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bitterrfruit · 3 months ago

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houndtooth [6]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

There should be blood.

You’d never have thought you could experience such visceral, rib-crushing pain, with so little blood.

It feels like blood, the hot foam spraying from your mouth as you cough so viciously, forcing as much of it as you can out of your aching lungs. It feels like blood as it pours from your nose, thick with mucus, the delicate skin of your swollen sinuses and closing throat burn like you’ve inhaled blistering steam.

But it’s only water. Saturating you inside and out, dripping from orifices and off extremities, you shiver violently as if you’d been left in the blizzard – though you don’t feel cold. Your body smoulders with adrenaline, so ravaged by the carnal desperation to survive that your heart still blazes hot and your muscles burn with the acid of exertion.

Your jittering fingers are weak, barely strong enough to grip the soaked rag from your face and drop it to the plastic floor with a splat.

Your lungs gnaw for oxygen, too anguished to swallow a breath to sate the need – you only sip at the chemical air as you attempt to roll yourself off the steel table; now that no masculine claws hold you down to it.

The impact as you land face-down on the linoleum tosses an animalistic squeak from your throat. Purely mechanical; the whine of deteriorated, corroded machinery.

But you alert the skullhead, all the same. Your hunter turns his head over his thick shoulder, just enough to look down at you, as the other tormentor marches out of the cell and slams the door behind him.

You’d like to run. You dream of it, as you float in between states of consciousness – you see yourself leaping to your feet, tearing open that door and jetting off down the hall – only to open your eyes again, to blink, and see the speckled vinyl under your nose.

He simply stares at you. Observes you as if he is intrigued by your suffering.

You see his boots, hardly able to lift your head enough to see him in his mammoth entirety. The boots take hesitant steps in your direction, heavy and thumping on the floor, you feel the vibrations of his weight across it. Your reaction to his approach is reflex – a shriek, sudden adrenaline giving you the strength to push yourself up just enough to scurry backwards away from him, though still unable to stand.

“You’ll survive,” he says under his breath, but it sounds more like a promise than an admonishment. You glare up at him. Panting like a trapped rabbit. Vision faded and throbbing.

“I can’t – I,” your attempts to beg get caught in your swollen throat, wet and desperate, “please, I can’t take – please don’t do it anymore. Not again, please–”

“There’s not going to be any more water,” he grunts, through teeth, as though irate that you had made him say so.

A soaked sob escapes you, indeterminable whether out of relief or simply your body shutting down. You attempt to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks with trembling hands.

“Promise.”

In your utterly fevered mind you cannot not understand the source of your audacity to request such a vow, from a man so plainly without morals, and yet your tongue forms the plea nonetheless. “Please.”

And after a tense pause, he surprises you. With a beleaguered huff, he answers; “Okay.”

Your sticky eyes flit across his features, from under your brow, you attempt to thank him with a shaky nod. He crouches slowly in front of you, rests his elbows on his knees. His shadowy eyes seem to catch the light of the glaring overheads, the colour of burnt honey, the first time you’ve been able to see them. Maybe it’s because he’s not scowling.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he mutters, muffled by the dense knit of his mask. “You’re not done here.”

Your appreciation is quick to sour. Your lips curl into a vengeful line, but your eyes betray the cracks that spider through your veneer; brow twisting into an expression of misery despite trying to contain it, you cry. Breaking out in stunted sobs. Sucking in squeaking breaths to fuel the next ones.

He’s adept in keeping you confused, the fucking beast, not allowing a single expectation to form, a single prediction to prove correct. Rewrites his code just as you begin to translate it. You can beg at him, but only so long as he is entertained by it. You can seethe at him, but not so viciously that he is compelled to punish you.

Does he want you to submit to him? Does he want you to fight him? Despite your attempts you cannot determine. Up until now you’ve been walking the line between both, careful not to tip too far in either direction.

Now you are running on pure instinct. Your torture has, for now, rinsed away any mask you have tried to maintain. Leaving only the raw, dripping, desperate organs that you consist of. Burgundy and beaten.

He reaches forward, calloused hands slipping indifferently under your arms and lifting you up with him as he stands, hoisting you like you’re a limp cat. It’s odd feeling his bare skin on yours. So far only gloved fingers have grazed you. It’s warm.

“Can you stand?” He asks, monotonously and impatiently, ensuring you interpret no kindness in his concern.

“Think - so,” you shudder, not yet quite able to create cohesive words.

He lowers you to your feet, you tap the floor with your toes to ensure you can grip it as he removes his hands from you. Your knees wobble like colt legs as your weight returns to them, you’re rendered dizzy by the sudden verticality. And, wholly unintentionally, your arms jut out on reflex to prevent yourself from toppling over, bound hands landing flat on his upper stomach. You feel his muscles tense rigid with the touch, skin burning hot through the fabric of his black half-zip fleece – for a brief, nauseating moment, you find comfort in it. Heartbeat. Breathing. Human.

His monstrous hand moves disinterestedly to your wrists, and he clutches them tightly – your stare darts to meet his. His eyes are cautious, scrutinising, blond eyelashes flittering as his glare dances around your face, reading words on a page.

You expect him to scold you, or tell you that won’t work as if you had done it purposefully to endear yourself to him – but he silently peels your hands from him, pushing them towards you so they sit under your chin.

“Ready to see your husband?”

Ghost is well acquainted with terror. Both endured and inflicted. And after years, decades, of suffering his own, he has become a savant in that specialty. Injecting the fear of God into those that cross him, only to remind them it’s him they should pray to.

But it has never made him feel so sick.

So nauseated.

A silent pleading in your touch. Accidental and yet so careful. It turned him to stone, the moment the pads of your fingers landed on him, the resting of your wobbly weight in your hand against him. A gentle and ruthless reminder that despite being a foreign, machiavellian, billionaire warlord;

You’re just a girl.

Too scared of him to beg, too frightened to fight, too small to try.

The bitterness of guilt bubbles at the back of his tongue. Acrid enough to make him swallow. A taste he had long forgotten. Your red eyes gaze at him wetly and nervously, smeared black by the makeup that has been liquefied by your torture and your tears. And he feels guilty.

Christ. Pathetic.

He’s got one job to do. One objective. Prevent the mass murder of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. Your husband is an orchestrator of death and agony. You are the leech at his ankle, bleeding him of that evil.

You’re ready for your only purpose here. To be used as leverage, to coerce and extort a terrorist kingpin. To be shaken, tearful, yet still alluring enough to remind him of the cost of his sin – losing the only thing that lets him pretend he’s more human than creature. You.

Your reaction to the mention of your husband is unreadable. Nervous and yet hopeful. Scornful and yet tender. But you are speechless, only whimpering as your lungs readjust to the ability to breathe, as your fight-or-flight begins to settle back down into dark dejection. You stay quiet as he once again pulls that black hood over your head, not bothering to tighten its fastening.

With a commanding grip of your upper arm, he guides you with a push, keeping you in front of him so you don’t trip on your feet. And you need that balance, clearly, squeaking and stumbling over your weak legs as he takes you to the door. You land with your back against him, unintentionally using his rigidity to keep you stable.

Unlocking the door, he nudges you through it, steers you down the clinical hallway; a continual tunnel of plastic, painted cinderblock walls, droning fluorescents, heavy steel doors. He ferries you to one in particular, marked No Entry, and kicks it open – it leads to a steel staircase, spiralling deep into the subterranean basement of the compound.

The guttural roars are already audible from deep below. They echo through the cement chute, reverberating like the cries of angered spirits from the walls, chattering the rusting stairs as they creak with the weight of him.

You let out a yelp, tripping over your feet as you attempt to descend the stairs with him; you tumble knees-first onto the steel and cry out from behind your blinding hood. Firm grip not waning, he prevents you from falling any further. Fuck’s sake.

“C’mere,” he chuffs, disgruntled, lowering himself to scoop you up. Tosses you over his shoulder. You feel different. When he carted you to the helo, you were unyielding, stiff, hot – every muscle, every breath begrudging your abduction. Now you’re damp and flaccid, cold like a wet cloth. You hang from his shoulder like he might be able to wring you out. It makes his job easier. It makes his stomach churn.

A minute of raucous cries growing louder, Ghost reaches the door, hauling you like a body bag. Thick, steel, no window. He knocks in code. One-two, one, one-two-three.

Shut up, shut the fuck up – he hears through the door, some shuffling and and the odd thud.

The door squeals open. Price stands in its frame – bloody, swearing, red on his neck and veins bulging in his temples.

“Simon,” he greets through his jaw, “good timing.”

Ghost nods, adjusting you on his shoulder with a jolt, you respond with a squeak.

Price sucks his teeth, an air of disapproval, he raises his eyebrows. “Glad you’ve kept her alive for us, eh.”

Fuck off, captain.

He feels the urge to defend himself, but he bites his tongue. No sense in attempting to prove he’s not as barbaric as they think he is, while you’re wet, half-naked, and near-dead slung over his shoulder.

Price steps aside to allow Ghost through – the room is dark, lit only by the down-lighting of the bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Raw concrete walls, cement floor, the odd steel shelving housing old tools and electrical paraphernalia.

In the centre sits your husband. Victor Zakhaev.

Duct-taped to his chair, hands bound to the armrests, ankles tethered to the legs. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, skin red and purple and speckled with blood. What a fucking sight to behold. Ghost’s mood is lifted just at the vision of his much deserved agony.

His eyes swollen nearly shut, thick with the blood that pools under the surface of his skin – he looks up, scowling, glare catching on the ass of the woman carried into the room.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, teeth bared.

Ghost carts you towards the seat across from your husband. He drops you down into it, too carefully, makes sure you don’t land too harshly. You whimper nonetheless – panting, shivering, negligée still too sheer from the wetness of your torment.

“Mia?” Zakhaev grunts, squinting, his tone more bitter than concerned.

Price, having locked the heavy door, strolls to stand behind you and abruptly tugs the hood from your head. You wince in the sudden brightness, head bolting around as you hastily absorb your surroundings. He watches as your gaze lands on the man across from you, chest hitching as you hold your breath.

“Victor?” You breathe, a whine, he cannot determine if out of fear or relief. “Слава богу, ты жив.” Thank God, you’re alive.

“Что ты им сказал?” What have you told them?

Seething. Accusatory. No concern for your wellbeing. Ghost suddenly feels he overestimated your value as leverage.

“Ничего, малыш, я им ничего не говорил.” Nothing, baby, I haven’t told them anything.

You little liar. Are you attempting to spare yourself the wrath of your husband? Are you trying to ensure you remain useful by keeping your husband on your side?

Cleverer than he thought.

Do you love him?

You know that face.

That lour.

The stare your husband gives you when he hates you. When you disobey him. When you disappoint him. The hatred that reminds you how replaceable you are. How easy it would be for him to leave you in the snow-blown wilderness and let you die, how little he would care if he did so.

You had at first found it almost amusing, that your militant abductors thought they could use you to extort him. As if he cared about you enough to bother spilling a single secret in exchange for your life.

But, you now know what awaits you if it doesn’t go the way they want it to. Your usefulness will expire. Your time will be up.

And now, aching, exhausted, withering, your beaten mind only yearns for comfort. Something familiar. The care of a man that isn’t itching to murder you. You just want him to love you.

Despite how long, how ardently you scorned him and the life he forced you into – now, you miss it. You long for it. Your heart leaps back mere hours ago, when he kissed you, when he held you, when he whispered his Cyrillic pet names in your ear. Mere hours ago, you hated it. Looks like you got what you wished for.

“Xерня.” Bullshit.

You feel the jagged rock rising in your throat, and you release it with a sob, eyes swelling with tears as you longingly glare at him.

His wounds upset you. Bruises and slices and welts. You wish you could just float back to the estate with him, put ice on his injuries, apologise for ever wishing that you could inflict those wounds on him yourself. You had everything and you forsook it.

“Я этого не делал, обещаю. Я тебя люблю.” I didn’t, I promise. I love you.

The man whose voice you recognised, the one you had named The Captain, steps around your chair, stands in front of you with a roll of duct tape in hand – a shrill tear as he pulls off a piece. You tilt your head to glare up at him, and he takes you in his hand. Sticks the strap over your mouth, silencing you.

He moves aside, your eyes once again land on your husband. Even more hateful than before. You hope he can see in your eyes how devotedly you love him. It mightn’t even be true, but you cling to it, with nothing else left.

Your hunter re-enters your line of sight, sauntering behind Victor, leaning against the concrete wall, returning to the shadows. He crosses his arms, spectating it as if it were sport. He meets your eye from under the darkness of his mask. Fucking animal.

The Captain grumbles from elsewhere in the room, amongst the clinks and clatters of whatever tool of suffering he prepares. “Had no idea your wife was so pretty, Victor.”

Victor scoffs, as though amused, still harshly disdainful. “Как ты думаешь, почему я женился на ней?” Why do you think I married her?

Captain chortles. “Mh. Not sure why she married you, though, eh?”

“Take a guess,” your husband snarls, switching tongues. You know the answer, don’t you? His wallet. His empty promises.

“Can’t be for your looks,” the Captain jeers. The familiar clicks of a spinning barrel ring out from where he stands. “I expect you lovebirds are familiar with русская рулетка.” Russian roulette.

Your heart drops like steel.

Your tongue forms your pleas behind your lips, as if you could speak them, instead you just moan and quiver in your chair, hoping they’ll listen.

You jerk your head to see the Captain approach you. Behind you, he puts a warm and gentle hand on your shoulder, and you feel the sharply cold point of the revolver’s mouth against your opposite temple. You can only whimper, too terrified to tug yourself away, deathly afraid the gun will go off with the slightest movement.

Please don’t kill me, you silently beg, entreating eyes land on your hunter. He observes disinterestedly. Please don’t let him kill me.

“Alright, Victor,” the Captain drones, nudging the pistol at your forehead. “Tell us about London.”

“Пошел на хуй.” Go fuck yourself. Victor spits, the apprehension in his voice belying the venom in his throat.

“We know you’ve got WMDs in production. You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, right?”

“You’re full of shit,” your husband growls. “You think I’m stupid? You have nothing.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Click.

You scream – jolting unconsciously as you feel the gun crack against your temple – chamber empty. One down. Five to go.

Your husband jumps, glowering at you, then the Captain, shuffling in his chair and out of breath.

“Иди на хуй! Fuck you. Fuck you,” he roars, neck straining with his intensity. “You’re too fucking noble, Captain. You’re going to murder a woman in cold blood? No, you don’t have it in you, Ты жалкий хуй.” You pathetic fuck.

“London. When.”

“You’re stupider than I thought if you believe this will work.”

Click.

Your throat burns with the intensity of your crying, shrieking in horror as you survive yet another pull of the trigger – the click as loud as the eruption of a bullet.

“You’ll really let your wife die for your lost fuckin’ cause, Victor?” The Captain admonishes him, grip of your shoulder firm and bizarrely comforting – your sanity begins to drift away from you, you watch as it fades.

Victor releases a huff of scornful laughter. “Lost cause? You are desperate, Captain. Desperate enough to bring my wife into this.”

“She’s one of many options,” the Captain threatens, “not a last resort.”

“You’re a fool. It might be your first time killing a woman, it’s not mine.”

Click.

Your screams turn to whimpers, heart and lungs depleted of all strength, eyes itching with the flood of tears that flow from their swollen glands.

“Do it. Go on. You fucking asshole.” Your husband goads him, shaking with fury, he averts your gaze even still

Click.

“Two left!” The Captain roars, “the odds really are in Mrs. Zakhaev’s favour, eh? Now we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance, don’t we.”

“Fuck you. I’m not telling you anything. Not for that whore.”

You sob, head tumbling from your shoulders in defeat and exhaustion – you'll die here. Two chambers left, one containing certain death. Your fucking husband will let it get down to the last round just to prove his obstinance. He’d let a bullet blast through your head just to prove a point.

“It’s two simple things, Victor. Only two things you need to spill. When your fucking cabal of Soviet pricks is hitting London, and what with. Is that really worth her life, mate?”

The Captain slips his hand under your jaw, lifting your head to realign it with his pistol. Victor glares at you. Finally meets your gaze. His eyes are small and black, beady like a shark, furious that you’ve put him in this position.

“I’m not as pathetic as you, Captain,” he shouts, knuckles white, he shakes the steel chair like he might break it.

Click.

This time, you shriek, so certain that would be the end – no, another blank shot, another roll of the barrel. Which leaves the last chamber.

Now it’s an execution. Now, you cry, and writhe, and tug, and kick, and scream – wordlessly begging, anything to plead with your husband to just tell them! It can’t be that horrific. It can’t be worth more than your life. He can’t love you that little.

“Doesn’t seem like your wife is ready to die for you. Listen to her.” The Captain snarls, his thumb on your jaw, the revolver cold on your forehead. “It’d be such a waste. An awful shame to lose such a beauty. Wouldn’t it?”

Victor’s skin is burning red, thumping with rage, he glares at you so viciously it terrifies you that he might tear free from his restraints and kill you himself. Something you always feared might happen eventually.

He snorts loudly, hurling a lump of thick saliva onto the cement floor with a loud spit.

“Go on, Captain, fucking shoot her,” he roars. “I’m not weak, like you. She’s just a fucking whore. I picked her up from the streets. And I married her for her cunt – and there are plenty of nice cunts out there. You think I give a shit what you do to her? You’ve probably already fucked her, I bet. Did she ask you to put your cock in her? It’s all she’s fucking good for, and she’s not even that good at it. I'm sure she bent over the second you broke into my house, you son of a bitch. Tell me, was she good for you? She’s not very good at listening to me, so maybe not. She’s good at sucking cock, though – did she offer that to you? It’s the only thing she knows how to do. I bet that’s why you haven’t fucking killed her already. You’d be doing me a favour. She spends my money like it’s fucking hers. You’d be saving me money if you put her down like the worn-out bitch she–”

Bang.

Wailing in horror, you’re certain that was your demise, that you had just drawn your last breath – briefly wondering if your spirit had already drifted from your filthy body, a death so instant that you were spared the agony of a bullet tearing through your skull.

But you open your eyes, trembling, sobbing, dizzied by the sudden silence; to see your husband’s head hanging off his shoulders. A fountain of maroon blood. The splash and dribble of it pouring thick from the red crater in the centre of his forehead. It lands on his knees, drips from his fingers, puddles on the concrete floor around his feet.

Behind him, your hunter.

Gun raised. Still smoking.

“Fuck’s sake, Ghost,” the Captain chides loudly, releasing his grip on your head, dropping the gun from your temple.

You release a heaving breath, almost fainting with the relief, your vision begins to fade.

“Had to shut him up,” your hunter grunts. Seems nonchalant about his sudden murder. Irritated that he had to waste the bullet.

“Why? We were just getting him talking.”

The hunter sniffs, rolling his head on his shoulders, cracking his spine.

“Just had to.”

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bitterfruit fics #bitten-fruit

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crumbledcastle28 · 2 years ago

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Joel Miller: Mint

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (afab; she/her)

Excerpt: Your joy was forever gone, your clothes, your warmth against him as he slept, the voice that sucked him in as soon as he saw you in that fucking dive--

Suddenly, his mouth was pressed against something warm, and soft, and minty, and real.

“Joel,” you whispered into his mouth before kissing him again, and again, and again. Your warm, perfect hands framed his face as you did, but he wasn’t strong enough to meet your face with his own. “Come back to me. Come on baby, talk to me.”

You weren’t gone. You were right here, warm-blooded, healthy, and his.

Warnings: Major death talk, a woman gets torn apart by clickers, Joel has a panic attack, kissing, slight allusion to sex at the end, this is pretty self-indulgent.

A/N: So, Episode 3, am I right?

1.5k

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If you’d like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be very appreciated <3

Joel Miller had done worse things than drag a screaming man by his pantleg back into Jackson, but he would soon discover he had few things quite as haunting.

The man wiggled in his grip--screaming and digging his nails and mouth into the muddy, icy gravel--as Joel made his way back into the small town.

“Take me back,” the man howled, throat clogged with flem and grief, “take me back to her. I can’t leave her.”

Joel kept on hauling.

“Joel,” the man was weeping now, sobbing through his beard. “Take me back to my wife. Please, my wife Joel, my wife.”

The man knew what he was doing, using that word.

That word.

That word cut through Joel like a hot knife, gliding along the insides of his belly and up his throat. Tha man’s wife was long gone, likely torn to pieces by the infected that had nearly gotten the man in Joel’s own hand, but Joel didn’t let him go. He didn’t let him jump down there with her.

Why didn’t he?

The man was silent for a few moments, his sobs the only proof he hadn’t slit his own throat, before his weeps became the sobs of grief that Joel was all too familiar with. The sobs that indicated yes, that did just happen, and I have no idea what the fuck to do from here.

“Please let me go,” the man finally whispered, and Joel dropped his leather-covered foot without hesitation. They had made it to the center of Jackson by that point--meaning a sizeable crowd was beginning to form around them, which Joel absolutely loved--and with one final look back at the defeated and lost man, Joel kept his march forward.

Forward to you.

It was barely noon--Joel was always better at the morning watch shifts than you--which meant you had to have been freshly showered and making yourself a late breakfast. Whenever you took shifts at night you always took the liberty to sleep in plenty in the morning, which gave Joel the opportunity to admire the woman who had him wrapped around her finger--literally and metaphorically. He could still taste the mint of your prized chapstick on his lips. You had kissed him particularly hard that morning, hard enough for him to fidget with his matching band more than usual. The weight of it was there when he left you, when the woman fell, and when the man jumped for her.

Estelle was her name, a beautiful name for a very not-beautiful time, yet a beautiful soul. Her screams pierced the air as soon as she slipped, silenced when she hit the ground, and ignited again as she was torn into.

Joel being the survivor he was acted on instinct alone when it happened, catching the man from the air as he jumped to join her in her fate, and proceeded to tow the decaying, lamented man back home.

The fear in Estelle’s eyes before her feet went out from under her, the rawness of her screams, and the acceptance of her final whimpers didn’t become yours in his brain until right then, his steps towards his home. The man’s cries to join her didn’t become his own until he had to close his eyes at the view of you in the window of your wooden home, taking a mammoth-sized book off of the shelves he had crafted for you.

“Joel,” you had said in reaction. “It’s just...it’s just a random Tuesday.”

He made his way over to you, wrapping you in his arms. “I know.”

He entered your shared home, stomping the snow off his boots on the welcome mat to let you know it was him as always, and breathed in the perfect scent that was your fresh-brewed coffee.

When had he started crying?

“Joel,” you said, still facing away from him and towards your shelf, “you’re early. Very early. I’m guessing things either went really well, or really--”

You cut yourself off when you turned to him, likely noticing the single stream of a tear etching its way down his left cheek, and his breath escaped from him at the sight of you. Your form shaped by your favorite pair of jeans, hair laid just how you liked it, and your favorite shirt fresh from the washer. His favorite vision of you, the happy one. The comfortable one. The “I’m-in-love-and-clean-and-fed-in-a-world-where-I-should-be-neither” look. The truest form of his wife.

His wife.

Take me back to my wife. Please, my wife Joel, my wife.

He couldn’t feel his legs.

“Joel,” he heard you say from somewhere far away. Surely that wasn’t you in front of him, guiding him to his feet, leading him to the sofa, squatting to your knees to look into his eyes, breathing into his face that perfect hint of mint. You were torn, fractured, snapped, shredded, devoured at the bottom of that fucking ledge. He was laying in the middle of the square, waiting for his organs to shut down from the cold. Waiting to join you.

He could see it so clearly--he wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough. One more person he failed, one more gaping hole in his chest with no bullet to match. Except this time, you weren’t just another person, you were his everything. Everything. He shouldn’t have let himself fall. He never thought he’d have a wife, and maybe he was never supposed to.

Your joy was forever gone, your clothes, your warmth against him as he slept, the voice that sucked him in as soon as he saw you in that fucking dive--

Suddenly, his mouth was pressed against something warm, and soft, and minty, and real.

You weren’t gone. You were right here, warm-blooded, healthy, and his.

He exhaled a puff of relief, like reality did its best to punch him in the stomach so hard he couldn’t even respond, before saying, “I would bet on really bad.”

You laughed joyously before wrapping your arms around him so hard the breath he had just gathered escaped him once more, and more tears spilled from his eyes when he tucked his face into your neck. He must have been leaking them the entire time.

You held him closely, intimately. It was a hug only lovers could mold themselves into. You exhaled in relief before suddenly pulling away and shoving him so hard he fell against the back of the couch.

“Darlin’, what--”

“What the hell was that, Joel Miller,” you yelled. “You come home hours earlier than you’re supposed to, stare at me like I’m a fucking ghost, and collapse! I thought you were having a goddamn stroke or something, Christ.”

“Y/N, I--”

“You better fuckin’ explain,” you state sternly, “and quickly because Jesus Christ.”

He just stared at you, at that passion that always simmered underneath you finally boiling over, before smiling bigger than he had all day.

You scoffed before squatting down to meet his eyes straight on once more. “Explain. Now.”

He leaned forward, finally tracing the face he knew better than any other with hands rougher than it ever deserved, and spoke. Your eyes softened as he talked, tracing his features as they did, and your soft, lovely fingertips kept his eyes looking into yours the entire time.

“Once I came in here, I--” he began, clearing his throat as the emotion and panic struggled from the restraint he had planted on them, “--I only saw you falling, and me being dragged here. I realized how imminent that is. I could taste it.”

You swallowed, your own eyes beginning to mist, and brought your forehead to his.

“I’ve lost people,” he whispered, “so many people, and I’ve gotten back up. If I lose you, I...I won’t be able to. I’m going to go down, and I’m going to stay there. I can’t live in this world without you in it, Y/N.”

You swallowed harshly as tears escaped your own eyes. Your hands remained framing his face, rubbing his jaw and cheekbones with your fingertips, before you pressed your lips to his once more. It was that combination of the warmth and wet of your lips, the taste of your minty breath mixed with the unique taste of you, as well as the breaths from your nose that proved to him yes, you were here, you were real.

“My Joel,” you whispered against his lips, “you haven’t lost me. I’m right here.”

You bring his right palm to your left breast, right above your heartbeat, where he both heard and felt that familiar tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump.

“I’m right here.”

His misted eyes met your own, full of nothing but complete raw adoration, before you stood and tucked his face into your stomach, letting him fall apart.

He fell apart in your arms, weeping while clutched to your clothing, and once he was done, you covered his mouth with your lips, and put all the pieces of your husband back together.

Tag list: (I apologize if your tag is not present/not working. If you’d like to be added or I’ve made a mistake, feel free to ask!)

@leahkenobi @aninnai i @untitledarea @avengersfan25 @lexloon

#joel miller #joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #hbo tlou spoilers #hbo

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kindergrrl · 5 months ago

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Previously Unseen Photo.

Mammoth Events Center. Denver, Colorado.

March 19th, 1995.

#courtney love #hole #1995 #unseen

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highly-emotional-people · 8 months ago

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Bella Thorne - Kelly Balch Mammoth Film Festival photo diary, March 2024

#bella thorne #bthorneedit #btedit #*#flawlessbeautyqueens #dailywomen #thequeensofbeauty #glamoroussource

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outofangband · 11 months ago

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I really loved @gwaedhannen ‘s post about wanting more strangeness in First Age Beleriand and I had a post awhile back about potential strange ecology for Middle Earth so I wanted to revisit it with some more thoughts!

Following up to my speculative biology ideas for elves,

Like the last list, these are more jotting down ideas, please please feel free to give me any to elaborate on!

Mammoths on the Helcaraxë and other cold reaches. Tolkien talks of all creatures that walk or have ever walked the earth existing in Valinor and throughout Arda hence prehistoric and extinct species can also exist here. I do also headcanon smaller herds of woolly mammoths and woolly rhinos in northern Hithlum and north of greater Beleriand. Stellar’s sea cows in the frozen waters:(

Early cenozoic aquatic birds such as Hesperornis off the coasts of Balar and Alqualondë.

Enchanted orchards of Valinor; large, seemingly abandoned self containing gardens and orchards. There are fruit tree orchards hidden behind ivy covered walls; some always filled with Autumn breezes, citrus groves always kept warm and bright lined with lemon trees and deep green grass. Except for the Maia who tend them, the only beings who enter the orchards are elves who do so, usually by mistake.

There are places throughout Arda where the Music was not well, loud, enough. They can be the size of a footstep or a field and are not fully connected to the space time continuum. Those who tread on them will end up elsewhere in time or space and will never realize what had happened.

In the great expanses of unexplored Valinor, there are coves, glens, lagoons, and all sorts of other places that seem shift and change, being there one day and not the next. Even while walking through familiar, charted territory, there is always the possibility of ending up in a hidden clearing, covered in hanging mosses and with strange lights all around.

The forests of Beleriand are full of strange, sometimes dark creatures that have never been properly documented. They are the strange hybrids of Yavanna’s creations and Melkor’s corruption and a few have escaped the eyes of even the Ainur.

The underground lakes of Middle Earth, especially around Angband contain blind, hungry beings, nourished by the volcanic soils. Strange fungi and lichen stick to the walls of the caverns and passageways beneath the fortress.

There are hot springs in several locations in Beleriand South of the Ered Wethrin (there are many in the Ered Wethrin of course but these are not exactly relaxation destinations). Namely in Himring, throughout Hithlum, north of Barad Eithel, parts of Dorthonion, in the caves of Androth, and parts of the Ered Luin. Not all of these are used by residents and not all maintain safe temperatures or conditions but some do! In many parts of Northern Beleriand, they're used for bathing and communal relaxation. There are other springs throughout the March of Maedhros and I like the idea of Himring being built around a hot spring. There are hot and warm springs in both Nargothrond and Menengroth. The definition of warm springs differs from hot springs only in average temperature

The caves of Menengroth and Nargothrond allow elves and others access to the strange wonders of the underground world of Middle Earth. They are lit by lanterns and by certain bioluminescent plants. There are windows in key areas that allow sunlight to filter into some of the larger halls and though there are small gardens of species that do not require direct sunlight, some are stationed in the areas where sunlight filters in. A small tributary of the river Narog flows directly through one of the great halls of Nargothrond. Its flora and fauna remain untouched by the elves and algae and aquatic plants as well as small fish, salamanders in their early stages, and stranger creatures are visible to see for those who walk along it.

In realms with Ainur or certain Eldar rule, natural life may not follow typical laws. Melian has great influence over the biodiversity and climate of Doriath for example even without meaning to.

The horror potential of the boundaries of the girdle or of Nan Elmoth. Time and space distorting, the forest becoming a maze, bird calls confusing and disorienting unwary or unlucky travelers

The Ered Gorgoroth, the eerie, mysterious mountain range, bordered to the north by Dorthonion and to the south by Nan Dungortheb. It was said the spawn of Ungolian haunted these mountains and the valley. I have some more posts on this but I've always imagined there being many pools and meres in Ered Gorgoroth, many harmless though frigid and some completely corrupted by the powers of Ungoliants spawn and other beings. Unfortunately, it’s not always possible to know which was which until it was too late.

Chemical reactions causing glimmering or colorful water. Elves learn carefully when this has occurred due to natural phenomena and when it is the result of unnatural influence or Ainur presence.

Salt lakes and landlocked waters mimicking ocean conditions. I’ve always imagined there being a lake like lake Baikal in the March of Maedhros

More Bioluminescence

The realms draped in dragon reek especially around Nargothrond. The pools of Ivrin are ruined by Glaurung and they are the source of the river Narog, the largest tributary to Sirion. The entire land could be poisoned. I imagine that plants wither or lose color, birds and frogs stay silent, animals are thrown off of their natural cycles, The orchards in the hills barren or producing foul fruit, strange happenings resulting from drinking from the river Narog or even eating animals that drank from it…

Alternatively the effects of the water where the power of Ulmo is still strong such as in Nan Tathren or the Twilit Meres

#the silmarillion #beleriand #musing and meta #Valinor #Doriath #ered gorgoroth #I hope these are ok I’m very tired

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whereserpentswalk · 22 days ago

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There was, in ancient times, whenever those times may be, when Atlantis still stood above the waves, and when the Titans still ruled Olympus, a city was devastated by a plague of black ink. Those infected would have their blood turn thick and dark, and the black liquid would leave from their eyes and mouths, until their skin itself melted to that foul ink.

And when half, no more and no less, of the city's citizens had been claimed by the plague, a paladin made of glass walked into the city. His skin, and his eyes, and his teeth and his hair were all transparent glass, only his blood and his internal organs were flesh and blood, able to be seen through his transparent skin. And his armor too was glass, but a thick obsidian, yet less breakable than even steel. And he rode into the city's marble streets, and past it's great towers and pyramids and silver skyscrapers. And he rode on a creature that was more spider than it was horse, and behind him were an entourage of goblins, with blue scales and the heads of vultures and clothing made from mammoth's bones.

And the paladin walked to a white temple, at the city center, and told the plagued people in an inhuman voice. "Bow to me, and strip all your temples of their gods, and worship but me alone. And if you find a single soul who worships your old pantheon put them to the sword and give them no life here. Then and only then will I save you from this plague, and all illness will not exist here. For I am your only hope."

And the elder priests, and the elder statesmen, and the elder warriors all agreed, that this creature was worth any submission as long as he could cure their plague. So, they bowed, and their gods were expelled from their temples, and their statues burnt, and all temples that stood became the temples of the glass paladin. And the plague ended, slowly at first, as all who the paladin's cold glass hands touched were healed, and slowly less and less carried the illness. And all the meanwhile the rotted bodies of those who refused to worship their new savior rotted in the street, as the goblins poked them with spears and chewed their rotting bodies.

And time passed, and years passed, and people lived with the paladin's rule, knowing that the alternative was worse. And when plagues came again, and people wanted to rid themselves of the paladin, the elders said that they could not because the plagues would destroy them without the paladin. And when there were no plagues, and the people were healthy, and people wanted to rid themselves of the paladin, the elders said that they could not because plague would come again without the paladin.

Then one day the city was struck by famine, as the paladin sat in his temple. It had been generations, so many that not the oldest of them remembered the paladin's arrival. The famine marched on and the food was gone from the stores and the markets, and not even the rats had anything to eat but the corpses of the starving, and even the princes failed to fill their feasts. And all the cities' allies had no food to give in time, and all the great stores of goods were empty, and there was nothing anyone within the city's walls seemed to be able to do.

And when half the people had starved, no more and no less the glass paladin spoke to them. He had not spoken at all until his first statement. He walked out of the white temple, and told them, "We have made a deal before, let us make one now. I have become lonely in my temple, and desire company. Let me pick one young girl from whatever house or apartment I may, one every year, to be one of my brides. And even if they resist, I will not kill them but strike away their fingers and eyes until they can resist no more. And in turn I shall give you the nourishment you need, I shall fill your plates with sausages and cherries, and your cups with wine and bubble tea until even your beggars are fat. For I am your only hope."

And it was a dark thing to do, and they questioned if it was right. But the people decided that it was better to have their daughters given to their only hope, then to see them die of starvation. And in time the people were given what they needed to eat, and the famine ended slowly, and the ground touched by the glass paladin was made fertile. And in time what was justified as a necessary evil became a good, and people thought it the highest honor to give their daughters up to the paladin. And there would be great celebration for those who were carried off never to be seen again each year.

And time passed, and years passed, and people lived with the paladin's rule, knowing that the alternative was worse. And when starvation came again, and people wanted to rid themselves of the paladin, the elders said that they could not because the famine would destroy them without the paladin. And when there was food in plenty, and the people were well fed, and people wanted to rid themselves of the paladin, the elders said that they could not because famine would come again without the paladin.

And one day they city was struck by raiders, as the paladin sat in his temple. It had been generations, so many that not the oldest of them remembered the paladin's request for brides. Harpies from the north who came down from the sky to pillage and loot and ransack their treasures. And even the best marksmen of the city could not shoot them out of the sky for the creatures were too fast and too agile. And blood and corpses lined the streets, and the great treasures and works of the city were carried off.

And when half the people were killed or had been carried off as slaves, no more and no less, the paladin spoke to them. He had not spoken at all since the famine. He walked out of the white temple, and told them, "My dear friends near friends, it has come time for me to protect you again. But now the time is but more dire, and as I age these centuries, I grow weak and need new nourishment. I need a new source of food, and to my eldritch form your young men look so very sweet. Once a month send me one of your young men, select them as you will, and I will devour them. And for their sacrifice I shall darken the sky so no wing can fly through and arm my goblins as steadfast soldiers. I will protect you. For I am your only hope."

And at that point who could say no, they would already be struck with famine and plague if the paladin left, and the harpies killed more than the one soul a month the glass paladin wished to eat. It was the obvious choice after all. And in time the goblins fought the harpies well, and the skies grew cold, and the raids became less and less. And in time the priests said that the souls of boys eaten by the glass paladin had the highest place in heaven.

But soon it was too much. And though people said there would be plagues and raiders and famine if the paladin left, weather they were there or not, it just wasn't enough for many. Rebellions began, and people begun to speak of a world without the glass paladin ruling over them all.

And then one day, as the paladin sat in his temple. It had been generations, so many that not the oldest of them remembered the paladin's request for human flesh. The newest boy set to be eaten by the paladin, and the newest girl set to be his bride met within the glass paladin's temple. And they spoke, for hours, for they had nothing else to do but wait for their dark fates. And they became as close friends as people who knew each other's dooms could be. And they hatched a plan, that when the boy was waiting to be cooked in the kitchen, he would meet with the girl, and sneak her a knife, a small one that she could hide. And when the girl spent her first night with the paladin, she would unveil it the moment she undressed and break his glass form. The girl knew the glass paladin would kill her for this, but she decided that she'd rather him take her life then her freedom, that the pain the worst death he could bring her was worth no longer being his toy to control. If men older and more powerful than her had decided such things generations ago she would not have to make such a choice, but she did anyway.

They say the next day, the boy was eaten as expected, and the girl hung for her crimes. The paladin appeared before his people, but his face way shattered and broken, taped together crudely, the glass had been shattered by a knife. The girl had stabbed him right in the eye, honorable as she was, it was not enough to kill him, as broken as his glass flesh was, he stood. And he spoke to his people for the fourth and final time, "Subjects you have been infected with traitors and heretics. They will expel me from this city and leave you to be doomed by raids and famine and plague. So drastic measures must be taken to keep you loyal Tomorow, line up before the temple at dawn and I shall turn you into my goblin subjects, mindless and loyal to me, and you shall live forever without fear of treason. This must be done, or else surly treason shall infect you all, and you all shall die if you are not my children. For I am your only hope."

And they say the next day, the city was empty. And it's great marble streets, and its pyramids and silver skyscrapers had few to behold them. And a precession of goblins left with the glass paladin, ready to find another city afraid of death. But a few, a few who had rebelled and resisted the paladin, a few who had refused to line up, still stood in the city, ready to rebuild it, stronger and wiser, by their own hands.

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duxbelisarius · 28 days ago

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Dune At Home: The First Dornish War, Part Four

Thank you to everyone that has followed the series thus far (you can follow the series via the Master Post and AO3); I hope you've enjoyed it and have found it informative! Now that we're done discussing the strategies of both sides when the war began, we can discuss how the Dornish and Seven Kingdoms armies conducted their campaigns (ie Operations) and fought battles (ie Tactics), as well as the use of the Targaryen dragons.

I want to start by covering dragons, since they play an important role in how the war is perceived; before discussing tactics however, I want to throw my hat into the ring on another subject: dragon size. /u/servantoffire gave a pretty good estimate for Balerion's size some years ago, and while I think his length figure of 126 feet long is a solid estimate for Vhagar during the Dance, when she was almost as large as Balerion, my estimates for Balerion take a different approach. We are told by Tyrion that Balerion could swallow an aurochs whole, or a mammoth from Ib; since aurochs existed in our world, we can use their height figure of two meters at the shoulders. Ib being an island, I think these mammoths are likely similar to the dwarf mammoths of Wrangel Island rather than the free-roaming specimens north of the Wall, and their heights would be c. 2 meters like an aurochs. In order to estimate Balerion's size, I compared this 2 meter height to the jaw size of one of the largest reptiles known to have lived: Hoffmann's Mosasaur, estimated at c. 40 feet (c. 12.2 meters) in length from snout to tail.

The best estimate I've seen suggests that it could open it's jaws 1 meter, and my estimate for Balerion's jaws would be 3.5 meters to fit an aurochs or dwarf mammoth with some room to spare, giving us a body length of 140 feet from snout to tail. For Balerion's wings, /u/servantoffire used a Flying Fox's dimensions to arrive at a wingspan of 453 feet; my estimate is based on Dany's comment in her first chapter of ACOK regarding her dragons wings: "their span was three times their length." This gives Balerion a wingspan of 420 feet (128m) with a body length of 140 feet (c.42.7m), and using the 126 foot (38.4m) length for Vhagar gives her a wingspan of 378 feet (115.2m). These measurements allow us to extrapolate the size of other dragons in the series: Aenys I and Aegon the Uncrowned's dragon Quicksilver was a quarter the size of Balerion at her death, putting her at 35 feet (c.10.7m) long with a 105 foot (32m) wingspan; Caraxes was half the size of Vhagar during the Dance, or 63 feet (19.2m) long with a 189 foot (57.6m) wingspan; Arrax was one-fifth the size of Vhagar (c. 25 feet by 75 feet, 7.6m by 22.9m) and Vermax and Tyraxes would have been slightly larger and smaller respectively. After this we can only speculate, but if we propose that the difference in size between Vermithor and Vhagar during the Dance was similar to the difference between our estimates of Balerion and Dance!Vhagar, c. 14 feet (4.3m), Vermithor would be 110 feet (33.5m) long with a 330 foot (100.6m) wingspan. Tessarion and Seasmoke were both a third the size of Vermithor, giving them a length of c. 37 feet (11.3m) with a wingspan of 110 feet.

The smallest dragon for which we have measurements is Baela's Moondancer, described in F&B as no larger than a warhorse in 130 AC; her size is relevant not only for giving us a sense of how small a dragon can be an still fly with a rider, but also because determining the size of a warhorse in George's world will be relevant for Part 5, where I plan to discuss the Dornish Marches. From John Pryor and Elizabeth Jeffries' analysis of Medieval horse transport ships (Age of the Dromon, 304-333) and Ann Hyland's research on Medieval and Ancient Roman horses (Medieval Warhorse, 143-148), a 12th century Medieval warhorse would have been around 15 hands tall from the hoof to their withers (where the shoulder meets the neck; 1 Hand = 3 inches, 15 Hands = 5 Feet). Hyland further estimates that a Roman horse would have been between 13.5 and 15 hands, with 16 hand horses not being unknown for Ancient and Medieval breeds, meaning a height range of 4'5" to 5'3" (1.4 to 1.6m).

Based on how dragons are depicted alive and in heraldry in TWOIAF, the forelimbs of the dragons appear to make up half the span of the wing, meaning that Moondancer's wings would each have been 10'6" in length for a wing span of c. 21 feet (6.4m), with a body length of 7 feet (2.1m), using the aforementioned estimates for warhorse height. By comparison, the largest known flying animal discovered to date was Quetzalcoatlus Northropi with a wingspan of 36 feet, equal to a Cessna 172 four-seater utility aircraft. Given George's already established problems with scale which we've discussed in this series, I think it's safe to assume his warhorses are much larger than they actually were, and Moondancer in turn is somewhat bigger. A height of 18 to 20 hands at the withers would give her a wingspan of c.24 to 26 feet (7.3 to 7.9m) and a body length just north of 8 feet (2.4m).

My reason for investigating dragon sizes is to help illustrate just how massive the Conquerors dragons were, to give some indication of how deadly they would have been in combat. We obviously know that dragons can fly and breath fire, but one activity that seems quite underappreciated about dragons is that they can also dig. Leaving aside the likely origins of dragons as creatures created magically by crossing fire wyrms with wyverns as proposed by Septon Barth, we know from the books and elsewhere that even large dragons can tunnel and make burrows. Despite steadily increasing in size, Rhaegal and Viserion are still able to tunnel through the brick and earth foundations of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, using their fire and claws to make a cavern large enough for Viserion to hand upside down from its ceiling. The Cannibal was the largest dragon alive during the Dance after Vhagar and Vermithor and is said to have 'made it's lair' within the dragon mount, while George also talks about dragon lairs and 'deep caverns' under the dragon mount which likely required some effort on the part of the dragons to render suitable for dwelling.

It is surprising given these tendencies that no attempt was made to go after the Dornish in their tunnels and caves, assuming that our hypothesis from Part 2 is true. We estimated that it could have taken 3 months for Aegon's host to reach King's Landing from Dorne, during which time the garrisons he left behind ought to have been trying to locate where the Dornish population was hidden. Even a single dragon would have a assisted these efforts immensely given their flying and digging capabilities, alongside what should be heightened senses of smell, hearing and sight which should be considerable for magical apex predators. Like the Cappadocian subterranean dwellings, the Dornish hideaways would have needed shafts connected to the surface for access clean air and sunlight, as well as to provide chimneys for fires and to allow wells on the surface to access water sources further below.

Like Cappadocia, the Dornish could not have disposed of animal and human waste in underground rivers they depended on for water, so 'nightsoil' would have been stored in jars and disposed of on the surface. Livestock being kept underground would also have needed opportunities to graze and stretch their legs on the surface, creating further opportunities for the garrisons and dragons on the surface to locate them. Once entrances could be located, a dragon would have made short work of them like a kind of hellish Clifford the Big Red Dog. We noted in Part 3 that blocking the passes and forcing the dragons to clear them could allow the Dornish to target the riders, provided the ambushes had been planned and set-up in advance; attacking the caverns would mean less risk since the caverns need to be kept hidden, and any troops stationed nearby on the surface would be a liability.

The other issue regarding dragons in the First Dornish War is the manner in which the Dornish attempt to fight while the dragons are at large. TWOIAF tells us that the Dornish "harried and ambushed the Targaryen forces, then would scamper beneath their rocks as soon as they saw the dragons take flight," but this raises serious questions. For starters, why are the dragons taking flight? We mentioned 'writing to lose' at the end of Part 3 and it's hard not to think that this is what is happening, as the Targaryen dragons should be in the air as much as possible to monitor events on the ground. The size of Aegon's army means its column should be long enough to attack it without the immediate risk of a dragon intervening, so it makes little sense why the Dornish are taking such risks. If we use Balerion as an example, his incredible size means that Aegon cannot ride him on foot as he did in Oldtown at his coronation, since his claws and weight would ruin any of the roads in the Prince's Pass (and probably should have ruined those of Oldtown too).

Short of resting or clearing obstacles, Balerion should be in the air every chance Aegon gets, but the Dornish tactics also make little sense. While harrying and harassment might be possible with small numbers of troops, the purpose of an ambush is to surprise a foe and maul or annihilate their forces or at least put them to flight, especially though not always if the foe is superior in number. The presence of a dragon poses a problem since withdrawing the moment it takes off makes it unlikely that the losses inflicted on the enemy are severe, rendering the entire action pointless. Nor can it be assumed that such a timely withdrawal would be possible, since a melee developing or counterattacks by the enemy could make it difficult or even impossible for the attackers to withdraw without great loss. Unless means have been planned for in advance to mitigate the dragon's ability to intervene, there is no reason for the Dornish to attack at all when a dragon is on hand to assist Aegon's forces.

In the interest of treating the Dornish Marches with greater detail in Part 5, the last tactical or operational subject I want to discuss is the conduct of Aegon's forces in the Dornish Desert. We already mentioned in Part 3 that whether George knows it or not, Harlan Tyrell and his men should never have reached Hellholt, but this is only the tip of the questionable writing iceberg. In explaining the plight of the Highgardeners, F&B tells us it was the second year of autumn and it was hoped winter would arrive soon and bring more water and less heat to the desert. The Dornish sun was unrelenting however, and with the local water sources poisoned the Tyrell host lost almost all it's horses and a quarter of its men. We're given no indication of how they obtained water otherwise so even without our logistical knowledge we can still assume that the water they carried with them would not have lasted long, and Tyrell's host would have needed to force march most of the distant at the cost of significantly more men than the 25% they lost.

The weather does raise problems for the plot: the rainy season in both Spain and Israel/Palestine begins in autumn (roughly October-November), and we should expect this to be the case in Dorne given those regions were influences for George's depiction of Dorne in the books. George insists that Dorne receives enough rain even in the summer to remain habitable, so we should expect that by autumn there should already be some relief; if we're to believe that this autumn has been more dry than usual, this poses a serious problem for the Dornish. If 1 BC and 4 AC have already been write offs agriculturally as we suggested in Part 2, a dry autumn in 3 AC would mean an additional year of slim returns owing to reduced rainfall, in addition to the difficulties organizing planting and harvesting while the population at least attempts to remain hidden (Aegon sends a delegation in 3 AC to negotiate, which would have reported any activity by the Dornish that they could observe). The autumn of 3-4 AC being hot and dry should also have ruled out marching to Hellholt since finding water in the desert would have been difficult with or without the Sandy Dornish poisoning water sources.

Whether or not the Tyrell host was sent to Hellholt, the question of water supply would have been on the mind of Harlan Tyrell regardless of the circumstances and climate in which he was fighting. According to George, the Reach and Stormlands rarely get snow, and almost never in Oldtown and Dorne. Even if the climate is more temperate in the Reach proper and the Honeywine Valley (north and south of the line Bandallon-Brightwater Keep-Horn Hill respectively, inclusive in the former case) compared to Dorne with more abundant water, heat and exposure to the sun should still be an issue for the population. Harlan Tyrell was steward of Highgarden for House Gardener prior to being named Warden and Lord Paramount of the Reach by Aegon; it's almost certain he was in charge of supplying and quartering Mern IX's massive host before it marched to join Loren I Lannister's at Goldengrove. We have no reason to doubt TWOIAF when says that Harlan proved a 'capable steward' for the Reach, which makes it that much more unfathomable that he lead his host to Hellholt in the first place.

F&B says that it was Aegon who divided his host and sent Tyrell against Hellholt, implying that Aegon arrived at the decision and Tyrell supported it. Although F&B has Tyrell claim that Aegon's host could defeat any Dornish army without Balerion, clearly intending to show his arrogance, there's a difference between arrogantly underestimating your opponent's forces and ignoring the supply needs of your own host despite leading it through a desert. One is absolutely arrogance but the other is ignorance and outright incompetence, and it's the latter which is implied by the almost chiding way in which Gyldan states that 'men drink more' in the heat, as though Tyrell would have been unaware of this fact despite hailing from a kingdom whose climate is almost too warm for snow. Aegon and Harlan Tyrell should both have access to the archives of the Citadel and those of the Gardener and Durrandon kings as well as those kept by the noble houses of the Reach and Stormlands, they cannot have passed the 4 years between Aegon's coronation and the invasion of Dorne is blissful ignorance of what they would face. Water supply is a necessity for warfare at all times, and only becomes that much more important if water is scarce where operations are taking place.

The 10th century Byzantine manual On Campaign Organization and Tactics refers to the danger of operations when the enemy is at large and water is scarce, but what it says is applicable regardless of whether or not the enemy is close at hand:

13. The risk involved in marching through regions without water while the enemy is on the move.

In addition to other things, this too must be borne in mind: When the enemy are expected it is dangerous to lead the army through places in which there is no water, especially during the summer. In the winter the troops can often last for the whole day without water but in the summertime, not even to the noon meal. The men will perish along with the horses. It is a terrible thing to have to engage in two battles. I mean the one against the enemy and the one against the heat when water is lacking. If it should be necessary, however, they should choose a laborious route of three or four days to that shorter one which has no water. For it is preferable to march safely but laboriously along that long road which presents no danger than to choose the short one and fall into danger." (Dennis, Three Byzantine Military Treatises, 285)

The anonymous writer refers to many of the Empire's enemies from Arabs and Turks to Bulgars, Russians and Pechenegs, but there is no indication that water is any less important in Balkan Europe than in the border region of modern day Turkey, Syria and Iraq.

Things are only made worse by what F&B tells us about the occupation of Hellholt; while it was believed Hellholt was well placed to respond to rebellions, "the river was sulfurous and the fish taken from it made the Highgardeners sick." Of course this implies that no one in Aegon's inner circle much less Aegon himself made any attempt to gather information about Hellholt in the 4 or so years prior to the invasion, let alone the year leading up to the invasion. This is not an error of judgement made in the heat of the moment, this is a systemic error that could have been avoided years in advance, and which raise serious question about the competence of Aegon and his lords (more on this in Part 6). More confusing still are the reports that the Qorgyles and Vaiths were ambushing Tyrell foraging parties that ventured too far west or east. As we noted in Part 3, Sandstone and Vaith are 150 miles or more away from Hellholt, meaning that the foraging parties and their assailants have to be crossing incredible distances despite the dry autumn and the hiding away of the Dornish population making it unlikely that any forage could be found to begin with.

Our discussion of tactics and operations will continue in Part 5, so the 'fix-it' section here will be fairly short. Much of these problems are already solved by what we did in Part 3, namely scaling back the scenario of the First Dornish War to make it more manageable. Tyrell never enters the western desert and the Dornishmen launch ambushes or when the dragons aren't there or if their effectiveness is mitigated by the terrain, so these scenarios never have to be depicted (in fairness to George, the quote about ambushes does not appear in F&B, so he seems to have cut it entirely). I'll have more to say about the dragons in Part 6, but the fact that the First Dornish War is less than half as long in our scenario (4-7 AC vs 4-13 AC) limits the damage they can inflict. Thank you for reading, and stay tuned for Part 5!

#asoiaf #grrm critical #fire and blood #fire and blood critical #dorne #westeros #house targaryen #house martell #history #military history

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searchingforserendipity25 · 10 months ago

Text

The Eagle's Share

Tw: hunting and animal sacrifice.

Inspired by the incredible Fingon&Eagles relationship in Not In Vain by @polutrope!

In Barad Eithel celebrations were held in the middle of every bitter winter, a proud chasing away of the bitter frost Fingolfin's people so loathed.

There were dances, sparring games, and great hunts. Lalwen lead a masking ritual, a time of portents and heady magics; Fingolfin-king poured the mead and the wine, and passed to every cupped palm their due bold of miruvor he had brewed all summer, to each were given their due words of praise and courage.

He spoke and shone as once he had amidst the spluttering fires, a small animal in the Darkening calling to himself a hard, a pack to weather the long night within greater warmth.

Well-loved he was, Fingolfin of the Noldor; to him none were truer than the eldest of his sons, whose bowl was ever poured last, that it should be known the king favoured not his own blood unduly.

But Fingon went by himself, on the darkest nights before the lengthening of the days: and did not return until he had slain a great elk-of-the-woods, or a mad-eyed bear mother, and left the upon the highest peak for the eagles and falcons and ravens to feast upon.

Afterwards he joined the feasting, singing and harping as he went, at that hour when a grey light started to gleam dully to the East; and the music changed, the drums quickened into lighter reels, treacherous leaping staff-on-staff dances. He wore ribbons of goldcloth embroidered with copper in his hair, and about his neck necklaces with eagle feathers - long and sleek and just as golden.

The Great Eagles came not among the Eldar then, but to involve themselves in rare and dire matters; but some of them begot lesser creatures among their wild kin, and it was from such a strain that Fingon raised, and tended, and trained many a generation of bold hunting kestrels, amber-eyed falcons - even some rare grave and little-tamed eagles.

In the back of his aiming hand he inked an eagle, wings spread and proud. It had been the way of mourning in the Ice, when one died, and the body could not be buried; Fingolfin's grave never was seen by Fingolfin's heir.

Still the blood-price must be paid. Fingon went, and brought down his greatest beast yet, a woollen mammoth thick enough to feed a company for the march.

He left it to the wise birds of the realm. The blood gleamed red and slick on the snow, the viscera steaming enough to make his mouth water. As ever he gave them his thanks, begged their pity, praised the glory of their free flight, their hungering defiance, even as Morgoth made foul and weak so much of the land and the land's beasts.

Alone under the judging stars he wept, as he had not yet; a great grief was on him, and a will for revenge. Above all he denied Morgoth's design, that would wipe clean the skies and the earth, till all creatures were his servants, and no honor or memory of good deeds remained alive.

The birds came to feed. They fought among themselves at times, as was their way; yet they were solemn in their devouring, determined as they bit the meat out of the bone and bared it.

Their many eyes were in the night of nights a light of their own, ancient; and their cawing and their calling was insistent, even after all had fed - insistent for blood and vengeance, fierce and fierce enough to tear the silence in many halves. It made the white hills and the high firs tremble with urgency; Fingon's voice too rose, at last, and joined their defiance.

In the dark before a slow dawn rose, he started making ready for war.

The feasting changed with Fingolfin's end, ever less a celebration, more the smothering thrill that gathered, storm-like, in the hearts of the Eldar before a battle. His vassals came more often and from further, to deepen their counsels of war under the guise of a common visit, the trading of winter-gifts made anew into a deep renewal of vows.

Through great gates they went, marveling at the strength and beauty of the fortifications of the Noldor, and in the king's great chamber they bent over his left hand in greeting, that Fingon might clasp their necks and touch their cheeks in welcome.

But Maedhros of Himring alone kneeled at his feet and kissed the tattoo through the king's hawking gloves, his own cleaved right arm pressed against his heart.

So it was in Barad Eithel, that valiant realm, before the walls were broken, when the wild wings of Beleriand were revered.

#fingon #maedhros #fingolfin #silm fic #tolkien #silmarillion #eagles of manwe #my fics

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