and I love them so much. OKAY, LET’S START AT THE BEGINNING, with Sam and Frodo watching the procession of Elves leaving for the Gray Havens.
It was for research mostly. I worked as a paranormal investigator, going from place to place with my crew, to search for local “sightings” or “otherworldly instances”. My team ran a rather well-known YouTube channel, “The Plasmatics”. I guessed it was supposed to be some sort of pun on how most people believed ghosts were made of ectoplasm, or something like that, but truth be told, it was kind of dumb.
The latest case we’d been assigned on was a doozy. Some kids who decided they’d rather be out smoking little rolls of shredded grass instead of being in school reported a sighting of a something “creepy as Hell”, out in a little town up north. And by up north, I mean nearly forty miles away from where we were already stationed. The plea for our help came in the package of a nicely written little email, complete with an amount of improper grammar that could make a literature teacher suicidal. It was a jumble of letters, and I almost deleted it. Almost.
I probably should have, looking back on it. Even looking that damn letter over was a mistake. I should have clicked that little trash-can button, closed my laptop, and gone back to kicking Jonah’s ass in Street Fighter. It would have been safer. It would have been different.
But instead, I looked it over, calling the guys to double-check what I couldn’t pronounce. Turns out, I’m not “up to par” with new generation lingo, or as Leo likes to tease me about, I’m not “down with the flow”. Whatever.
They both skimmed the message, Jonah already researching the name of the hospital on his phone as Leo called out the name of the town. I was already looking at one bright screen, and the moment the light from his phone shot into my face, my eyes threatened to implode.
“Damnit!” I mumbled, pushing the screen from my face, “Don’t do that!”
“Check it out!” He replied, so filled with energy that my irritation was completely ignored, “They might not be the smartest kids, but they might be onto something! Turns out the place they were lighting up at is an old mental hospital, famous for burning down, and having a prisoner breakout, all in the same night!”
“That’s messed up.” Leo mumbled, flipping his bangs out of his eyes. I always told him to trim his hair, but apparently he liked the “old-age pop star” look, because every time I saw him enter a room, I swore it had grown an inch in length.
“You sure they’re not screwing with us?”
“Dude, do you really think a group of teenagers would really go through the trouble of locating our website, sending us an email, and sending us a picture of the place?”
I narrowed my brows, giving the photo attached a brief glance. It looked like an innocent enough place, rickety, and charred around the edges. The fire hadn’t done as much damage as I’d thought it would have. Control of the situation must have been taken really fast.
“They might.” I replied finally, leaning back to bend my arms behind my head. “You can’t trust people for bull these days, man. Especially kids.”
“I agree with Leo.” Jonah muttered. “Think about it. If we showcased this place on our channel, it’d be an instant hit. People love asylums and crap like that. Makes ‘em all shivery inside.”
A force pulled my chair into a spin, until both of my teammates had me pinned in the chair; Leo’s expression dead-serious, Jonah’s stuck in a permanently intoxicated high.
“Dave, we’re both ready to go. We’re into this, man. Even if the brats are lying, it could be good publicity. This place has got its own news station. Think about what would happen if we ever got interviewed—we’d be on TV, man! Us! On TV!”
I exhaled deeply, still unsure. It really felt wrong.
I probably should have followed that instinct. I should have put my foot down, and told them both no—Hell no, that we weren’t going to follow some random kids’ message to drive all the way across the country, just to checkout some place that might end in a bust.
But instead, I looked at their faces, so bright and hopeful, and caved. These guys had good intuition about cases, so it was just natural for me to follow their lead.
“Alright.” I gave in. My blonde comrade let out a sound, half-girlish scream, half whoop, and chest bumped Jonah full force. The poor recipient of his excitement ended up knocked back so hard that he nearly tumbled over the back of his armchair.
I miss those times.
I miss us laughing, joking around in front of the camera. I miss zooming in on Jay, our other camera-guy, as he stuffed his face full of nachos. I miss the way we all shared them, making sure to document our last night before we set off on the trip.
The next day came in a blur, so fast I can only remember small details. Morning ritual, sharing a bathroom with three other roommates, fighting over a piece of toast with Jonah. Our stuff was packed into the van we used on our excursions, stuffed full of bags, boxes, discarded trash, and tons of equipment. I can recall the smell of it, thick of smoke and beer, from the first time we’d decided to give the old vehicle a joy ride. It was both the best and worst night of our lives.
I remember flashes of the road trip, Jay and Jonah singing off key to some classic rock song, Leo head-banging from the driver’s seat, and me, watching it all and laughing. I joined in once, for the guitar solo, while my beanie-headed friend jumped up to belt out the remaining chords in a slow, drawling voice.
Jonah, Jay, Leo, and I.
We were a great team.
Forty miles we drove, on half a tank of gas, a mini-fridge full of Heinekens, and a few bags of potato chips. Jonah made us pull over every so often to relieve himself. Poor kid couldn’t go twenty minutes without peeing. After the fifth time, Leo took away his beer privileges, leaving a very unhappy hat-wearing grump in the back with Jay and I.
We left around seven in the morning, and by the time we passed through Route 85, leading us into North Dakota; it was the same time in the evening. The group decided, collectively, to stop off at an inn for the night. Pulling up nearly empty to a hotel was a no-go for Leo, so he dropped us off to make a quick gas run.
We waved as we watched him go.
It took quicker to unload our stuff into the room than to pack it, and before we knew it, we were all in our respective corners, doing our respective things. Jonah was in the bathroom, relieving the bladder he’d been trying so hard to restrain, Jay was fiddling with his equipment, check and rechecking his camcorder, and I was lying across one of the queen sized beds, staring at my laptop.
I was really unsure about the place we were going to, so I decided to double-check it. Normally, I wasn’t like this at all, jumpy and anxious. My fingers tapped along the keyboard, spelling out the institute’s name in small, blinking letters. The mouse swept over the top link, highlighting the text underneath.
“Anderson’s Memorial Mental Hospital: A Place For Greener Days, A Place For Happier Stays”
It sounded like total bull, but I clicked it anyway. The picture that popped up was the same building that the kids had sent us, only in one piece, uncharred and whitewashed in a grayscale tone. The tall gate that surrounded the place made it look more creepy than inviting. I let out a low whistle, wishing pity on the poor souls who had to deal with living in that place. At least now they don’t have to worry about that anymore, a sadistic voice in my mind whispered.
Shaking my head to clear away the fog of drowsiness that had clouded over, I kept reading, moving from the photo to scan the article underneath.
“September, 27, 1968
Latest reports given by sources show that mental health of patients at Anderson’s have a fifty-seven percent chance of full recovery, this is nearly double the amount stated in the last five years, as Anderson’s gains more and more recognition with its prowess.
Head psychiatrist and caretaker, Dr. Geoff Anderson has this to say about the steady progress his institute is making,
“The Institute does everything possible in its power to ensure a healthy lifestyle for its patients, full with comfortable room and board, three square meals a day, and medicinal care on a daily basis. All funds appropriated go into taking care of our patients, and helping them out of this haze that has enraptured them into such nonsensical states.
Our motto is, ‘Give Fully, Take Foolishly’. We do not ask for what we receive, but we do hope to spread our services across the country, to give every poor soul like the ones we take care of here a chance at redemption.”
It went on like this, leading into charts, one-on-one reports from recovering patients, statements from nurses, and placements by reporters to potential donors.
I clicked back, changing my search to the fire that destroyed the building, and clicked on the link that followed. The summary was simple, yet, truth be told, a bit unnerving to read.
“June 4, 1971
Over five hundred patients, doctors, and nurses at Anderson’s were killed in the massacre that began, just previously before the devastating fire. The perpetrator that initiated the massacre remains unknown, as all possible evidence was destroyed in the blazing flames that engulfed the building, and the inhabitants inside.
Of these killed were, by alphabetical order:
A flushing sound broke my concentration, and I glanced up, seeing Jonah exiting the bathroom, wiping his wet hands across his sweatshirt lazily. He looked around, his head on a slow swivel, and spoke the words that broke the spell of our calm.
Also known as the placid crayfish, the shasta crayfish is a critically endangered species of Astacid crayfish which is found only in isolated posts on the Pit River and Fall River Mills in California. Shasta crayfish prefer cold, clear rocky areas in mountain rivers and feed mainly on algae coating rocks. Currently
is listed as critically endangered by the IUCN as it occupies a very limited range and has lost most of its former range to to the introduction of the signal crayfish and human activities.
…so I’d really like to hear everyone’s favorite lines or little bits from Johnlock fic. Can we reblog and share them? It doesn’t have to be your favorite of all time, just any that have really stuck with you. PLEASE link the fic and author if possible, or at least cite them!
And now the Shipping Forecast, issued on behalf of the Maritime and
Coastguards Agency at double-oh-one-five today Monday the seventh of
March. There are warnings of gales in Viking, North Utsire, South
Utsire, Forties and Cromarty…
Sherlock slides John’s sash window up and swings his legs into
John’s room, feet landing soundlessly on the carpet. The quiet, soothing
voice of the broadcaster on the radio reads out the Shipping Forecast
into the darkness of John’s bedroom in the usual rhythmic manner.
Slowly, Sherlock lowers himself to sit on the edge of John’s bed, reaching out a tentative hand to rest on John’s shoulder.
‘Are you alright?’ he whispers.
There’s no answer, save a sleepy sigh and a frown.
I just love how quiet and atmospheric the very unique inclusion of the wireless playing makes this whole scene. Also, go read this fic because it’s perfect.
Notes: All lyrics used throughout the story are taken from the show. We don’t own them. If you aren’t listening to the NPH version of the Hedwig Original Cast Recording while reading this fic, you’re doing it wrong. As always, let us know what you think!Enjoy! xoxo - Desi & Nikkie
Post-television life is just as brisk, the city of New York pressuring him to keep up with the rest of the hustle. It’s not difficult in the solid sense, but it’s been seven years now since he’s had any forms of break lasting more than four days. The city is aggressively fighting to spit him out already, with that of the less-than-welcoming Broadway critics, but he is determined to get through and surprise them all before the run is over in July.
For the first time in his life, inspiration is not to be found in the city.
Almost forty North Texas Pokemon trainers participate in a #pogopickup at Hagerman National Wildlife Refuge, cleaning litter and catching Pokémon. These are the kinds of things trainers everywhere should be doing!