#March of the Mammoths

[leticiatoraci]

March of the Mammoths, 5 Recommendations: #marchofthemammoths

Picture by ArtSpark on Pixabay March of the Mammoths is a very interesting readathon where you read a book of fiction or nonfiction that’s 800 or more pages in length. Originally created by Jason @OldBluesChapterandVerse and Alex@BigAlBooks, this is a readathon I often try to participate in March. It takes a specially interesting book to make me invested in reading it beyond the 800 page limit.…

[shivvroys]

i know this has been done already but since u reblogged a post about it i would absolutely kill for your take on if karolina found shiv scheduling her grief instead of tom 🙏

first off, thank you so much for the ask, and sorry for the long long wait!!

secondly, i've cheated a bit - this was supposed to be a part of the fic that i'm currently writing, but i've had to cut it. I'm really fond of it, though, so I hope you like it :)

it's a much milder take than i'd envisioned, and in the context of an established relationship i definitely would've made it angstier, but i think it fits somewhat close to canon

read below <3

'Indulged child' — seven letters, starts with an S or the healing properties of the NYT Games app

Karolina steps into the meeting room, tension already melting off her shoulders, and almost trips on the poorly installed carpeting when she spots Siobhan sitting at the end of the conference table. Her head is bowed, cradled between her hands, so Karolina can’t see her face.

“Oh, sorry.” she blinks, stopping a few feet away from the table. “I didn’t know you had the room booked.”

Karolina watches as Shiv turns her head, attempting to cover the fact that she’d been crying. She wipes hurriedly at her nose, and only meets Karolina’s eyes after she’s composed herself.

“It’s fine.” she shrugs. “I’m done anyway.”

Then, Shiv rises from her chair quickly and begins clearing her things off the table before Karolina has the chance to say anything. She hasn’t brought many things: some pens, a notebook that’s been opened on a blank page, a pack of tissues, Shiv’s tablet—just enough knick-knacks to make it seem like she’d been working. Shiv’s back is turned to Karolina so she can’t see all of the table, but she knows it couldn’t take more than a few seconds to gather everything.

Still, she stays silent, watching the lines of Shiv’s shoulders like landmines, like birds about to take flight. As if reminding herself of their existence—and reminding herself to control them, she pulls her hands closer to herself.

“Are you—”

“I’m good.” Shiv cuts her off. She finally turns to face Karolina, her things now stacked on top of each other in her hands. “It’s all yours.” she nods towards the table.

Karolina takes a tentative step forward as Shiv starts making her way out of the room. As she approaches the table, she spots Shiv’s phone lying face down. She sets her things on the table, before turning to Shiv.

“Oh, Shiv, I think you forgot—”

As she calls out, the phone begins ringing. She picks it up, turning it around to see the timer notification flashing on the screen.

“Were you meditating?” she frowns, cracking a smile.

She reaches to hand Shiv the phone, pretending not to see the tiny trail of blood pooling at the base of her thumb nail.

“No.” Shiv swallows. A beat. “Crying, actually, yeah.”

She clears her throat, tilting her head as if challenging Karolina to say anything. To throw a punch.

“I—I’m so sorry, Shiv.” Karolina blinks, barely croaking the words out. “I’ll let you—”

“It’s fucking fine, Karolina.” Shiv snaps. “Take the goddamn room. I’m done.”

Her eyes are red-rimmed, and the hand she’s raised to silence Karolina is just shy of shaking.

“I’m just hiding out from Kendall.” Karolina sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “He keeps asking me for feedback on his pitch but all it is, is just—buzzwords.”

She catches the faintest smile flash across Shiv’s face, which spurs her on.

“Dynamic. Innovation. Convergence.” she coos, raising her brows and shaking her hands in front of herself like an old-timey snake-oil seller.

That gets a full-fledged chuckle out of Shiv, and when Karolina drops her hands and sets her face into a familiar scowl it erupts into real laughter. She lets Shiv enjoy this brief reprieve, before gesturing to the room.

“So please, take the room. I have my assistant blocking it as important, so it’s yours for the next hour. I can hide out someplace else.”

She doesn’t give Shiv a chance to refuse, grabbing her things and turning to leave before Shiv takes a step forwards, blocking her way.

“I’m not going to sit here and cry for an entire fucking hour.” Shiv scowls, shaking her head. Then, she nods towards Karolina’s bag and the laptop peeking out of it. “What were you gonna do while you were hiding?”

“Catch up on work, probably, I don’t know.” Karolina pulls her lips into a tight line. “Maybe a crossword?”

“Crossword?” Shiv raises a brow. She looks Karolina up and down, frowning. “How old are you, again?”

“Right, sorry—” Karolina sucks her teeth, raising a pointed brow. “I assume the last puzzle you were able to solve came on the back of a cereal box?”

“Well, yeah, because after that I got real hobbies.” Shiv shakes her head, her grinning. “What, d’you play those hidden object games, too? Look for tiny fucking keys in those weird drawings?”

Karolina looks down as her cheeks start burning. Shiv catches it, and bursts into laughter.

“Oh my god. Karolina, no.”

A part of her wants to believe she’s only doing it for Siobhan’s sake. That she’s humoring the other woman as an act of kindness—some version of an apology for not extending any kind of support after Logan’s death. But she’s apologized enough times in her life to know one rarely finds delight in the act of apology, so when her eyes meet Shiv’s and she lets her lips turn up into a smile, Karolina knows the real reason she hasn’t left the room already is much simpler—she doesn’t want to.

“What hobby should I pick up, then, Siobhan?”

“God, there’s so many.” Shiv’s cheeks puff out. “Let’s see…”

She starts listing what Karolina guesses are her ideas of a pensioner’s hobbies: gardening, knitting, pickling, making jams—getting all the way down to walking around parks and standing all still and creepy to watch pigeons.

With each finger she uses to enumerate, Shiv’s grin widens. Karolina nods her along, pretending to be impressed until Shiv runs out of ideas.

“Or just volunteer at an elderly home.” she shrugs. “I’m sure the ladies would love to have you over for canasta.”

“Mhm.” Karolina nods, pursing her lips. “I’ll think about it.”

They sit in silence for a brief moment, neither making a first step.

“So, uh, can I see one?” Shiv finally asks.

“See what?”

“One of your crosswords, nerd.” she chuckles.

“Oh.” Karolina blinks. “I mean—really, Shiv, I can let you be—” she points to the door.

“Well, I don’t feel like crying anymore.” Shiv clears her throat, cutting her off. “And I don’t feel like going back out there yet, so… Unless you’re, you know, very private about your… crosswords.”

Karolina rolls her eyes. As she turns around to rummage through her bag for her tablet, Shiv steps closer until she’s right behind Karolina. When she leans forward to put her own things back on the table her arm brushes against Karolina’s. From up close, Karolina can distinguish each thin trail of blood wrapped around the irises of her eyes, and the blue shadows creeping up from under her concealer.

In the months after her own father’s passing, Karolina remembers going through them like candies.

Each week, she would reach into the bottom of her bag and pull up crumpled up receipts for concealer, whiskey, and the occasional lottery ticket—her dad’s guilty pleasure.

She used the same numbers each time, just like he'd taught her: each of their birthdays, twenty-eight, and eleven.

On the last ticket she bought, she put down the date of his death: seventeen, three, twenty, eight, then twenty-eight, and eleven.

It won her $10 that she never bothered to cash in.

So, she knows what it’s like—the make-up, the perfectly timed crying breaks, the split ends, the furrowed brows. The way it would hit (and still does, sometimes, on rainy days) so suddenly it would leave her breathless, like something had dislodged itself within her chest and all day long she’d have go on with her business as if that horrible rattling wasn’t ringing in her ears and reverberating inside her entire body like a war drum.

Karolina knows what Shiv is going through, but she also knows that grief is like a fingerprint. That it belongs so intimately to the person going through it. Defined by the very matter of their being, and from the moment it has formed—defining them in return.

So she doesn’t offer an apology, or a hug or, worse, advice. Instead, she sits down and waits for Shiv to do the same. When she does, Karolina turns on her tablet and opens the crossword app with her upturned hand stretched out towards Shiv, palm open and fingerprints exposed.

Then, Karolina begins explaining the basic rules of crosswords.

[pebblezone]

I think causing problems and being irritating is a great pastime

[rbtbc]

My March of the Mammoth book pick.

She thick. 816 pages. Pray my strength in the Lordt!!

[paleoart]

The king of the siberian forests meets the queens of the siberian steppes.

About 10,000 years ago in the Russian Far East, a tiger walks along the limits of his forested territory beyond which a herd a woolly mammoths marches by.

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[kittyit]

"The suffragettes are instructive. Their tactic of choice was property destruction. Decades of patient pressure on the Parliament to give women the vote had yielded nothing, and so in 1903, under the slogan 'Deeds not words, the Women's Social and Political Union was founded. Five years later, two WSPU members undertook the first militant action: breaking windowpanes in the prime minister's residence. One of them told the police she would bring a bomb the next time. Fed up with their own fruitless deputations to Parliament, the suffragettes soon specialised in 'the argument of the broken pane', sending hundreds of well-dressed women down streets to smash every window they passed. In the most concentrated volley, in March 1912, Emmeline Pankhurst and her crews brought much of central London to a standstill by shattering the fronts of jewellers, silversmiths, Hamleys toy shop and dozens of other businesses. They also torched letterboxes around the capital. Shocked Londoners saw pillars filled with paperthrowing up flames, the work of some activist having thrown in a parcel soaked in kerosene and a lit match.

Militancy was at the core of suffragette identity: 'To be militant in some form, or other, is a moral obligation, Pankhurst lectured. 'It is a duty which every woman will owe her own conscience and self-respect, to women who are less fortunate than she is herself, and to all who are to come after her.' The latest full-body portrait of the movement, Diane Atkinson's Rise Up, Women!, gives an encyclopedic listing of militant actions: suffragettes forcing the prime minister out of his car and dousing him with pepper, hurling a stone at the fanlight above Winston Churchill's door, setting upon statues and paintings with hammers and axes, planting bombs on sites along the routes of royal visits, fighting policemen with staves, charging against hostile politicians with dogwhips, breaking the windows in prison cells. Such deeds went hand in hand with mass mobilisation. The suffragettes put up mammoth rallies, ran their own presses, went on hunger strikes: deploying the gamut of non-violent and militant action.

After the hope of attaining the vote by constitutional means was dashed once more in early 1913, the movement switched gears. In a systematic campaign of arson, the suffragettes set fire to or blew up villas, tea pavilions, boathouses, hotels, haystacks, churches, post offices, aque-ducts, theatres and a liberal range of other targets aroundthe country. Over the course of a year and a half, the WSPU claimed responsibility for 337 such attacks. Few culprits were apprehended. Not a single life was lost; only empty buildings were set ablaze. The suffragettes took great pains to avoid injuring people. But they considered the situation urgent enough to justify incendiarism - votes for women, Pankhurst explained, were of such pressing importance that we had to discredit the Government and Parliament in the eyes of the world; we had to spoil English sports, hurt businesses, destroy valuable property, demor-alise the world of society, shame the churches, upset the whole orderly conduct of life. Some attacks probably went unclaimed. One historian suspects that the suffragettes were behind one of the most spectacular blazes of the period: a fire in a Tyneside coal wharf, in which the facilities for loading coal were completely gutted. They did, however, claim responsibility for the burning of motor cars and a steam yacht."

- How to Blow Up a Pipeline, pg 40-42

[tacitoru]

Gojo wants to try your cherry lip balm.

He tracks the slow, methodical slide of the balm against your chapped lips and licks his own. 

Back, forth.

The east coast sun is oddly sweltering for a spring afternoon, but Satoru has been taking the swift change in weather to stride. More than happy to strip down to basketball shorts with his bare back warming to the sun. To be on a court outdoors, where he feels like he’s got a little more room to breathe.

It makes him excited for summer, when the semester would be over, the season behind them, a little more free time on their hands. He wants to check out the beach on this side of America. See if the ocean is as blue as his jerseys like his host university claims. Barbecue and bikinis, shaved ice and sunscreen. He can practically taste the saltwater taffy if he closes his eyes for long enough. After a long winter, the sudden heat wave feels like a blessing. 

Had felt like a blessing.

Back, forth.

The motion is practiced. Instinctive. It’s like you hardly notice you’re applying the salve, staining a darker shade of red with each pass. But you definitely notice him noticing.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m not!”

For a lumbering mammoth of a man, Satoru boasts a pout that would put the cutest three-year-old to shame. The rebuttal is immediate, slips out before he even has the decency to glance away while denying it.

You give him your best glare over the line of your shades and cap the cherry-red Chapstick with a sharp snap! nonetheless. Roll your mouth to spread the balm over evenly, then gesture for him to gather his things. Satoru’s eyes struggle to leave your face as he scoops up his duffle bag and basketball. He’ll obsess over the motion of your lips, pursing and unfurling over your teeth for days.

Your bottom lip comes back a bit shinier than the top and Satoru has to stop himself from wetting his own again. For nights.

“D’you want some water? Or something? You shouldn’t keep licking your lips like that.” You admonish, hardly paying him any mind as you pass him your water bottle, and in that moment Satoru recognizes the bits and pieces of you that mirror Suguru. The way you sigh his name, try to set him straight, albeit with a lot less of the easy familiarity his counterpart carries. 

You mumble, cut your gaze in the opposite direction, turn in on yourself not a second after you’ve scolded him. Like you’re still afraid he’ll bite you.

You don’t wait for him to drink, already turning your back to march towards the gravel parking lot where Suguru’s car idles nearby. Satoru spots where your balm stains the lip of the plastic water bottle a translucent light pink and presses it against his mouth. Takes a sip, tongue swiping over the rim.

Maybe he will.

[akm87]

A Teaser/Trailer for my short "Mon Papi à Moi" selected for a few festivals and the Festival du court métrage de Clermont-Ferrand, that I'm so happy to attend for the first time soon (27-30 Jan)

SCREENINGS AND OFFICIAL SELECTIONS/// PROJECTIONS ET SELECTIONS OFFICIELLES

TAAFI - Toronto Animation Arts Festival International (Live & Online Tickets) Fri, Feb 17th ///9:00PM - 10:22PM

Festival Côté Courts de Cormeilles en Parisis (14ème édition ) vendredi 17 février 2023 à 20h30 théâtre du Cormier à Cormeilles en Parisis Séance suivie d'un échange avec les réalisateurs

FESPACO - Le Festival panafricain du cinéma et de la télévision de Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso)

Salle du Conseil Burkinabè des Chargeurs (CBC) Mardi 28 février /18h30 - 20h30

DCIFF -The DC Independent Film Forum (Washington DC, USA) Location: Landmark's E Street Cinema Times: Saturday, March 4th - 3:15pm

Mammoth Film Festival™ (Mammoth Lakes, CA) MC- Theater #2 437 Old Mammoth Rd, Mammoth Lakes, CA 93546 March 3, 2023, 10:00 AM - 12:30 PM PST

Corti da Sogni-International Short Film Festival (Ravenna, Italy) from 18th April to 22th April 2023

AniMate 2023 - World Shorts Films Collection (Australia)

Sat., 6 May 2023, 5:15 pm – 7:15 pm AEST Location: Pulse Life Club 9 The Crescent Wentworth Point, NSW 2127 Australia

[bitterrfruit]

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.” 

[crumbledcastle28]

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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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.

“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. 

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

[kindergrrl]

Previously Unseen Photo.

Mammoth Events Center. Denver, Colorado.

March 19th, 1995.

[highly-emotional-people]

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

[outofangband]

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

[searchingforserendipity25]

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.

[knithacker]

Coming out this March, I'm excited to invite you to pre-order your copy of "100 Knitted Tiles" published by David and Charles! 🧶

Link to pre-order: 👉 https://buff.ly/3Hl6cxG

This collection of knitting patterns and charts includes 100 designs inspired by decorative ceramic tiles from around the world, including two designed by me, Danielle Holke (aka KnitHacker).

Special thanks to editor Sarah Callard and the entire publishing team at David and Charles. This kind of book is a woolly mammoth of an undertaking and they did an excellent job keeping everything organized and everyone up to date. I’m thrilled to be part of this project and can’t wait to knit up some of my fellow designers’ creative tile designs! ❤️

[hd-junglebook]

Neutral

Part 6

word count - 4,059

You're nestled comfortably in your tent, enjoying a rare moment of respite from the chaos of camp life. The soft glow of moonlight flickers gently against the walls of your tent. A book lies forgotten in your lap as you lean back against the makeshift bed.

Your peaceful reverie is abruptly shattered as Bellamy bursts into the tent with all the subtlety of a charging mammoth.

He storms across the tent until he stands directly beside your bed. "Have you seen Octavia?" he demands, his voice gruff and urgent, his eyes wild with panic.

You shoot him a silent glare, your annoyance evident even in the dim light. "And here I was, thinking you'd come to serenade me with sweet nothings," you reply, your tone laced with sarcasm.

Bellamy scowls, his features contorted with frustration. "This is serious, y/n!" he snaps, his patience wearing thin. "Octavia's gone.”

You roll your eyes, unable to resist the urge to taunt him further. "Well, maybe if you didn't have such a big head, you'd be able to see past your own nose and find her yourself," you retort, Bellamy's face turns a deep shade of crimson, his anger boiling over at your flippant remark.

"You think this is a joke?" he seethes, his voice trembling with rage. "Fine, I'll find her myself. But don't come crying to me when she's lying in a ditch somewhere."

With that, Bellamy storms out of the tent, leaving you alone once more. There's no denying the satisfaction of getting under Bellamy's skin, even if only for a moment.

With a guilty sigh, you push yourself up from your makeshift bed and hastily follow him out into the cold night air. "Bellamy, wait," you call after him, your voice softer now, "I'm sorry. I'll help you find her."

He grunts in response, his steps never faltering as he continues to march forward with purpose. You quicken your pace, falling into step beside him, determined not to let him face this ordeal alone. "Why are you always so mean to me?"

He casts a sidelong glance in your direction as he scoffs at the question. "Me? Mean to you?" he retorts, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice.

"If anyone's the mean one around here, it's you, y/n. If you’d quit being so annoying all the time, I’d treat you better."

…

You and Bellamy scour the camp in search of Octavia, deciding to seek help from Clarke.

Bursting into her tent, you find her hunched over a makeshift table, poring over maps and charts with furrowed brows. "Clarke, have you seen Octavia?" you ask, getting straight to the point.

She looks up, her eyes widening in concern. "No, I haven't," she replies, her voice echoing your worry. "But I'll help you look."

Together, the three of you comb through the camp, calling out Octavia's name as you search every nook and cranny for any sign of her. Despite your best efforts, she remains elusive, her whereabouts still unknown.

Bellamy's jaw clenches as he gathers the other members of the camp, rallying them to form a search party to scour the surrounding area. The volunteers gather at the gate, devising a plan of action to cover the most ground in the shortest amount of time.

"Everybody, gather around and grab a weapon," he commands, "My sister's been out there alone for 12 hours. Arm up. We're not coming back without her."

Bellamy turns to Finn with a fierce intensity in his gaze. "Finn," he calls out, his voice cutting through the night air like a clarion call. "You're with me."

A meteor shower streaks across the sky, illuminating the darkness with a dazzling display of light. Clarke exhales sharply debunking the other campers’ theories,

“That’s not a meteor shower, it's a funeral. Hundreds of bodies are being returned to the earth from the ark. This is what it looks like from the other side.” she huffs out before turning to Raven.

You glance up at the spectacle, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. "The flares didn't work," you mutter under your breath, your voice barely audible over the murmurs of the others.

Bellamy's gaze meets yours in silent acknowledgment. With a heavy heart, he turns back to the group, his voice firm as he outlines the next steps of the search.

“What are we waiting for? Move out!” he calls out. The group springs into action, venturing out into the wilderness in search of Octavia.

The sound of their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night, the only illumination comes from the flickering torches held aloft by the campers.  

You walk in silence behind Finn, scanning the surroundings for any sign of Octavia. The darkness is oppressive, pressing in on you from all sides. Finn's voice cuts through the quiet, breaking the tension like a crack of thunder.

"Over here!" he calls out urgently, waving the group over. You rush over to where Finn stands, A length of rope lies coiled on the forest floor, discarded and forgotten amidst the underbrush. "Is this Octavia’s?" Finn says as he picks up the rope and shows it to you.

Your eyes catch sight of something else amidst the tangled undergrowth. Footprints, faint but unmistakable, crisscrossing the forest floor like a trail of breadcrumbs leading deeper into the darkness. You catch Bellamy and Finns attention, guiding them to the footprints.

“The prints are deeper going that way. He was carrying her.” Finn shouts. "We're getting close," he mutters, his voice barely audible over the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

The group continued to press on, following the footsteps. Impaled corpses, their lifeless forms skewered on crude stakes, stand as silent sentinels, alluding to the fact that you all have entered Grounder territory.

Half of the delinquent’s balk at the sight, their faces pale with fear as they exchange nervous glances. "We should head back," one of them whispers, his voice trembling with apprehension.

Bellamy's gaze flickers to the rest of the group, his expression unreadable. "Anyone who doesn't want to continue, head back to camp," he says, his voice firm.

Several members of the group step forward, their faces pale with fear as they make their decision. With a nod from Bellamy, they turn and disappear into the darkness, leaving only the six of you standing amidst the shadows.

"We keep going," Bellamy declares, his voice unwavering. "We find Octavia, no matter what."

…

Finn, who had been leading the group, suddenly stops in his tracks, his brow furrowed in frustration as he examines the ground beneath him.

"I've lost the trail," he admits defeatedly. A wave of restlessness washes over the group, murmurs of frustration and anxiety echoing through the woods.

Just then, a voice cuts through the tension like a knife, breaking the silence with its unexpectedness. "Where's John?" a girl pipes up from the back of the group.

You glance around, your heart sinking as you realize that John, one of the members of the search party, is nowhere to be found. Panic begins to bubble up within the group, their anxiety mounting with each passing second.

"Spread out and look for him," you command with false security. "He was just here, he can’t be far."

The group disperses, scrambling through the forest as they search for any sign of their missing comrade. Grounders emerges from the trees seemingly out of nowhere with a speed and stealth that takes the search party by surprise.

More and more of them begin to appear, their numbers growing by the second as they surround the group.

You and the rest of the search party scramble to escape the encroaching grounders. Fear pulses through your veins as you run blindly after Finn through the underbrush, the sound of pursuit echoing in your ears.

"Stop!" he calls out, his instincts kicking into overdrive as he senses something is wrong.

"So, are we racing to the finish line or just trying to outrun our bad decisions?" you state through exaggerated breaths. Bellamy gives you a look of disapproval before you raise your hands in surrender.

Diggs, in his blind panic refuses to stop running, leaving the group behind he fails to see the tripwire lying in wait for him. With a sickening crunch, he triggers the trap, his body impaled on the cruel spikes of a grounder trap.

Horror washes over the group as they witness the gruesome sight. Roma, overcome with panic at the sight of Diggs' fate, breaks away from the group once more. The grounders, sensing weakness, give chase, their figures disappearing into the shadows as they pursue their prey.

…

With each step, the forest seems to close in around you. The pounding of your heart drowns out the sounds of the forest as you sprint after Bellamy as he charges after the grounders. You both skid to a halt - Roma's lifeless body, lying crumpled on the forest floor like a discarded doll.

"They're playing with us," you gasp out, sickened by the sadistic display. This was a message.

Jasper's grief erupts into a raw, primal scream, his anguish echoing through the darkness as he unleashes his rage on the grounders. his cries fall on deaf ears, the grounders closing in menacingly.

You grab for him but he slips from your grasp. "Jasper, stop!" Bellamy shouts. But rage has consumed him. The Grounders peer out from the shadows, weapons poised, savoring his anger.

Just when it seems like all hope is lost, a deafening blast pierces through the air, the sound of the Foghorn reverberating through the forest like a warning bell. The grounders hesitate, their faces twisted in confusion before they retreat.

Bellamy held up a hand, signaling everyone to pause. "The fog is coming. We need to set up shelter, now!" Murmurs of alarm rippled through the group. Jasper's eyes went wide with fear.

Monroe sprang into action, dropping her pack and pulling out a large tent. "Everyone, help get the tent up! We need to get inside before it's too late." You rushed to help her and Jasper unfurl the canvas and snap together the poles with fumbling hands. The others gathered fallen branches to weigh down the edges.

As soon as the tent was upright, You were the first one to scramble under the tent, you can feel Bellamy's presence close beside you, his hand brushing against yours while you hold the flap open. The rest of the group follows suit, huddling together in the cramped space as you wait for the deadly fog to roll in.

"Will this hold against the fog?" Monroe asked nervously.

Bellamy's jaw tightened as he secured the entrance flap. "It'll have to. Just stay low and cover your skin."

The air inside the tent is hot due to the overcrowding. The heat of so many bodies pressed close together creating a suffocating atmosphere. Sweat beads on your brow as you struggle to catch your breath in the oppressive heat.

Bellamy shifts beside you, his proximity only adding to the warmth radiating from your surroundings. You steal a glance at him, noticing the sheen of sweat on his brow as he too grapples with the uncomfortable conditions.

The rest of the group is similarly affected, their faces flushed and their breath coming in ragged gasps as they try to find relief from the sweltering heat. Some fidget restlessly, while others simply close their eyes and try to endure the discomfort in silence.

You can't help but let out a chuckle, despite the discomfort. "Well, who needs a sauna when you have a tent full of sweaty delinquents?" you quip, trying to lighten the mood amidst the stifling heat.

The minutes drag on and the oppressive heat shows no signs of abating, Bellamy's patience wears thin. With a frustrated sigh, he glances around the cramped confines of the tent, a determined glint in his eyes as he realizes that something isn't right.

Jasper's restless energy permeates the silence that following. "How long are we supposed to wait?"

"There's no Acid Fog," he mutters in disbelief. "We've been sitting here for nothing." Bellamy's sharp eyes catch sight of a lone grounder slipping away through the trees, his movements furtive and swift.

Bellamy's jaw tightens as he weighs his options, his gaze fixed on the retreating figure of the grounder. "He doesn't see us," he says quietly, his voice firm with determination. "I'm going after him."

Finn considers the implications of Bellamy's plan. "And what?" he asks, his tone skeptical. "Kill him?"

Bellamy shakes his head. "No," he replies, his voice low and cold. "Catch him. Make him tell me where Octavia is. Then kill him." Jasper's eyes widen at Bellamy's words, mirroring your expression. "How do we know he's not leading us to another trap?"

Finn's shoulders sag in resignation at the question, "We don't," he admits. Without another word, Bellamy springs into action, his instincts driving him forward as he leads the group in pursuit of the fleeing figure.

…

The grounder leads your group through a winding cave passage, dimly lit by scattered torches. Shadows dance across the rough walls as you venture deeper underground.

Your eyes widen in alarm as you spot Octavia struggling to reach the key, her fingers just out of reach.

"Octavia," Bellamy calls out. You watch anxiously as Bellamy approaches Octavia, grabbing the key and releasing her bound wrist. "Monroe, watch the entrance," before turning back to his sister. "It's okay. You're okay."

Your eyes drift over to the grounder lying motionless nearby, spotting the foghorn on the cave floor. Realization dawns - this grounder had blown the horn that saved your lives. He had risked himself for you.

You share a troubled glance with Finn. Together you crouch down, checking the grounder for any signs of life. As you roll him over, his eyes flutter open weakly.

"We need to get back to camp," you tell Bellamy urgently. Whatever the grounder's motives, he clearly doesn't see you as mere enemies to be slaughtered.

You're taken aback as the grounder suddenly surges upwards, a flash of steel glinting in his hand in the dim light of the cave. Before you can react, he slashes the knife viciously towards Bellamy.

On instinct you throw yourself forward, your bare hands closing around the blade with a desperate grip. Searing pain slices through your palms but you clutch it tightly, stopping the attack. Blood wells up, slick and hot.

 Finn rushes in, shoving you aside. You grit your teeth against the pain, pressing yourself back against the rough stone wall of the cave in a desperate bid to distance yourself from the violence unfolding before you.

The sharp edges dig into your back, adding to the discomfort, but you welcome the distraction, focusing on the sensation to distract yourself from the agony coursing through your veins.

Finn and the grounder crash together, grappling fiercely. They slam into the cave walls, the knife glinting dangerously between them. The sound of struggle echoes through the cave, their bodies locked in a desperate struggle for survival.

With a violent twist, the grounder drives the blade into Finn's side, the sharp blade sinking deep into flesh with a sickening squelch.

Finn cries out, shock and disbelief etched on his face, as he stumbled backwards and collapsing to the cave floor as blood stains his shirt.

The grounder's wild eyes fix on Bellamy as he charges forward with a guttural cry. Bellamy braces himself just as the muscular grounder slams into him, driving him down.

They crash violently to the cave floor, the grounder's knife glinting as he presses it to Bellamy's throat.

Bellamy struggles beneath the weight, grunting with effort. The knife edge digs in, just shy of drawing blood.

"Please!" Octavia cries out desperately. "Don't kill my brother!"

The grounder hesitates, conflict etched on his face. His grip on the knife wavers slightly at her words. In that moment of indecision, Jasper appears behind the grounder and swings his makeshift club with all his might. It connects solidly with the back of the grounder's skull with a sickening thud.

The grounder's eyes roll back as he sags forward, collapsing unconscious atop Bellamy. Shoving him off, Bellamy scrambles to his feet, chest heaving. Bellamy pushes himself to his feet, his chest heaving with exertion as he surveys the scene before him.

Octavia is already at Finn's side, her hands trembling as she applies pressure to the stab wound and trying to stop the bleeding. "Hold on, Finn," she pleads while he groans in pain.

"We need to get Finn out of here now!" Bellamy orders. Bellamy and Monroe lift Finn up and you all hurry from the cave, leaving the murderous grounder behind. You know the knife that was meant for Bellamy could end up costing Finn's life instead.

Bellamy moves with purpose, leading the way back to camp. His movements spur the rest of you into action, and you struggle to keep pace due to the pain coursing through your body.

…

You glance down at your injured hands, the pain throbbing with each heartbeat. With a grimace, you tear off your sleeves and hastily tie them around the wound, the makeshift bandage offering some measure of relief.

The adrenaline is starting to fade in your body and instead the exhaustion is kicking in, you find yourself lagging behind, your steps growing slower and more unsteady with each passing moment as your friends disappear out of your view. Your vision blurs and swims, black spots dancing at the edges as you fight to stay conscious.

With each step, the world grows dimmer, the sounds of the forest fading into a distant haze as you push yourself forward. With everything going on all you can think of is your mother.

"I wish you were here," you whisper to yourself, gaze drifting upward to the vast expanse of the night sky.

The stars twinkle overhead offering no answers, their silent witness serving only to remind you that you were unwanted and unloved. You wish she hadn't sent you down here alone, without her guidance and protection.

Tears well up in your eyes as you struggle to reconcile the harsh realities of your situation. You long for her comforting embrace, for the reassurance of her presence by your side.

You fall to your knees in the darkness, the burning pain almost unbearable as you check the bandages. the white cloth of your sleeved are now stained crimson with your blood.

With a heavy heart, you wipe away the tears and attempt to push yourself to your feet, knowing you cannot dwell on her any further.

The darkness closes in around you before you can’t see anything else.

…

The sound of heavy rain pelting the earth fills your ears, mingling with the distant rumble of thunder. Mud squelches beneath you, soaking through your clothes as you lie helpless on the forest floor.

The damp forest floor feels good pressing against your flushed cheek. In the distance, thunder rumbles ominously.

Faint voices drift through the trees, too far to understand. You try to call out, but only manage a weak croak. "Bellamy?" you rasp hopefully. You strain to make out the words, your senses dulled by pain and exhaustion.

"You two," he points to his search party, "head in there and don't come out until you've got him.

The figures draw nearer, distorted by rain and fog. You can just make out Bellamy's dark curly hair coming into view, his face etched with concern.

"Hold on," he breathes, dropping down beside you. "I’m gonna get you home." You wince as he grasping your arm tightly, fresh pain lancing through your body.

You tried to speak but only managed a weak cough. Bellamy slipped an arm under you, carefully pulling you up from the cold mud. You cried out hoarsely as the movement ignited fresh agony in your wounds.

"I know, I'm sorry," he grimaced, holding you close against him. "I’ve got you now. Just stay with me."

Leaning heavily on Bellamy, you hobbled forward with his support. Each step was torture, but you focused on putting one foot in front of the other as the storm raged around you.

Every gust of wind threatens to uproot trees and send them crashing to the ground.

"You're going to be okay," he reassures you, his voice gentle yet resolute. "Just hang in there, alright? We'll get you patched up and back to camp in no time."

His two companions emerged from the cave. Between them, they carry the grounder who attacked Finn, his unconscious form slung over their shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He grabs the rope they'd used on the grounder before. "Let's get this bastard tied up before he wakes."

Working quickly, they bind the grounder's hands and feet. The storm around you seems to rage even harder as they work, as if protesting their presence in the forest.

With a nod of acknowledgment they follow behind as he leads them back to camp. The wind whips through the trees, drowning out any words that might be spoken. Bellamy remains steadfast by your side, his arm wrapped securely around your waist as he supports your weight.

With each step, the muddy ground threatens to give way beneath your feet, Bellamy scoops you up into his arms as your legs finally give out, no longer able to support your weight. You cry out in pain, clutching at him weakly as he carries you the last stretch towards camp.

The rain beats down relentlessly as He ducks into the shelter of the dropship. Clarke and Octavia rush forward when they see the state you're in, alarm on their faces.  

He gently layed you down on a blanket as you whimper, fresh waves of agony coursing through your body. Bellamy smooths back your wet hair, his expression pained. "You're safe now," he murmurs.

Suddenly angry shouts erupt from behind him. Bellamy's companions drag a bound Grounder through the entrance, throwing him harshly to the floor. Clarke and Octavia stare in shock before rounding on Bellamy, demanding answers.

"The hell are you doing?" Octavia demands, her eyes narrowing as she surveys the scene unfolding before her. Bellamy meets her gaze, his expression unreadable as he responds with quiet determination. "It's time to get some answers."

Octavia scoffs at his words, her disbelief evident in the way she crosses her arms over her chest. "Oh, you mean 'revenge'?"

But Bellamy shakes his head, his gaze unwavering as he meets her eyes. "I mean 'intel'," he clarifies, his voice cutting through the howling wind with quiet authority.

Turning to his companions who carried the captive grounder, Bellamy issues a command. "Get him upstairs," he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As the boys obediently move to carry out Bellamy's orders, Clarke approaches. She meets Bellamy's eyes, a silent question passing between them.

The radio crackles to life behind her, causing Bellamy to giver a shocked look at the unexpected interruption. Abby's voice comes through the static, her words echoing with urgency and concern. "Clarke, okay we're ready. Can you hear me?"

Turning to face him, "Look," she begins, her voice heavy with emotion, "this is not who we are."

Bellamy's eyes harden as he faces down Clarke and Octavia's protests. He holds up a hand, silencing them. "This is who we are now!" he declares through gritted teeth. "We do what we must to survive."

His uncompromising words dare them to argue. Clarke and Octavia exchange frustrated looks but stay silent. They know Bellamy's mind is set.

With frustrated sighs, they turn away and get to work treating Finn. Bellamy kneels beside you again, his calloused hand is unexpectedly gentle as he caresses your face. "I have to take care of this," he says grimly before heading for the ladder.

You watch through hazy eyes as he disappears above to deal with the Grounder prisoner. The storm continues its assault outside, rain pounding relentlessly on the metal hull.

Utterly spent, you finally let your heavy eyelids fall shut. The pain feels distant now. You take comfort knowing Bellamy will keep you all safe, no matter what it takes or who tries to stop him.

…