#Causeway Point
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Went back to the tablet to order four more plate of sushi starting with this Shrimp with Basil Cheese. It is more or less the same great taste like the salmon version with the sweet spicy basil perfuming the cheese.
The last three are all shellfishes like this Ark Shell (Akagai) with a reddish-orange body. A deliciously sweet subtle clam flavour possesses a unique soft yet wonderful unique crunch. Love this pair of Scallop Sushi, so sweet and yummy delicious. A twist to the usual is this Surf Clam with Lemon Basil giving this a bright and sweet profile.
For a conveyor belt sushi chain, Sushiro managed to differentiate itself from the competitors offering something unique. I will definitely be back to dine again.
#Sushiro#スシロー#Japanese#Conveyor Belt Sushi#Restaurant#Causeway Point#Shrimp#Basil#Cheese#Seared#Aburi#Ark Shell#Akagai#Scallop#Surf Clam#Lemon#Sushi#Seafood#Shellfish#White Rice#Food#Buffetlicious
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Victoria Harbor/North Side of Hong Kong Island (Unknown, 1845)
#victoria harbor#hong kong island#old hong kong#the peak#victoria peak#kowloon#north point#causeway bay#central#admiralty
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Top Flower Shop Singapore. Free Same Day Flower Delivery Trusted Florist.Our extensive range of products are suitable for premium gifts.we are one of the best florist in Singapore providing express flower delivery Singapore.
#singapore bedok mall florist#singapore florist causeway point#bedok mall florist singapore#florist causeway point singapore#bukit panjang plaza florist singapore#white sands florist singapore#bukit panjang plaza florist#waterway point florist singapore#florist waterway point singapore
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CATWS and its building of stakes
Part of the reason why CATWS was so memorable in its appeal was the way it built the stakes throughout the story. Each of the major characters had something(s) at stake by the final act, and that was pivotal for the plot to sustain its tension and for the satisfaction in its final payoff.
The overarching conflict was the global, existential threat of Hydra getting their mass murder machine up in the air, and the ideological question of what the middle ground between freedom and security should be. But what made the final act so moving was the intimately personal stakes for many of our characters.
There was, obviously, the very personal stake Steve had to surmount in having to physically get through Bucky in order to protect the freedom he was advocating for. But apart from Steve, every other major character was challenged with a personal sacrifice in the final showdown. Nat was faced with having all her covers blown and her past - that she had tried so hard to hide - revealed to the world. Sam was confronted with going back into the field after losing his partner so traumatically that he changed careers. Fury was grappling with dismantling the organisation that he had devoted his life to build. And on the other side, Pierce and Rumlow had invested decades of their lives in an ideology which if successful would install them at the top of the food chain.
There was a great meta from years back talking about how well the movie established the competencies of the characters before introducing threats -- and how we were then able to quickly understand the threat because of how competent we have seen our protagonists be. Every action sequence served a purpose and built upon the previous one.
The Lumerian Star sequence was fantastic in how effectively it established the competence of not just Steve and Nat, but the entire Strike team. Rumlow and Rollins were good at their job; they're not super soldiers or super spies, sure, but they were skilled enough to keep pace with Steve and Nat.
This was an important foreword for the elevator fight, which itself was a pre-requisite for the Causeway fight. We have seen both Steve and the Strike team capable of taking down multiple pirates swiftly, so when the elevator fight started, there was a genuine sense of threat to Steve, even if he would make a quick job of disabling them. Then, after seeing Steve's skills against a very capable Strike team, it became all the more terrifying when the Winter Soldier almost nailed him to a van about 2 minutes into their fight.
On the other side, the Winter Soldier's introduction was an assemblage of horror story tropes -- of unexpected manifestations and impossible disappearances, and urban myths stretching back through half a century. The two characters used to introduce him were extremely competent from what we had seen of them. There's Fury, normally prescient and wily, scraping by a very determined assassination attempt, only to be stopped by the Winter Soldier materialising in the middle of the road...which he escaped, only to be later shot through the wall. There's Nat, normally cunning and cautious, telling Steve of how the Winter Soldier successfully ambushed her, of how his kills spanned 50 years, a logical improbability.
Not only was Steve about to meet the Winter Soldier with the weight of these legends behind him, from the vantage point of Hydra, they were sending out the Asset to meet Captain America with his historical legends behind him (oh look, another narrative parallel). All of this build-up culminated in the Causeway fight. The technical impressiveness of the stunts aside, part of why that fight worked so well was because we have had all these story beats that showed us how capable Steve and the Winter Soldier were, then we see them both genuinely struggle to overcome the other.
We can't talk about the final fight without talking about the emotional stakes, and we can't talk about the emotional stakes without discussing what Bucky means to Steve. We already had the "not without you" and the "I'm following the little guy from Brooklyn"; we've also had the "I don't want to kill anyone" turn into "I'm not going to stop until all of Hydra is dead" and the "I'm just a kid from Brooklyn" callback. This movie added the "even when I had nothing I had Bucky" and the "I knew him" and the "he will (know me)" and of course the "end of the line" exchanges.
But there were also more subtle cues -- that came from Steve's frequent rebuff of Nat's suggestions for companionship, the string of betrayals Steve had to grapple with, and Steve's lamentations of guilt and regret and uncertainty. Steve could not deny that he was lonely, but he had 101 excuses for why he could not make new connections. Steve did not know what he's looking for or why he's fighting or how long he wanted to continue, until he found out what was behind SHIELD and, specifically, what Hydra had done with Bucky.
Even removing the shipping angle, the final showdown between Steve and Bucky was unique in superhero movies, even for a friend-turned-enemy battle. It was not like the fight between Tony Stark and Obadiah Stane, or Peter Parker and Harry Osborne, or even Thor and Loki or Charles and Erik -- because there was no ideological divide between Steve and Bucky. Bucky did not and could not believe in the cause he's fighting for - he simply did not have that capacity for choice. The ideological battle was carried by the other characters - between Fury and Nat vs Pierce, between Sam vs Rumlow, and between the rest of SHIELD vs Hydra.
For Steve, his fight was much purer, dearer, and more heart-rending. The final battle held such emotional significance, not just because he's fighting his best friend, but also because his best friend was an unwilling participant in the circumstances. Bucky was Steve's physical equal, but he's also Steve's shared life experience, his tragically failed mission, his unfulfilled childhood promise, his betrayed faith in SHIELD, and the price that was paid for Hydra to grow under SHIELD's nose. This fight offered closure for all of these narrative and emotional threads.
He was also, once again, Hydra's asking price in exchange for the freedom Steve wanted for the world...and Steve so desperately wanted, this time, for that world to include Bucky.
#bucky barnes#steve rogers#stucky#stucky meta#catws meta#should i have a tag for good script writing?#this is an example of a script that worked#long post
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A huge ancient city has been found in the Amazon, hidden for thousands of years by lush vegetation.
The discovery changes what we know about the history of people living in the Amazon.
The houses and plazas in the Upano area in eastern Ecuador were connected by an astounding network of roads and canals.
The area lies in the shadow of a volcano that created rich local soils but also may have led to the destruction of the society.
While we knew about cities in the highlands of South America, like Machu Picchu in Peru, it was believed that people only lived nomadically or in tiny settlements in the Amazon.
"This is older than any other site we know in the Amazon. We have a Eurocentric view of civilisation, but this shows we have to change our idea about what is culture and civilisation," says Prof Stephen Rostain, director of investigation at the National Centre for Scientific Research in France, who led the research.
"It changes the way we see Amazonian cultures. Most people picture small groups, probably naked, living in huts and clearing land - this shows ancient people lived in complicated urban societies," says co-author Antoine Dorison.
The city was built around 2,500 years ago, and people lived there for up to 1,000 years, according to archaeologists.
It is difficult to accurately estimate how many people lived there at any one time, but scientists say it is certainly in the 10,000s if not 100,000s.
The archaeologists combined ground excavations with a survey of a 300 sq km (116 sq mile) area using laser sensors flown on a plane that could identify remains of the city beneath the dense plants and trees.
—
"The road network is very sophisticated. It extends over a vast distance, everything is connected. And there are right angles, which is very impressive," he says, explaining that it is much harder to build a straight road than one that fits in with the landscape.
The scientists also identified causeways with ditches on either side which they believe were canals that helped manage the abundant water in the region.
There were signs of threats to the cities - some ditches blocked entrances to the settlements, and may be evidence of threats from nearby people.
Researchers first found evidence of a city in the 1970s, but this is the first time a comprehensive survey has been completed, after 25 years of research.
It reveals a large, complex society that appears to be even bigger than the well-known Mayan societies in Mexico and Central America.
—
Some of the findings are "unique" for South America, he explains, pointing to the octagonal and rectangular platforms arranged together.
The societies were clearly well-organised and interconnected, he says, highlighting the long sunken roads between settlements.
Not a huge amount is known about the people who lived there and what their societies were like.
Pits and hearths were found in the platforms, as well as jars, stones to grind plants and burnt seeds.
—
Prof Rostain says he was warned against this research at the start of his career because scientists believed no ancient groups had lived in the Amazon.
#indigenous#the amazon#anthropology#archaeology#south america#turtle island#the amazon rainforest#its the bbc so it still is eurocentric#but bolding and sharing some parts that are interesting#white scientists could save so much time by not assuming shit#i think thats part of the scientific method#some of the language is a bit iffy to me too#i dont really enjoy when non natives get to ‘discover’ something that has always been there#and was made and mightve known about by any local tribes#but hey this is cool~#and more proof that we’ve been here longer than colonizers wanna think
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Nothing is now visible of the fort at Benwell (Condercum) in Newcastle, which was occupied throughout most of the Roman period by the Asturian cavalry regiment from northern Spain. To the south of the fort site, however, is the only causeway (or permanent crossing) of the Vallum earthwork to be seen on the line of Hadrian’s Wall. The crossing was one of a series of such causeways sited south of the forts, which were the only points where the earthwork known as the Vallum could be crossed to gain access to the zone immediately behind the Wall.
Art by Graham Sumner.
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Fandom : Lord of the Rings
Starring: Boromir + friends & family,
Tropes: character study, prequel, love letter to the canon, adventure
Rating: T+
Chapter Length: ~10k
Author's Note: This mini-series is... a pilot? a prologue? to my AU Of Wandering Birds, but generally it functions as a standalone. I wrote it because I love Boromir and I want him to have a life. Also, I love Minas Tirith and I will be moving there next summer.
✦ Chapter 2 ✦
… in which Boromir defends the Osgiliath Bridge, and we all know how it ends.
[AO3] [masterpost]
[previous chapter]
Osgiliath, 29th of Lótessë 2018 TA
Boromir had never thought much about how the afterlife might look like. Whenever someone mentioned to him the concept of the passage of souls, he would imagine something akin to Osgiliath as a place for the eternal roaming of lost spirits.
The once splendid Ogiliath was now a labyrinth of crumbling white marble, haunted by wild cats and birds of prey. The walls were often clad in swirling wispy strands of mist wafting from the Great River.
From his vantage point, atop one of the few still standing towers on the Eastern Bank, Boromir could almost see the spirits of his soldiers roaming the shadowed stone corridors. Many of his men had fallen defending these very walls over the last score of months. And still, it all seemed to have been in vain. No matter how many orcish camps Boromir's troops had destroyed, no matter how many Haradrim convoys Faramir's Rangers had hijacked, the Enemy did manage to encircle Osgiliath at last, and now they were going to have to fight the Shadow here, in the City, to keep control over the Great Bridge.
Presently, the Gondorian army had full control of Osgiliath, however, numerous orc encampments were scattered on the surrounding grounds, and more fiends were drawing near to the City. Boromir could see the Enemy’s commandos approaching the white walls and seeking entrance, causing skirmishes. For now, Gondor’s troops were doing an admirable job at holding them off, under the command of Angbor, a mighty warrior from Lamedon.
"Still no sight of Captain Faramir?" a welcome, friendly voice inquired, breaking Boromir's morose musings.
"I'm not expecting him to be back yet. He is bound to take longer," said Boromir, affecting composure.
"I am sure you're right," Derufin said, as he joined Boromir on the vantage point.
Faramir had ridden out at first light, with a dozen of his men, when the orcs were commencing the assault on the ruined City. There remained a Ranger encampment in South Ithilien, and Faramir went to evacuate them. Boromir's present task was to keep the Enemy out of the ruined City long enough to allow the Rangers to escape before the Bridge would be overrun.
Except the Bridge will hold, Boromir firmly reassured himself . He had actually argued this very point with Faramir last night. Faramir believed the City might very well fall, and that the Gondorian army should be prepared for evacuation further West, to Causeway Forts. This is why Faramir had insisted on rescuing the Ranger Camp in South Ithilien - he thought they might be permanently cut out from their main forces after the lost battle. Boromir listened to his brother's plight and allowed this rescue mission, albeit with a heavy heart. He had also ordered the moving of the wounded and partial evacuation of stocks and equipment to the Causeway Forts. It would be unwise to ignore Faramir’s advice altogether, and they had to be ready for every opportunity.
However, privately Boromir still believed Osgiliath would hold. He had promised his Father, after all. With the crumbling outer fortifications it was impossible to keep the orc bands outside the City for long, that was true. The plan was to hold them at bay only long enough to let Faramir's men retreat through the Bridge, then lure them into the City. Boromir was prepared to let them in and then fight them on the ancient streets, among the crumbling white walls and rubble. The labyrinth-like grounds would work to Gondor’s advantage. Boromir had fortified and manned a few strongholds inside the City: the old Garrison, the Western Bridge Towers, and the Arsenal, and also prepared a few nasty surprises for the Enemy. This way, Mordor’s advantage due to greater numbers could be countered, as the ambushes that the Gondorians had set up would allow them to eliminate larger groups of foes at once. They could trap the orcs inside and finish them off, hopefully gaining a few more months until the next assault, and complete the reconstruction of Rammas Echor on time.
"My men are in positions,” Derufin reported. “Captain Aglahad and Sergeant Hirgon are on the Western Bank, supervising the setting of our traps. Master Zbylut and the pioneers are still fortifying the fords.”
The fords were in truth what it was all about. Osgiliath was the only crossing point on Anduin for many miles North and South. There were numerous fords in the City and the Enemy could use them to move an army, but Boromir’s men have rendered the fords unpassable with barricades. To cross through them, the Enemy would need to first capture the entire City and dismantle the blockades. The only remaining link between Western and Eastern Osgiliath was the massive wooden Bridge.
“I thank you, friend,” said Boromir. Truly both his brother and Derufin had been invaluable in their help with all of the war effort that had led to this point.
“If I die today, my chief regret will be never having written to Lady Morwen,” Derufin said, his cheerfulness belying his morbid words. “If we live through this day and I still won’t write to her, yours is the duty to smack me.”
“I will smack you right now, for prattling about maids when we are about to fight for our Kingdom,” said Boromir.
“Oh, loosen up, will you? Everything is in order, Boromir. Your plan will work. You are entirely too serious, and it would do you good if you, too, had a lass at home to think about.” Derufin blabbed and Boromir opened his mouth to retort, annoyed, but Derufin wouldn’t let him. “Do not try to counter me, I’m right. Even your Lord Father would say I’m right.”
Boromir sighed.
“It is the thoughts of Lord Steward that are the cause for my mood. I have made an oath to him that I will not let the Enemy have the Great Bridge. It is either victory or death for me today.”
Derufin snorted.
“That is the most laughable thing you have ever said in my presence, Boromir, and I’ve heard you compose poetry for the late Princess,” his friend commented dryly.
Boromir felt a surge of bitterness.
“Do not be mentioning the Princess now! I am in earnest! Either the Bridge holds or I die defending it. My honour demands it.”
“Damn you, Boromir! Your honour demands that you serve your liege the Steward, and you will be of no use to him dead,” Derufin chastised. “If things go badly, we will retreat to fight another day. I will personally drag you to the Causeway Forts, and I know Faramir will assist me. And the Lord your Father will thank me profusely, and decorate me!” Derufin sighed. “You will not escape this war so easily, so do not look to die a hero. Instead, think of your men, and what you owe to them.”
Boromir felt his face and neck go red with shame. Derufin was of course right. What am I, a lad of twelve? he thought. To be thinking of my wounded pride, to be jumping onto my Enemy’s sword, when my men would be left leaderless, at Mordor’s mercy. He solemnly vowed to himself that he would not be courting death on this day, and would not accept his own demise so readily as that.
But neither could he suffer to break the oath he had given to his Lord. I cannot lose Osgiliath and I cannot die today, and so that leaves only one route open.
“Then we must make sure this day is ours, no matter the cost,” said Boromir, affecting a rueful smile for the sake of his friend.
“And that is the Boromir of Gondor I know and love,” Derufin exclaimed and clasped his shoulder. “When this thrice accursed pile of crumbling stone is secure again, we shall find you a pretty lady to pine after. That will cure you of all your foolish notions of heroism right away.”
Boromir groaned.
“Must that you are in league with my Lord Father to speak so,” he complained. “I do not see you making much progress in the way of…”
“Boromir!” Derufin interrupted him. “Look there! It is Faramir’s Rangers!”
Boromir snapped his head towards the East and squinted. He could not see as far as his eagle-eyed friend the archer, but he did notice a small blot of green moving on the horizon. He immediately felt relieved. Soon Faramir would be safe again on the Western Bank, helping with the evacuation. And yet… Something else caught his eye… Something bigger, vaster, a crawling ribbon of black, that was moving behind the blot of colour they had earlier identified as Faramir’s company.
“What is that, behind the Rangers?” asked Derufin dumbfounded, and Boromir felt the hairs on his neck rise to attention. He knew the answer, and dreaded it.
“That, my friend, is a Haradrim army,” he said. “One we cannot hope to hold at bay.”
“But how…?” Derufin asked the very question that was on Boromir’s mind right then. He had received no intel about this army. The Haradrim could have hidden from Gondorian scouting teams, but they could not hide from the Lord Steward, for Lord Steward saw all… Or did he? How had they missed an entire army?
“Some foul sorcery of the Enemy, no doubt,” Boromir said bitterly. “Come! We must go down and confer with the others. We cannot hope to contain them in the City, they are too many!”
They ran down the tower stairs, mouthing quiet curses. Boromir halted near the end of the staircase, because there he spotted Huor, his young Squire, sitting on the bottom step. The boy rose up quickly once he saw his Lord.
“Captain-General!” the boy saluted, but Boromir waved him off. He had given in to the boy’s pleadings and allowed him to tag along for this campaign, not predicting that the situation could grow so dire. Now he cursed his lack of proper caution.
“Huor, you are relieved from duty, effective immediately!” he bellowed.
The boy gasped.
“But, my Lord! How…” Huor cried with the expression of utter betrayal.
“No buts, lad! This City is about to become a bloodbath, and you don't belong anywherenear it. Cross the Bridge, leave Osgiliath with the wounded and await me in Causeway Forts,” Boromir gave his orders in passing and did not even stop to see if the boy listened. “Sound the alarm!” he shouted at the nearby Sergeant. Boromir was already entering his battle frenzy, and the soldiers around him scrambled to carry out his orders. “And fetch me Captain Aglahad. Where is the Baron with our cavalry?”
“Here am I, Lord” answered Baron Hallas. The Baron and his Knights havd been stationed on the Eastern Bank in an event an operation on the field outside was needed. An event such as this.
“I need you to ride out with your Knights and secure a safe passage for the returning Rangers, Ser Hallas. They have an entire army of the Southrons on their backs,” Boromir said, and the Baron’s eyes widened in shock. “The Rangers are mounted and should arrive here soon, but they will have a hard time passing through the surrounding fields with the orc commandos pressing in on us,” Boromir said. “Bring them to safety, and then lead them through the Bridge.”
“Aye, Lord,” said Baron Hallas, and signalled to his Knights.
"Come, Derufin!" said Boromir, as he trotted towards the battlements, where the sounds of skirmish were coming from. "Let us find Captain Angbor and plan our defence."
Ser Angbor of Lamedon was Boromir’s senior by some ten years. During Boromir’s youth Angbor was considered the finest warrior of the Realm. Boromir had always looked up to the Lamedonian for his legendary fearlessness and battle prowess. Now Boromir was the commanding officer, and a seasoned warrior in his own right, but he still considered it an honour to fight alongside Ser Angbor. The Lamedonian was in command of the 2nd Company of Heavy Infantry.
They found Ser Angbor on the battlements atop Osgiliath’s Eastern Gate, already looking battle-worn, his armour soiled with black orcish ichor. The Gate was barricaded and manned with heavy-plated soldiers, to whom Angbor was bellowing commands. A division of Derufin’s bowmen assisted with the defence. The main problem with Osgiliath fortifications was that they were crumbling, and the outer wall had gaps in it. Gaps that required barricading, and now had to be defended, as the orcish commandos were constantly trying to get in through them.
“Captain-General!” Angbor saluted when he saw Boromir and Derufin ascend the battlements. “Are you seeing this? A whole army of blasted Southrons! Out of thin air no less!”
The men all looked to the East. The swaths of land below Ephel Duath were blackened with columns of marching Haradrim, and the fields surrounding Osgiliath were swarming with orc bands. Boromir’s heart rejoiced as he saw the Company of Rangers on horseback, approaching rapidly. He could see Faramir leading them, hacking at the monsters with broad slashes of his sword. Boromir’s stomach did a flip when he saw his brother deflect an arrow with his buckler. Valar preserve Faramir , he prayed. Near the battlements, the knight cavalry under Baron Hallas’ command was doing an admirable job at clearing a passage for the Rangers. Hopefully both companies would soon return to the safety of one of the sally gates.
Easy it is for our mounted knights to cleave the orc commando, for the monsters are savage, poorly equipped and undrilled, Boromir thought bitterly. The Enemy has only sent them to annoy us and wear down our defences. They are but a starter, and the main course is about to be served. Once again he looked worriedly at the marching army of Harad, which was making slow but steady progress across the plains. He could make out their banners, which appeared but blots of red over the troops from the distance.
“We need to plan an evacuation,” said Derufin.
“Aye, and then what?” Ser Angbor asked and spat over the parapet angrily. An arrow missed his head by an inch, but the warrior did not even flinch. “We retreat to the Causeway Forts, they take Osgiliath, they dismantle the barricades on the fords and then their entire army can cross Anduin freely.”
“Well, what choice do we have?!” Derufin cried. “They’re too many! They will paint this pile of stones red with our blood if we stay here!”
“What choice indeed?” said Angbor and looked to Boromir.
They were in fact both looking at Boromir, expecting an answer from him. An answer he did not have. The situation seemed impossible, but he knew he could not show weakness at that moment. If he wavered now, he would seal their doom surer than any Haradrim army ever could.
“I say the Enemy is not yet upon us,” he said, forcing his face into stillness, and his voice into calm assuredness. ”We yet have some time left. We wait for Faramir and Hallas, and then we confer about…”
“We confer about what?” Faramir’s voice came from behind and the three men turned to face him. “What will talking accomplish, when we are about to be slaughtered?!” Faramir ascended the battlement, accompanied by Captain Aglahad and Sergeant Hirgon. “I beg of you, Captain-General, prolong this madness no further. Let us retreat to Causeway Forts, like we’ve discussed, and save what life we yet can.” Boromir could see his brother’s face was determined, his leathers splashed with ichor, hair tangled by the wind from his wild ride with the Rangers. He had rarely seen Faramir in such a frenzy.
“This will not solve our problems!” Angbor countered. “If we retreat now, we’ll have to face the same army the day after tomorrow, only in the Causeway Forts, and our position will not be better, then! Need I remind you that the Rammas is still incomplete? There are farmers toiling on the Pelennor Fields! Crops growing! If we want to save lives, we’ll have to fight today, or never.”
“Oh, yes, better to have all our forces anni…” Faramir started, but Boromir cut him off mid sentence.
“Enough. We will not squabble,” he said, with all his Captain-General’s authority he could muster. “Ser Angbor, you will continue to defend the Gate, for now. Captain Aglahad, what is the situation on the Western Bank?”
Aglahad, who was pale and sweating, and catching his breath, no doubt after running the entire length of Osgiliath to answer Boromir’s summons, swallowed visibly but managed to gather his wits.
“The 1st Company of heavy plates and the 3rd’s lancers await your orders in the Garrison, Sir!” he reported. “And I still have two companies of skirmishers that have yet to see battle today. They are manning the traps, like you’ve ordered, with Captain Derufin’s archers.”
“I’m afraid the traps won’t be of much help, when the Haradrim get here,” said Boromir. “Once they start passing the Bridge there will be too many to take down.” He looked at his most trusted lieutenants, and words failed him. He did not know what to do. Do not show weakness, he told himself. You have to be strong for their sake. They deserve to die knowing that their leader held faith, and take some last solace from that at least. “I need a moment alone to think on what to do next,” he proclaimed. “Until I’m back, proceed as planned before.”
With that, Boromir turned around and descended from the battlement. All around him, across the Courtyard of the Eastern Gate, men at arms were running errands and passing weapons necessary to keep the barricades manned and supplied, and fend off the pathetic orcish assault at the walls. Boromir crossed the Courtyard and entered a small supply station fashioned in a nearby ruined building, feeling tiredness almost overwhelm him, hoping that a glass of water would clear his head. Once his eyes adjusted to the dimmnes of the storeroom, a movement in one of the corners caught his eye.
“Huor!” he thundered. “How am I to defend this City, if even my own Squire ignores my explicit commands?”
Huor came out of the shadow and straightened. The boy was trembling, but his fists were tightened and his mouth set in a determined line.
“I would not leave you, Lord,” he said simply. Boromir opened his mouth to argue, but then he heard another person enter the supply storage.
“Do not be hard on him, brother,” said Faramir. “You would have done the same in his position. He won’t leave you alone, and neither will I.”
Boromir sat down on one of the wooden benches and sighed deeply. Huor handed him a glass of water, which he downed hastily. Faramir was right. His soldiers, his lieutenants, his brother and even his young Squire, still a child on all accounts, they would not abandon him, even in the face of death. And what am I doing? Cowering in a storeroom, wasting our precious time with my indecision. Some general am I, he chided himself bitterly.
Faramir must have gleaned some of Boromir’s thoughts in that moment, for he sat on the bench beside him, and put his hand on Boromir’s shoulder.
Boromir looked to his brother.
“You’ve nearly ran into the Harad army with your Rangers, during your retreat,” he said. “We’ve watched your progress from the Eastern Watchtower, they were right behind you. Have you managed to get a closer look? Can you tell me aught about them?” he inquired, hoping that Faramir could give him something, some piece of information, anything, that could yet save this day.
“Aye,” said Faramir. “This is why I am so eager to flee, though you might call it cowardice, and you would be right. There is something evil about that army, Boromir. I am telling you! I’ve fought many Southrons over the past years, but none like those. The sheer terror they inspired when we looked upon them over our shoulders… Then there is the mystery of their sudden arrival…” Faramir shuddered. “We cannot face them.”
“We must,” said Boromir tersely, “today, or tomorrow, it hardly seems to matter.”
Faramir sighed, and hesitated, before speaking again.
“I had a dream last night, before I set off to the Ranger’s Camp,” he stated, and Boromir swallowed a groan that almost escaped him. Here we go again with the dreams, he thought. But Faramir spoke further. “It was full of pathos, and ominous, but it also carried hope. Hope for our Kingdom. I’ll tell you all about it later, but for now just…” Faramir halted his speech then, overcome with emotion.
“Hush, brother,” Boromir said and grasped Faramir’s hand. “Leave the nightly terrors for when we’re both safe and sound in the Citadel. For now let us both stay wide awake and not in the dreaming.”
Faramir shook his head.
“Let me finish, brother. Listen just this once,” he persisted. “I am sorry for putting pressure on you earlier. I do not pretend to know what we should do now, and I do not envy you the burden of command. But know this: whatever you decide, we will all stand by you. The entire army. You have always been there for me. Whatever trouble was upon me, you were always there to chase it away. And this time you will, too.”
Boromir felt the sting of tears in his eyes, to his shame and panic.
“I am not sure I can do it, brother,” he whispered, not even caring that young Huor might hear him. The Squire had been with him through thick and thin, he probably knew Boromir better than anyone at that point.
“You can,” Faramir said with conviction, his gentle touch upon Boromir’s shoulder steadying Boromir’s jumbled nerves. “And you will. You are Boromir of Gondor, and that is what you do. You save everyone.”
Boromir felt all the chaos and clamour in his head go quiet then, and instead his mind was illuminated with clarity.
“Of course! That’s it! You’re a genius, brother!” he exclaimed, feeling renewed vigour surge through his veins. “I am Boromir of Gondor. Indeed! I’m Boromir. Boromir! I have to act like Boromir! I have to do what Boromir did!”
Faramir blinked and regarded Boromir with his mouth agape, but then understanding dawned on his face.
“You mean to destroy the Bridge! Like the Steward Boromir of old!” he gasped.
It was a somewhat obscure piece of Gondorian lore, the tale of Steward Boromir I, who had defended Osgiliath against the Witch King of Angmar in the year 2475, and gotten wounded by a Morgul Blade. Although Boromir I had ultimately prevailed, he had made the hard decision to let the ancient stone Bridge fall, and with it, the splendid Dome of Stars. In fact, the entire Osgiliath had been ruined in the aftermath of that war, but at least MInas Tirith had been saved, and the Shadow had retreated to lie dormant for the next centuries. Boromir and Faramir had first heard this tale together, during one of their many history lessons in the Archives, supervised by their tutors and by the Steward himself.
“Think about it! ‘Tis our only chance!” Boromir explained frantically. “If they cannot pass through the Bridge, they cannot dismantle the barricades on the fords. We could retreat to the Western Bank and easily drive them away with archers. And then defend the fords for yet many months to come!”
Faramir looked only partially convinced.
“But the Bridge is made of solid timber,” he reasoned. We cannot dismantle it on time! And to burn it would take days.”
Boromir stood and started pacing the storage room, thinking and planning out loud, only half listening to his brother.
“The Bridge is supported by wooden beams,” he said. “If our pioneers start working on them now, they can be destroyed till noon, and then the Bridge will collapse into the Great River.”
“We do not have till noon, Boromir,” Faramir shook his head.
“Our soldiers must hold off the Haradrim,” Boromir said. There was no stopping him now. “I will lead them, and buy the men enough time.”
“It will be a bloodbath!” Faramir cautioned.
“Aye,” Boromir agreed. “We will pay with blood, but the day will be ours in the end,” he said, as he stepped out of the storage building. “Huor, to me! Everyone to me!” he bellowed at his lieutenants, who were still on the battlements, commanding the defence. They hastened to meet him upon hearing his call, but Boromir was already dictating orders to his Squire. “Now lad, you wanted to be of help, and you’ll get your wish. I’ve an important task for you! You will cross to the west side and find Master Zbylut. Tell him to wait for me on the riverbank near the Bridge, with two scores of his strongest pioneers, with axes, saws and hammers. The bigger the better!”
“Aye, Sir!” Huor smiled and saluted, infected with Boromir’s enthusiasm.
“Now, Huor, make no mistake! Once this duty is done, you are to go to Causeway Forts with our supply wagons. No tarrying this time! Is that clear?” Boromir emphasised. He would not have Huor’s death on his conscience. He could not look Hurin in the eyes if he did, as Huor was the Warden of the Keys’s only heir.
“Aye, Sir! I’ll go now, Sir!” he replied, and ran off with such energy that only the youth could muster, raising dust behind him.
“What is this commotion,” Angbor demanded, as he, Derufin, Aglahad and Hirgon trotted to where Boromir and Faramir were standing on the Courtyard of the Eastern Gate.
“Good tidings!” Boromir proclaimed. “The day may yet be saved. We are going to collapse the Bridge!” Here Boromir made a pause, to allow for the gasps and muffled curses of his surprised companions. “Yes, yes, shocking. But I’ve thought about it, and it’s the only way. How much time do we have?”
“They are not yet here, but approaching, Sir!” Hirgon reported. “I estimate the Haradrim will be upon us in about half an hour!”
“Good!” said Boromir, with more apparent bravado than he himself was feeling. But he had to buoy the men up for this plan to work. “Angbor! You have done an admirable job with our defence thus far. Think you the men can keep it up?”
“Aye! The 2nd Company will stand! I trained no cowards!” Angbor proclaimed proudly.
“Excellent!” Said Boromir. “You will receive reinforcements from the 1st Company. You will try to hold them outside for as long as you can. Groups of them are bound to get through, but pay them no heed and remain on the battlements with your men.”
“Aye, Captain-General!” Angbor saluted.
“Now for the light infantry,” Boromir continued. “Aglahad, station the pikemen just inside the gates and the breaches in the outer wall. Let them be the first to greet our friends from Mordor,” Boromir smirked viciously and Aglahad nodded. “I’ve heard that a spear to the throat means well met in Black Speech. Hirgon, lead your skirmishers to the Eastern Bank, and hide them in groups amongst the ruins. When enemy squadrons breach the outer wall, I want them engaged in fighting on the streets, away from the Bridge for as long as possible. Build a barricade on the Main Street if you have to.”
“Aye, Sir!” The old warrior Hirgon rubbed his hands with glee. “We will lure them into the narrow passages. They won’t know what hit them.” Hirgon was the best suited for this job, since the men knew and trusted him. He could navigate the labyrinth that was the crumbling City of Osgiliath.
“That’s the spirit!” Boromir commended. “Derufin,” he addressed his friend in turn, “single out your best marksmen. I want them on the Western Bridgetowers, covering the evacuation. Before the Bridge collapses, we will be retreating steadily, and we’ll get out as many as we can to the Western Bank. Know that defending the Bridge will be tricky; your archers will have to sift friend from foe and aim true.” Boromir looked straight in Derufin’s eyes to make sure the Captain understood the situation. Holding the Bridge would be crucial.
“Aye, Sir! From the Western Bank’s watchtowers my marksmen will have their pickings of anyone who attempts crossing,” Derufin assured him.
“Yes, that is our plan exactly!” said Boromir, glad they had an understanding. “The rest of your shortbows you will station on the roofs on the Eastern side, to aid the infantry. And the longbowmen will man the wall and fire at the enemy troops outside.”
When all of his lieutenants mumbled their assent, the men stood in silence for a few short moments, pondering the magnitude of what they were about to attempt. So many things could go wrong in this plan. But thinking about what could go wrong would accomplish nothing at this point. They had to do it or die trying.
Boromir addressed his brother again, then.
“Faramir, I want your Rangers guarding the Bridge and the working pioneers. When the Bridge collapses, friend and foe alike might fall into the River. Some may be injured during the fall. I want your men to finish off the enemy warriors, and fish out any survivors on our side. The Rangers are best suited to such tasks.”
“Indeed,” said Faramir. “My man Damrod will see it done.”
“What? You will not lead them?” Boromir was surprised. His brother was well known across Gondor for the close bond of comaraderie he shared with the Rangers under his command. And, Boromir was hoping that by assigning his brother a task on the Western Bank he could keep him out of harm’s way.
“And leave you to fend for yourself, and likely get yourself killed by risking your neck stupidly?” Faramir asked. “I think not.”
“Aye,” said Derufin. “I’m coming with you, too. When you feel an arrow graze your ear and strike through your enemy’s pupil, it will be me having your back.”
“Very well, then,” Boromir agreed with a sigh. “But first we must go to the Eastern Side and give orders to the troops, while Angbor holds the gate.”
With that, Boromir and his officers were off, leaving the Lamedonian in charge of the heavy infantry on the barricades. As they jogged along the Main Street to reach the Bridge, Boromir once again addressed Faramir.
“Brother, and where is Baron Hallas?” he asked.
Faramir raised his brows.
“You ordered him to lead his men and my Rangers to safety, and so that is what he did,” Faramir reported. “When we returned to the City, I left my horse with them and went to meet you, but Hallas rode off through the Bridge. They are like to be with the horses at the stables, now.”
Boromir thought about his plans. The heavy cavalry would have to ditch the horses and the lances, and go back to the Western Side again with swords and shields. We’ll need every man on the defence line to give the pioneers more time with the Bridge, the thought. He decided then, that he would lead the Knights personally. It would be symbolic. The noble houses of Minas Tirith mounting one last defence of Osgiliath.
Once they crossed the Bridge, Boromir wasted no time to clue Master Zbylut and his pioneers in on the plan. The old master craftsman, who was in charge of the Gondorian division of pioneers: smiths, masons, and woodworkers, was already waiting on the riverbank, notified earlier by Huor.
“Where are your men?!” Boromir exclaimed. He’d specifically ordered Zbylut to bring a brigade of strong craftsmen and sufficient equipment.
“With permission, Lord General,” siad Zbylut, ever grumbly, “your Squire notified us of your plans. My men are already under the Bridge, setting up scaffoldings. The water around here is too deep to work without any levelling.”
“Good! Good that you’ve not delayed the work,” Bromir said, relieved. He trotted a few paces and crouched to see under the bridge better. The workers were setting pre-made wooden frames and ladders around the Bridge’s supporting beams. “Zbylut, I am about to demand the near impossible from your craftsmen,” he said, as he looked again at the old Master. Zbylut was currently the oldest member of Gondor’s army, completely bald with white beard that he kept short. “I want you to weaken the beams so that they barely hold, and then, on my signal, I want the whole bridge to fall in one swoop. Think you that could be arranged?” Boromir asked, worriedly. When Zbylut said nothing for a longer while, Boromir grew anxious. “I know it’s a lot, but I want to make sure we rescue as many men as we can, and only once Enemy troops start crossing the Bridge do we want it to collapse.”
Zbylut waved his hand impatiently.
“Aye, Aye, Lord General, I hear you!” he grumbled. “I’m thinking. I cannot guarantee it, but we could attempt it. But we’ll need horses. We could weaken the beams in a few places, and then girdle them with ropes attached to the horses. Then once you give the signal, the horses will start and tug at the beams, break and topple them. It’s risky and there is no assurance the Bridge will fall when you mean it too. I only hope it won’t break prematurely and bury my workers.”
“Do not think I don’t appreciate what you’re doing here, Zbylut,” said Boromir. “If we get out of here alive, you’ll be hailed as heroes of this battle.”
Zbylut laughed.
“That would be a first, Lord! My men are used to working backstage,” he chuckled. “But they will appreciate a few casks of ale once the job is done.”
“Aye, you’ll get that. And the horses,” said Boromir. “I’ll go to get them now.”
“Wait, General, Sir!” Zbylut halted Boromir, who was about to leave in search of the Knights. “What will be the signal to collapse the Bridge?” he asked. Boromir thought. He planned to be fighting on the front line. The warriors on the eastern side could very well get overwhelmed. If the Enemy passed their defences and got to the Bridge, they would have to collapse it no matter who was left on the Eastern Bank. The marauders and the last line defenders would have to be sacrificed. And he needed some means to give the order no matter where he was on the battlefield at any given moment…
“The Horn,” he said to Zbylut simply. “Listen for the Horn of Gondor.”
With that, Boromir left the pioneers to their fate and directed his steps towards the Western Gate and its nearby stables. It was unfortunate that, due to his original strategy of making the entire City their battleground, he had to cross the entire length of old Osgiliath to gather all of his dispersed men, but it could not be helped. He needed his knights. All around him, the men were abandoning their earlier post and gathering under the command of Aglahad and Hirgon.
Fate had it that he did not have to go all the way to the Western gate to fetch the Knights. No sooner than he’d made it to hundred yards along Main Street, did they emerge from behind a turn, armed with broadswords and shields. Their march in full plate generated much clamour, and Boromir smiled at their sight. They were exactly what he needed. An elite team of a dozen or so noble Men of Gondor, armed to their teeth. Baron Hallas led them, brandishing a drawn longsword that was almost taller than he.
“Captain-General! Hail!” Hallas greeted. “We have delivered the Rangers and our horses to safety, as you commanded.”
“Aye! That was a well done sally, if I ever saw one, Hallas!” Boromir agreed.
“And now we are marching on to our death,” said Hallas cheerfully. “We’ve seen the Southrons. It’ll be an honour to die under your command, Lord Boromir. We’ll take as many foes with us as the Valar permit!”
“Do not be so eager to die, Hallas,” said Boromir, wincing inwardly. An hour ago he’d had a similar talk with Derufin, only then he'd been the one ready to meet his end. “We may yet get away with our necks intact. I mean to evacuate the Western Bank and destroy the Bridge before the Southrons can cross.”
Hallas uttered a colourful curse.
“You’re a clever one, General,” he chuckled. “Bordering on insane, but clever.” Boromir grimaced. Hallas was known for his sharp tongue, even towards his superiors. He let the remark slide and instead addressed the Knights. They were mostly sons of Gondorian nobility, some heirs, some spares, and some landless, who dedicated their time and skill to the service of the Steward. They were Boromir’s, he knew all of them by name, and could now recognize them by the colours and banners on their surcoats and cloaks. He knew their parents, their wives and their children. But it would have taken take too long to address each of them personally, so he spoke out loudly to the entire company.
“Hark ye! We are the noble Men of Gondor!” Boromir bellowed for everyone to hear. “We have led our men here to fight for our Homeland, and ours is the duty now to protect them! We will not abandon our soldiers to the Enemy! We are true Knights! We march East and we do not rest until the last of our men is delivered to safety! Who is with me?”
Loud cheers and voices of assent answered him, not only from the Knights but also from other men at arms gathering around on the Main Street. Boromir reached out and signalled two young men from the 3rd Company. He did not know them by names, but they certainly knew him, because they saluted instantly.
“Men, I entrust you with a special task. Go back to the stables and lead all the horses to the Bridge, to Master Zbylut. Do not stop until all of the horses are at the riverbank. You mustn't fail me” he ordered, before turning once again to the Knights. “Right! Now, we FIGHT! GONDOR!” he called, as he unsheathed his broadsword and started running towards the Bridge.
The Knights at his back did the same, and soon their whole team was crossing the Bridge, chanting Gondor! Gondor! From the corner of his eye, Boromir saw Zbylut saluting, and he knew that the team of pioneers was already working on the beams under the Bridge. Hurry up, lads! he thought. Everything depends upon you. We’re just off to buy you some precious time!
As they crossed the Bridge and entered the Eastern Bank, Boromir could see that the first mixed bands of both Haradrim and orcs had already breached the City’s outer defences. Hirgon’s men were fighting on the streets, and arrows were flying in all directions.
Boromir uttered a war cry and dived into the nearest narrow ruined street, joining the skirmish. Other Knights followed in his steps, reinforcing Hirgon’s small fighting teams. A knight in full plate on the field of battle was no small thing. The armour was heavy, expensive and constricted movement, but it also meant the warrior inside it could take heavy punishment during the assault. And Boromir knew how to take a beating. He would engage the orcs, shielding himself and the nearby men-at-arms from their blows, while the pikemen would skewer the foes from the flank. Occasionally Boromir would execute a flashy move with his broadsword, usually felling a foe or two and earning a cheer from the soldiers.
Slowly the company of Knights fought their way further and further East, though the number of enemies did not seem to lessen. More and more Haradrim were coming through. Boromir wasn’t particularly experienced with the Southrons, that would be Faramir’s province. Their fighting style was distinct from western sword art. They relied neither on strength, nor quickness of movement, but rather on precisely learned and exercised technique. They seemed to be able to parry each of his blows with little effort and without any hurry. Moreover, they came equipped with long, viciously sharp stilettos, that they would use mercilessly on armoured knights, whenever occasion arose. Boromir witnessed two of Hallas’ knights, Ciryon, and later young Hador of Halifirien, fall in the battle from well measured thrusts of such daggers - the Haradrim struck between the plates of the armour or aimed for the neck. Gondor’s finest slashed open like cattle, he thought with terror.
Only after Boromir caught the gist of Haradrim battle choreography did the fighting become any easier. Unfortunately, with time more and more of them would come through, and keeping them away from the Bridge was becoming harder and harder. Boromir and the Knights managed to fight through the entire Eastern Side, and now were approaching the Courtyard of the Eastern Gate, where the skirmish was particularly frantic.
Soon Boromir found himself having to engage with several foes at once. A quick look around confirmed that the other knights were getting similarly overwhelmed. Moreover, Boromir was starting to feel something of that feeling of hopelessness and bone-chilling anxiety, which Faramir had mentioned earlier. Is this some enemy’s magic? Or am I getting mad? He looked around. Other men under his command seemed to be faring no better, judging by their pale, sunken faces, and increasingly sluggish movements. Mayhaps we are all of us simply tired, he tried to reason with himself, but the sense of foreboding remained with him, sapping his strength. It felt like hours since he had joined the fighting.
Boromir was parrying well-measured slashes of steel delivered by two Southern fighters, and had the morose thoughts additionally occupying his attention, so when another enemy came for his head from his right flank, he noticed it too late. He saw the blade being raised, saw the Harad Man prepare the strike, but knew immediately he wouldn't be able to parry it on time. He prepared to take the blow, hoping it wouldn’t be fatal... but then the enemy jerked and fell, an arrow with green fletching sticking from his neck. The other two Haradrim uttered cries of shock seeing their comrade collapse, and another arrow went through the open mouth of one of them, killing him instantly. Boromir had the presence of mind to use the moment of confusion and slash open the third Southerner with his sword.
Having a momentary respite from oncoming attacks, he looked around to spy Derufin, and sure enough, his friend jumped off the nearby half-collapsed building.
“That was a close call! My reflexes are dulling,” he called out to the archer, raising his shield to catch an orcish arrow aimed at his heart. “Many thanks for saving my neck.”
“Do not thank me yet,” Derufin called back. “You’re not going to like this!” He then made a brief pause to fire another arrow at one of the orcs who were pestering Baron Hallas a few paces to the left. “The Haradrim are assaulting the Eastern Gate. They have some sort of a ramming device. We need to commence the retreat!”
“We don’t know if Zbytlut’s Men are ready!” This was a tough choice. If he tarried with the evacuation, the men would be slaughtered. It was only a matter of time, because they didn’t have enough force to face the army, sooner or later they’d be overwhelmed. On the other hand, if he signalled retreat too early, then Mordor’s fighters would follow them uninterrupted. If enough passed the Bridge, they could bring the fighting to the other side and threaten the entire plan.
“We need to at least pull back Angbor’s men off the battlements! The outer wall is lost as is!” Derufin cried. To that Boromir had to agree. There was no sense in manning the wall if the Gate was about to be rammed open.
They both looked to the battlement above the Gate, where Angbor was running frantically and bellowing commands. With a start, Boromir noticed that the Lamedonian was wounded - a short arrow was sticking from his arm, although he seemed to be paying it no mind. Boromir knew this kind of battle frenzy well. It made one numb to all injuries, which could lead to fatal mistakes.
“I’ll get his attention,” said Derufin and fired before Boromir could react. An arrow with green fletching embedded itself in a wooden beam that was supporting the parapet, mere inches from Angbor’s shoulder. The warrior looked to the direction the arrow was fired from, and spotted Boromir and Derufin. Boromir gave the signal then, and the first phase of their retreat began.
When the heavy infantry and longbowmen came down from the walls and joined the commotion on the courtyard, Boromir called out to Angbor and the nearest fighters.
“The Knights will hold the line! The rest of you get behind and start retreating! Steady! In order! But keep up the fighting!” He knew other officers would pass the command. He had to focus on holding the line, to give others a chance at retreat.
“Keep that shield up like we practised,” Derufin’s voice came from behind Boromir’s back. Next thing Boromir heard was a whistle of an arrow next to his ear. They would sometimes fight like this, in a well coordinated duo; Boromir would be shielding the two of them and hacking at any foes closing in, and Derufin would be firing from behind Boromir’s back, keeping the enemies at bay. One of these days he’ll put an arrow through my skull, Boromir thought with amusement. He hoped it wouldn’t be this day, because he still had work to do.
The Knights listened to Boromir’s command and aligned in a formation, serving as a barrier between the foes that were coming through the walls. As was, the way still wasn’t completely open to the Enemy, even when Angbor’s men retreated, because they still had to scale the walls and the barricades with their ladders. But that would soon change, when the Gate would be breached.
As if on command a horrible thunder shook the ground and the Gate trembled. It was made of reinforced timber, and barricaded from the inside with debris. Boromir wondered how long it would take to ram it open. Not long, judging from the loud cheering of orcs and Haradrim alike. They were waiting for the Gate to give way, and it would happen soon.
“We’re backing away from the Gate!” Boromir bellowed to the rest of the Knights. “Keep up the fight!”
Slowly, facing the East, they made their retreat towards the Bridge. Boromir had no time to turn back and check how the evacuation was going, but he hoped Angbor had it under control.
Another thunderous ram ripped the air. Boromir’s ears ached as he saw the debris barricading the Gate from the inside move a little under the impact. New vigour seemed to surge into the Haradrim. Buoyed by the battering ram’s sounds they attacked the line of Knights with double force, thrusting viciously with their stilettos. Boromir saw three more Knights fall. Farewell brothers ! Arthael of Minas Tirith , Milancar the Younger, and Hirgon the Red Face, Boromir spared a moment to remember their names, momentarily overcome with grief and terror. And he would have joined them very nearly; a Southern stiletto was about to collide with his neck, but another short blade that deflected its course.
“Hello, brother” Faramir panted. “Hogging all the glory to yourself once again?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Boromir replied, as he regained his bearings and started parrying the Southron’s frantic blows with his shield.
Faramir lunged from behind Boromir’s back and slashed the Southron’s stomach open with hisblade. This was Faramir’s preferred style during combat, one he’s learned among the Rangers: he wielded dual short swords, moved quietly and defended himself with evasion. The Southrons, who preferred light armour to heavy plate, were easy targets for his blades.
“I bring good tidings,” Faramir grunted in between his strikes. “Work under the Bridge is done.”
Boromir smiled viciously. The fight was almost over.
“This is our last stand, then, brother,” he said to Faramir, and then he shouted commands to his men. “Companies! Abandon fight and run! Save yourselves!” He heard Angbor echo his command behind his back. “Knights! Tighten the line! We hold them off as long as we can! Retreat steadily!”
Boromir felt his muscles burn with exertion, as he pushed himself to his limits. From the corner of his eye he saw another of the Knights, Ser Rennor, fall from a dagger to his neck. There remained a couple dozens of yards between them and the Bridge. Their men were running to the other side. The Knights were holding off the Haradrim horde, retreating slowly, but also dying under Southern blades one by one. To his left, Paranion of Lamedon, Angbor’s compatriot, fell from an arrow through his eye, and a group of Southrons ran over his body, giving chase to the retreating troops. Whatever foe breached their line, Boromir hoped would be stopped by Derufin’s archers patrolling the Bridge. To his right, he saw Ser Angbor join their last stand.
“The men are safe! It’s time we passed the Bridge ourselves!” Angbor shouted. They were almost upon the Bridge, but they had to keep up the fight, for fear the Enemy would pursue and strike at their backs if they turned away and ran.
“Hallas! No!” Faramir cried, and Boromir saw the Baron topple to the ground. Only three other Knights, beside Boromir, Faramir, Derufin and Angbor remained standing and holding the front line. They were slashing their swords and ramming their shields like madmen, to keep the Haradrim front at bay. Backing away slowly they reached the Bridge at last. Boromir saw another Knight, Ser Seidon fall, in the same moment as he felt an arrow pierce his thigh. He cursed, but kept his balance. The wound hurt like the fires of Angband.
Now would come the tricky part. They had to retreat through the Bridge, while fighting, and only signal Zbylut once they reached the other side, hoping that the horde of the Enemy would fall with the Bridge.
KABOOOOOOOOOM!
Boromir looked up and saw his fears confirmed in the distance: the Eastern Gate’s wings were rammed wide open. But then something unexpected happened. The Southrons ceased their assault and their horde parted to the sides, leaving a clear passage. Boromir and his comrades were left alone, in the middle of the Bridge.
Suddenly, seemingly out of thin air and shadow, a blood-chilling vision materialised before him.
Nine black horses with frothing mouths and eyes of red madness. And upon them Nine Riders in black hooded capes, their bodies seemingly made of foul shadows. The Riders were charging at them from the Gate with insane speed.
Boromir knew he had to move, but he found himself paralyzed with fear. The sheer hopelessness and terror that the Riders awakened in his heart… He’s never felt like that in his life. In that moment he fully comprehended the enemy’s might. Mordor had the power to smother all hope, and that, to Boromir, seemed worse than all the Haradrim armies in the world. There was no chance for Gondor, no matter the outcome of this battle, his country was lost. The Enemy would prevail.
Then he heard his brother’s fearful sob, and that sound sobered him a little. It was ever his most important task to keep his brother out of harm’s way, and this time was no different. Even if everything else was lost, Faramir was still breathing. The Riders would reach the Bridge in a few moments, and he had to use those moments well, for Faramir’s sake. He dropped his sword and shield, inhaled frantically, and blew the Horn of Gondor with all the might left in his lungs. Whips snapped loudly, Zbylut’s horses moved at once and Boromir felt the entire Bridge shift and shake, in the very same moment that the Riders reached it at last. Boromir did the only thing he could think of: he pushed Derufin over the Bridge’s railing, grabbed Faramir’s arm and jumped.
His stomach made a salto as he fell a dozen feet and hit the water. He felt more than saw the Bridge collapse into the River, and the resulting wave of water slammed into his body and submerged him. He didn’t know if the Black Riders made it through or not. He lost his grip on Faramir, too. Valar, let my little brother be safe, he prayed, as he fought to reach the water’s surface.
Then he felt something heavy hit his head and the world went black.
To be (likely) continued...
Header image gifted by @quillofspirit. Thank you! <3
#lotr#lotr fanfiction#lord of the rings fanfiction#boromir fanfiction#boromir#faramir#derufin of morthond#angbor of lamedon#osgiliath#osgiliath bridge#defense of osgiliath#ass deep in demons#[arda]#[wandering birds]
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Friend: "Cupcake, tell us a Beauty and the Beast trivia."
Me: "An earlier demise for Gaston was that he'd survive the encounter with the Beast - they didn't fight on the roof at this point, they fought on the castle causeway - but while he was on his way back to the village, he'd be met by the same wolves that attacked Maurice and Belle earlier and be eaten alive."
Friend: "wtf Cupcake"
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Zaldrīzesdōron
Daemon Targaryen x F!Reader
A/N: The next prompt suggested by @a-bang-for-your-bucky was “How can I believe you after all you’ve done?” With Daemon Targaryen. This is the first time I’ve written Daemon, I found him dialogue heavy. He’s a wordy boy, stressing his point because he’s always in the right. Anyway… thank you @adrille88 for doing the job of beta!
Warnings: Explicit 18+, smut. I haven’t written smut in a while 😬 potential kidnap (but not really), mentions of marriage, death and murder, dragons. Reader and Daemon start off a little rough but it’s consensual. Some High Valyrian snuck in there. Also the first time I’ve dipped into the fanfic world of GOT/HOTD so be gentle. Reader belongs to a house but it’s not specified which one, reader wears a dress and has hair but nothing else is specified.
Translations: (I found.)
Zaldrīzesdōron- Dragonstone.
ñuha prūmia - my heart.
issa dãrys - my king.
avy jorrãelan - I love you.
se nyke aõhon - and I am yours.
Word Count: 4.6k
The wind was fierce. It grabbed at your dress and the fear of falling off made you clutch onto the Prince more than you liked. The dragon beat his wings and you swear the pressure of it pressed inside your ear, weighing into you. A scream threatened to bubble up your throat when the beast dived and the ground seemed so far away but too close at the same time. Daemon tightened his grip around your midriff as your heart stopped and you thought this really was the moment you were going to die.
Closing your eyes, you prayed for it to be over soon as nausea clawed at your stomach; maybe you weren’t cut out for a life on dragonback. It was the dream of every small child in Westeros, to have a dragon of their own but now that you were actually here, you hated it.
As soon as Caraxes landed with a shake of his massive head you slid down his side. You hadn’t accounted for how far from the ground he was still and your legs buckled at the force of your dismount. The dragon turned to watch you curiously, his head cocked and a slight whistling sound chittered from his throat.
You were utterly dishevelled. Your hair was a mess, your dress was uncomfortable and it had shifted slightly on your body so the corset dug in. Grabbing your skirts, you loudly cursed the silver haired man who strode toward you with an arrogant swagger.
“Oh stop your griping,” he scolded you. “Most people would kill for what you just experienced.”
“I will not be disrespected like this, Daemon!” Your dress wasn’t appropriate for the wet chill on Dragonstone and your body gave an involuntary shiver.
“No one is disrespecting you, My Lady.”
“Why am I here?” You glared at him but all he did was match your ire with a cocky half smile and a hand to show you the way up to the fortress. Lifting your head you glared at him harder before swanning past and walking steadily up the long and winding causeway.
By the time you reached the tall black stone of the Keep you were visibly freezing, your numb hands doing nothing to keep you warm against the constant wind as it sliced around the island. Your hair was damp, draining any last vestige of warmth you may have had.
Daemon didn’t say anything to you. Leading you into a long hall and scattering the servants with a curt word and pretending not to notice when you headed straight for the roaring fireplace. The sensation of a thick fur being wrapped around your body made you flinch, but you grabbed onto it. Daemon swept your hair to the side, gently draping it over the fur and you allowed him to smooth it down, his hands slowly travelling along your arms until you stepped out of his reach. His pent up sigh finally being let out.
“What do you want, Daemon?”
“The pleasure of your company,” his voice sounded too loud as it echoed around.
“We could have done that within my own halls. My house is one of the few who would have allowed the scorned Prince of Westeros under its roof.” He scoffed, picking at the food that had been laid out on the table.
“It’s not the same.”
“No. My halls are much more comfortable.”
“Did you not enjoy the thrill of the ride?” He asked, lifting his gaze to gauge your reaction but you refused to play his game.
“I shall ask again and I expect a straight answer.” Daemon rolled his eyes and waved a hand to cut you off.
“Don’t be so fucking boring. You’re better than this, you know you are.” Bravely you stood stock still as he approached, his eyes eating up every inch of you as he stopped just inches from you, crossing his hands on the pommel of his sword. “You’re in need of a husband.”
“That’s what this is about?!” You sounded amused but really your entire body had just flushed with a delicious warmth as ideas ran rampant in your mind. “Are you putting yourself forward as a candidate?”
“Well I thought the dragon ride would have sealed the deal.”
“There is no ‘deal.’ If you wish to seek my hand in marriage you must fall in line with the other suitors.” Cocking an eyebrow, you enjoyed the way he grinned at you, fully taking on the challenge you offered him.
“I don’t have to fall in line with anyone. I am a Prince.”
“One that has fallen from favour more times than I can count. What would I want with a black sheep such as you?”
“A sheep,” he sneered. “Good one.” Turning away from him you weren’t expecting him to grab you, pulling you to him so hard your breath hitched. “Tell me I don’t top the best offer you’ve ever had.”
“Let me go,” you gasped but his grip just tightened. His eyes never left your face, tracing your features so marked with annoyance, he liked this look on you. He enjoyed your spirit and the way it singed his fingers, like dragon fire. You were something else entirely and he wasn’t going to let you be dimmed anymore.
“I cannot.” It was all there in his mind, everything he had ever wanted to say to you. Usually he didn’t hesitate to say what was on his mind but you choked him. “My Lady…”
“You know he will never agree to this. Our King.” The second son relinquished his grip at the mention of his older brother, a grimace crossing over his sharp features.
“As much as I love my brother, you know I don’t listen to a word he says. He told me to marry that prissy bronze cunt in the Vale and I got out of that.”
“How did she die again? Hunting accident?” You queried knowing full well that was a lie.
“And your last husband? Choked at the table did he?” The taunt was quick fired and smug but you had your story straight.
“He ate too much duck. A bone got lodged in his throat.” You scowled at him, hating the way he ran the tip of tongue over his bottom lip but then Daemon stepped back.
“It’s all inconsequential anyway,” he announced.
“Is it? I was told under no circumstances, was I to entertain any advances from you.” He raised an eyebrow, nodding at the table as though surprised at your sudden admission but you could tell he already knew you were going to say something like that.
“Your advisors know best. Do you agree with them?”
“After the way you stole me…”
“Oh here we go again, I did not steal you!” He grumbled.
“I am here against my will!” You shrieked. “I was plucked from my House and flown halfway across the world…”
“Don’t exaggerate,” he muttered.
“Flown, away from my home and dumped in this…”
“Amazing fortress.”
“Ugh! You are insufferable!”
“Would you listen to me?” He hissed coming towards you once again but this time you backed out of his reach and his hand dropped, balling into a fist. “I needed to get you away from the dying ideas of those old codgers. They ruin you. Dull you. I want nothing more than to — treat you how you should be treated. I brought you here to become a fucking Princess!”
“How can I believe you after all you’ve done?”
“That!” He pointed at you, jutting out his jaw as he tried to drive his point forward. “That is what they want. To put this poisonous wedge between us and I will not have them succeed. Not this time.”
“So you’re telling me they feed me lies? You haven’t taken whores, disrespected the crown or killed your ex wife? None of these things are true?” You challenged.
“Yes of course they’re true…I’m not lying to you here.”
“And neither are my advisors when they say I should avoid you at all costs.”
“No. They’re just trying to undermine me and ruin any chance of happiness you might want.” Your face twisted with disgust at how accurate his insight was.
“I don’t want to have this conversation anymore.” You wanted to leave and in a desperate attempt you headed for the exit, not caring where it led to but he charged; almost sweeping your balance away as he grabbed your wrist and spun you back to face him with a flurry of your dress.
“We are not finished,” he spat. “I am here telling you all the nitty gritty bits of my character, exposing my flaws so you can pick at them like a rabid raven and still love me.” Your breath quickened as your back was pressed back into the wall. “I’ve never hidden who I am,” he continued.
“Maybe I don’t like what you’re showing me after all, Prince Daemon.” He smirked but it didn’t reach his eyes. They stayed steely, and focused until he released you and stepped back. Gaining control of himself and giving you space again.
“That’s an outright lie,” he said. The firelight caught on his silver hair and you found yourself admiring him now, as much as you did when you first caught sight of him at the tournament. How you had promised yourself to capture the attention of the dragon rider, now your efforts after all this time were suddenly not so fruitless.
“So what if it is.” He stood before you, one leg cocked slightly as he openly admired you. His gaze dragging over your body and you let the fur slip down around your shoulders exposing some skin.
“We are one and the same you and I,” he whispered.
“How did you work that out?”
“Because I have heard tales of your late husbands. Tragically, you don’t seem to be able to stay married a whole year before they’re falling dead at your feet.”
“Unfortunate circumstances,” you shrugged.
“No heirs,” he continued. “So all their fortune goes to you. Their dear, bereft lady wife.” The fur slipped further and his hands worked to free himself of his sword belt. “We could be formidable, you know. Together.” He began to remove his armour, taking the breastplate off and planting it in the chair near you, his eyes never straying far from your own. “You’ve got the soul of a dragon and I admire that. I enjoy its heat.”
“What makes you think you have what it takes to tempt me, my Prince?” He scoffed, allowing the brief annoyed smirk to cross his face.
“Is it the thrill of the chase for you? To have a prince come after you like some love sick fool?” he snapped with barely contained irritation.
“You are not one of those,” you countered.
“Oh but I am. That’s why I stole you, as you so crudely put it, and brought you here, to Dragonstone.”
“To make me yours?” The last item clunked to the floor and he was standing before you in a loose shirt, leather britches and boots. Within a few strides you were in his reach. Feebly you tried to resist but he overpowered your meagre attempts until your back was flush against his chest. His large hands holding your wrists firmly across your own chest. Turning your face away, he buried himself into your neck, breathing warmly on your skin.
“To make you, mine.” Your cry rang out when his teeth sank into the softness of your neck but he didn’t release you. Just spinning you round, and walking you back until the pair of you slammed into the cold stone wall. “Yes, fight me,” he encouraged, taking a slap to the cheek and working his jaw to absorb the pain.
“You like that?” You breathed.
“Mmm, now that would be telling,” he teased; pushing forward to press a chaste kiss to your lips. He had you trapped, his wide body crowding you from all sides and his foot kicked your legs wide. Once again you tried to push him away but the scuffle just ended with you in an even more vulnerable position. Hands pinned above your head as he ghosted his nose over your face; breathing you in with a drawn out sigh as though he’d been waiting an eternity for such a moment with you. “Extraordinary,” he murmured.
“I won’t give in so easily,” you snarled but there was no conviction in your voice.
“Is that so?” He stole another kiss from you, his tongue teasing you to open up for him. Your body shivering against him, excitement sliding down your spine and a soft moan was sipped from the tip of your tongue.
The rustle of your dress was loud in the quiet, his free hand slipping under the fabric to brush the smoothness of your inner thigh. His calloused touch had your yearning for Daemon reach higher, arching your back in the hope he’d take the hint. His lips and teeth left a trail of marks along your jawline, his body pushing you even harder against the wall.
He let go of your wrists, spreading a hand over your throat in a show of control and possession. Your own hands fell to tangle in his silvery locks, pulling on them harshly so he sucked in a breath between his teeth. His hand connected with your thigh and your eyes closed as the sound snapped between you both.
“Now, now,” he drawled. You had no choice but to release the hold on his hair as he flipped you round so you were facing the fire. The heat enveloped you; mixed with the heat already coursing through your body, you could feel sweat beginning to form under your dress.
He shifted behind you, pushing his britches down until they covered his boots that he was still wearing. Daemon grabbed one of your hands and put himself in the palm. Your eyes fluttered at the silky warmth of him and you squeezed the thick tip letting him thrust slightly in your grip. Fingers curled around the column of your throat, tilting your head back until his lips found the corner of yours once again.
The fabric of your dress was lifted, this time his hand went straight for the slickness of your cunt. He parted your folds, taking his time to listen to the little noises you made when he circled your clit and teased your entrance. In return you felt your way along his stiff length, silently marvelling at the way he filled your grip. Your throat flexed in his hold as you groaned, shamelessly pushing your hips forward to try and get more friction but he chuckled darkly in your ear.
“You have to earn it,” he whispered.
“T-tell me how,” you whined. He didn’t respond, instead he pulled away, leaving you oddly cold in front of the fire.
The flames licked the huge logs, burning them a hot white colour and successfully captivating your gaze as you tried to calm the rising frustration. Looking over your shoulder, you saw him leaning against the table, britches pulled up but still undone, arms crossed over that wide chest as he waited for you to make your move.
“Is this how you treat all your women?” You asked with a biting edge to your tone, allowing him to see how riled up you were.
“No,” he replied with the blunt truth. “Other women bore me so I don’t waste my time on them more than necessary.” You approached him slowly, aware that he was watching every little movement you made. You didn’t want to give him the opportunity to discard you, not after the effort you had both put into getting here.
Reaching out you pulled the ties on his shirt to expose his chest, forcing his arms down and you drank in the sight of his scarred skin. Gently you traced the rough skin, watching him tense under your delicate touch.
“Did these hurt?”
“Possibly.”
“Are they from Caraxes?” You asked, forcing the fabric off his body completely so that he let it pool on the floor at his feet. He had more scars, marking his side and back.
“They are not the result of something that exciting. Just took a few arrows at the battle of the Stepstones.”
“I heard you won that fight pretty much single handedly, my Prince.” Your sultry gaze rose and you looked at him through your lashes. Running your fingernails down the dip between his pecs.
“Are we going to talk about my battle prowess all night or are we going to fuck?”
“Wouldn’t it be a surprise if I walked away after you promised so much and didn’t deliver.” Your words had the desired effect and the sense of anticipation leapt in your chest when he grabbed your face, pulling you close so he could feast on your mouth.
You went further, pushing his hips so he sat on the table. Manipulating your dress, you carefully lifted a leg up to mount him and he helped you by lifting the other so you were kneeling over him. Immediately you ground your hips over the barely covered bulge in his britches, enjoying the way he gasped in your mouth when he felt your unclothed cunt run over the exposed tip of his cock.
He wasted no time in pushing the material back down, taking a moment to feel how wet you were as he still ravished your mouth. His thick fingers nudged into you, stretching you so much you groaned, clutching at his face as you rolled your hips.
The motions between you became greedy, your nails scraped the underside of his chin. Daemon’s teeth seemed to seek out every fleshy spot he could reach but nothing slowed the relentless pressure of his fingers. A thumb passed over your bundle of nerves and your mouth dropped open, face contorting with pleasure you haven’t experienced in so long.
The orgasm rolled over you like the waves of the sea outside. Crushing walls you didn’t even realise you’d put up and baring a part of yourself that had been hidden for years. Daemon watched every little expression that crossed your face, studying you as though it helped him get to know you.
Withdrawing his fingers, he didn’t give you time to recover. Making you stand on shaky legs only to shove you over the table. Dishes of food went flying when he cleared a space for you, the metal singing a song as they clattered on the stone floor only to be punctuated by your shocked gasp when he ripped the fabric of your dress right down the seam.
“You’d look better in black,” he spoke thickly, barely containing his need for you. The material was discarded and your spine was bent until your cheek rested on the smooth wood. He gathered your slip at your hips, passing a hand over your backside and cupping your dripping cunt to gather your wetness. From the corner of your eye you could see him rub his glistening hand over his cock before he rubbed it along your slit. Teasing your entrance and looming over your back, trailing his hair between your shoulder blades.
There was no warning when he entered you, not that it mattered. You’d been waiting impatiently for the punishing stretch and he did not disappoint. You were slick enough to let him push in without any resistance and he took full advantage. The firmness of his thrusts jolting your body, a hand pressing into your back to hold you in place as he watched the way he slid so perfectly in and out of you.
Your body was craving him, your hands fisting because they had nothing to hold onto, your walls fluttering, squeezing him so tightly he had to lean his back and close his eyes to try and think of anything but the way you felt. He didn’t want this to end too soon; he wanted your body until you were bone limp and completely pliant.
The next orgasm ripped through your body and he paused to feel every tremble and to hear every obscene cry that came out of your pretty mouth. Your eyes were half closed when he slipped out of you, helping you up into his arms so he could lay you before the fire. You moaned, barely able to form words but your hands gripped his as he rubbed it up your front. Spreading his fingers widely over your stomach and up between your heaving breasts to trail his thumb over your lips.
You shifted, drawing his attention back to your exposed cunt and he moved. Settling between your legs, your thighs resting easily against his shoulders. You were glistening already but he wanted to add to it. Gathering the spit in his mouth and looking up to see you watching him with pupils blown wide, lips wrapped around his thumb as you sucked gently.
He spat on your clit. Diving down to devour you with his mouth, tongue licking you all the way up and down as he groaned with ecstasy at the taste of you. Legs tensed either side of his head and your shaky hand gripped his hair, urging him on. The cries you had no control over burst from your chest, hips grinding into his face until all he could sense was you and the ache in his spine as his cock twitched in desperation.
Another orgasm stole your senses. Whipping you into a state of higher bliss, a place no man had ever taken you before. Daemon looked over you, stroking some hair out of your face before he began all over again.
His mouth crushed into yours, the taste of you on his lips made you gasp. His skin was slick as it slid over yours, his body covering you, a hand digging into your thigh as he brought your leg up.
He lined himself up, pushing the thick tip into your aching mess of a cunt and you moaned loudly. He went slowly but steadily, allowing you to swallow him up until he had sheathed himself to the hilt inside you. Your walls fluttered at the welcome intrusion, stretching around Daemon’s fullness, making him curse in Valyrian.
You could barely concentrate, so cock-drunk on the feel of him it was struggle just to remember to breathe. His hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him as he flexed his hips, testing your waning limits.
Fingers fisted in the furs beneath you as he stoked the blazing heat inside you, making your toes curl tightly. Tired cries burst from your chest as he picked up the pace, pumping forcefully into your cunt so the sound of your sex filled the hall. He might have been praising you, degrading you, it didn’t matter. The rumble of his voice was all you could register as euphoria melted over your mind. The coil in your belly wound almost painfully tight and you thought you couldn’t take anymore from him when it snapped.
Your back arched, your legs clamped around him as your cunt squeezed on his cock from the force of your release. Your vision streaked with white, hands grabbing at the man on top of you, snatching at his arms until your nails drew blood. You felt him pulse inside you, right before he came to his own end with an explosive snarl. His mouth fell on yours, the salty taste of his sweat marked the edges of your lips as you both fed off each other’s highs.
He teased as much pleasure as he could out of you, until you were whimpering from the overstimulation and your body was limp and pliable. Finally, he pulled his softening cock free and rolled onto his back with a self-satisfied exhale. He looked over at you. His features were etched by the firelight but he looked softened. This wasn’t the hard faced man that had stolen you earlier today, the man that defied everyone just to please himself…here was a man who was letting his emotions show on his face. All barriers were down and you also felt oddly exposed to him. Not just naked, no this was something else. He turned to his side and began to stroke your slightly damp skin.
“Do you want to know the real reason why I stole you away?” His fingers drifted lightly over your aching stomach, watching the shadow his large hand cast in the twitching light of the fire.
“I think you’re dying to tell me,” you whispered. Your throat was dry and sore from all the noise he’d pulled from you. Daemon smiled, leaning forward to kiss your exposed shoulder.
“I wanted to save you from dreary men.” Your laugh was rich as it echoed in the stone hall and he grinned at the sound. Rolling onto your front under the furs you nudged into his wide chest.
“Yes, they were dreary. It’s why I killed them,” you admitted in a whisper.
“I promise to never bore you, ñuha prūmia.”
“And I promise to keep you on your toes, issa dãrys.” Your expression faltered when he didn’t respond. Did you say it wrong? Did he think you were undermining his brother by calling Daemon your king? You meant he was the king of your heart, he always had been.
“Do you know…everything I have done that my brother has not approved of has been because of you.” He couldn’t meet your eyes as he spoke, choosing instead to concentrate on your body.
“How so?”
“Every time you got remarried. I hated seeing you tied to some simpering idiot who didn’t deserve you. I could see how much it squashed your spirit.” You gently took his chin in your hand, forcing him to look at you.
“I cannot be tamed, Prince Daemon.”
“No.” He leaned into you, pretending to bite at your face as you giggled softly. “I want to free you,” he breathed. Gazing into his darkened eyes you felt your heart stutter in your chest. Your dreams were coming true, the man you’d been wanting since you’d come of age was here, naked at your side baring everything to you. “Avy jorrãelan,” he whispered into the shell of your ear.
“Daemon…” biting your lip, you let him roll you onto your back. His mouth was hot and wet as he skimmed his lips over your throat, fingers travelling down your body, drifting over your pert nipples.
“I know,” he mumbled into the soft flesh of your breast as he tongued and massaged your other nipple. Your fingers dipped into the crown of silver hair, back arching to offer yourself to him as much as possible. “I am yours,” he moaned, closing his eyes as though it tortured him to say such words.
“Se nyke aõhon!” You cried out when his fingers dipped into your aching heat. He groaned at the sensation of you, the thickness of his fingers filling you, bruising you almost. You were still tender from what had transpired before.
“If I could stay inside you forever, I would,” he whispered hurriedly as he rose above you. His hair dripped down like hot Valyrian steel as he leaned into you, sucking the mewling cries you gave him straight from your mouth.
You didn’t want to be anywhere else. You weren’t wanting him for power or status, he was so much more than his titles and bloodline. You wanted him because he made you feel things no other man had ever achieved. And those sensations were addictive.
#daemon targaryen x you#prince daemon targaryen#daemon x reader#daemon targaryen imagine#daemon targaryen fic#daemon targaryen fanfic#daemon targaryen x reader#daemon x you#daemon targaryen x f!reader
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Japan's top-selling conveyor belt sushi chain Sushiro (スシロー) opened its first Southeast Asia outlet in Singapore on the Aug 19, 2019. I have wanted to visit it but somehow I have been putting it off due to it not being near where I am staying, that is until their Causeway Point branch opened.
I started off with three red plates (S$2.20++) and a gold plate (S$3.80++). The Broiled Mackerel Oshizushi with Mentai is topped with a thick piece of fish brushed with savoury sweet sauce. A refreshing shiso (perilla) leaf sits between the fish and rice. Hidden within the rice are seasoned pollack roe (mentaiko) which imparted the briny umami flavours.
Next up, Spear Squid with Ponzu Jelly has two whole squids sitting atop their rice ball, topped with jellies and scallions. I read that the translucent squids are allowed to age for about a day to let the flesh turn white and acquire a sweet flavour. The ponzu jellies offered a lovely balanced sweet, sour and salty flavour to the otherwise plain mollusk.
When I ordered the Salmon with Basil Cheese, I was kind of skeptical on how this combination would work out. Popped the sushi into the mouth and I was pleasantly surprised by how good it tasted. The fish, cheese sauce, finely chopped basil leaves and the searing worked to bring out the best in flavours.
The Swordfish Sushi is plain looking after the all the colourful toppings that came before it. But it does make up with sweet and firm flesh, not forgetting to mention the tiny dollop of wasabi hidden underneath it.
#Sushiro#スシロー#Japanese#Conveyor Belt Sushi#Restaurant#Causeway Point#Broiled Mackerell#Oshizushi#Mentaiko#Seasoned Pollack Roe#Spear Squid#Ponzu Jelly#Salmon#Basil#Cheese#Seared#Aburi#Swordfish#Fish#Seafood#Sushi#White Rice#Food#Buffetlicious
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Also, while I'm still trudging along from being awake since 5am: Ancient Civilisations are not 'advanced for their time' and neither are they 'primitive'. Technology, up until recently, really only advanced at the point of need. The Ancient Egyptians only invented things out of necessity i.e. they saw they could improve something that already existed and thus advanced that way.
We have this wonderful habit of assuming people of the past, because they don't have the technology we do, were stupid or childlike. It's not a conscious thing, but thinking like this does distort the historical record. Many things can be done without machinery, but we've done them for so long with machinery it seems impossible for them to be done without them. It's this sort of thinking that leads people to miss the fact that the granite causeway was ripped up and relaid in the 1970s using angle grinders and fixed in place with cement. This is, coincidentally, how we get stuff like 'the Ancient Egyptians used mechanical saws and cement at the pyramids' lmao
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The Prince of Death's visit to the Haligtree was long overdue. Many of his years as The Golden Prince was spent writing to his siblings and sending gifts and supplies aplenty, but never actually visiting to see the progress of the Haligtree. He teased a visit for so long, yet could never pull through in fear of what his mother would do in response. Oh, it all seemed to revolve around Mother, didn't it?
But he was a new man now, a free man most importantly. He decided to bring a few things, some gifts and supplies that he could bring in a satchel. Evidently, he brought a guest. Armed with their proposal rings, Godwyn brought his beloved fiancée, Fia. She was soon to be a part of the family, so why not bring her here to get acquainted with them?
They took their time walking down the entrance to Ephael, soaking in the beautiful architecture that hugged the Haligtree. They spoke quietly to each other along the way, pointing out unique parts of the archways and statues that lined down the halls. It was breath of fresh air compared to the snowy hellscape of the consecrated snowfields. It felt warmer too, only the most gentle of breezes brushing past them as the sun peaked through the branches.
Godwyn was only at the entrance, and he was already astonished at the progress they made. How did they manage to make a paradise on such a small piece of land?
@deathblightprince
(He finally visiting the Haligtreeeeeee)
I young woman wearing the leather tabard of a Cleanrot squire approached down the causeway. Despite her small stature, her red hair and golden arm were all too familiar.
The girl's eyes widened when she spotted the two of them. "Lord Godwyn? You've arrived early." She offered her hand, a hint of nervous formality in her manner. "Please, come with me. My mother and uncle would have received you at the gate, but you were not expected before nightfall."
#answered asks#{ verse: death blighted }#godwyn prince of death#fia the deathbed companion#millicent#this is gonna be fun!
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You're an eight year old boy who spends too much time looking at the birds to be any use cutting peat. So your grandfather walks down to the causeway, you on his shoulders, and hands you over to the monastery, where you'll make something of yourself or you won't. He gets a bushel of wool, and a silver bit.
Your adolescence is passed unremarked upon, waking up in the dark to sit in cold oratries, mumbling rite you don't understand, as dawn leaks in round the edges of the glass, put in by Lombards the abbot sent to Ravenna for. But this light is too thin for southern colours. You make the only prayer you are sincere in; that one of the brothers in the scriptorium will get the sweats, or catch his hand on a hook in the dark and it'll rot, so the abbot will point you out to take his place in the hall of books where the pigments are mixed and beasts live on calf skin. And the years pass.
The Abbot is sent to Rome. And a new one comes from Tarsus. He is, somehow, even older than the last. Your beard comes in, and it's red. One of your brothers starts to call you il Roso, sometimes softly, at night. The owls boom when the wind doesn't. One time, a King comes with his men, their horses wade across the causeway, but that's all of them you're permitted to see, striding through the water, far away. One year you are lucky, and twice a week you can put on boots to walk on the mud, gathering samphire. You can stand in the wind and shout unheard.
You're on the mud when merchants haul their ship up the beach. You're alone. You could beckon to them. So you do. The sun catches the sea and they're illuminated. They are lean from fish, and heavy-armed from oars. They move over the waters like birds. Their hair flies. And coming towards you, you understand what God intended when he created a man. Their great strength bares up crosses. No. Weapons. They chant, and they rush, and are hungry. One calls to the others, laughing. His eyes blue are fire. You are burning. A bell is ringing. Against every want of your body, you turn from him, and you run.
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Toh Hong Huat and Keh Chin Ann, both 12, were best friends from Singapore. On the 14th of May, 1986, they dropped their bags in school before walking to a nearby shop to purchase some sweets. They never returned.
The ensuing search for Huat and Ann extended across the Causeway to Johor and beyond. Leaflets with the boys’ faces emblazoned on the front were distributed throughout.
At one point during the search, McDonald’s offered a $100,000 reward for information that could lead to their whereabouts. Following the announcement of the reward, the case became known as the “McDonald’s Boys Case.”
Since their disappearance, theories and stories about their whereabouts have abounded. One gruesome rumour circulated that the two boys had been abducted and their limbs were subsequently chopped off and they were forced to beg in Thailand.
Another theory was that the boys had been abducted by Huat’s father following the breakdown of his marriage. Some have speculated that Huat’s father took the boys to Malaysia where they supposedly lived in the slums.
To this day, the whereabouts of Toh Hong Huat and Keh Chin Ann remains a mystery.
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On September 11th 1297, William Wallace and Andrew de Moray led htheir troops to victory at the Battle of Stirling Bridge.
As William Wallace was leading a growing rebellion in the lowlands early in 1297, news spread of a great rising in the north led by Andrew de Moray. As events progressed, Wallace developed the use of a new tactic, later to be used with great success by Bruce, i.e. the rapid deployment of fast moving light horse to attack and harass English patrols and garrisons. These tactics pinned them back into fixed positions and made control of the countryside- the collection of taxes and provisions- difficult. With his growing success, Wallace had to manage ever greater numbers of men and hence his exploits increased in scale. As the year progressed the English commanders in Scotland grew increasingly anxious. This is shown by the worried letters to the treasury in London from Hugh Cressingham complaining about the impossibility of raising taxes in Scotland as all was in a state of unrest.
In the North, Moray had cleared out most of the English forces and linked up his forces with those of Wallace some time during the August of 1297 thereby creating a unique force, composed of both Lowlanders and Highlanders. There was a setback with the surrender at Irvine in July 1297 of an army under the command of the Earl of Carrick, Robert Bruce and Sir William Douglas. They could be seen as being the more traditional leaders, in the eyes of the country, than Wallace and Moray, but they may have had less stomach for the fight.
An English army charged with subduing Scotland left Berwick at the end of August 1297 and marched towards Stirling under the joint command of Hugh Cressingham and John de Warenne, the Earl of Surrey. The force, including many Welsh, reached Stirling on the 10th of September and was faced by a Scottish force drawn up on the foothills of the Ochils and on the Abbey Craig which overlooked the mile long causeway linking the only bridge across the River Forth to the dry ground and Stirling castle. On the morning of the 11th of September a large force of heavy cavalry and foot marched across the narrow bridge, two abreast, under the watching eyes of the Scots.
When it was deemed enough English troops had crossed, the Scots forces were given the order to charge and a group of spearmen - hidden from the eyes of the English - set off and succeeded in cutting off the bridgehead which had been formed. The English troops who had crossed the bridge were cut off from help, and were duly massacred while the greater part of the English army watched helpless on the other side of the Forth.
The tactical positioning had obviously been worked out well beforehand and the planning of the battle had, it would seem, taken up a large part of the Scots time. The timing of the rush down the causeway was crucial to the success of the Scots as, had too many English troops been allowed to cross, the final outcome could have been drastically different.
It should also be pointed out that the troops who had beaten this large semi-professional English army- a balanced force of cavalry, archers and heavy foot- were the landless peasants and not the great Scottish lords.
The Scots now had to prepare themselves for the wrath which Edward I would surely vent on his return from campaigning in France. Scotland suffered great misfortune with the death of Andrew de Moray (possibly due to wounds received at the battle) and subsequently Wallace was left in sole control of the Scottish forces and ultimately the whole country.
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