#carpet stores hawthorn

[storiesbyrhi]

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence, swearing, no beta, warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: When is a man, not a man?

1986

The elecampane was easy to find, but for the hawthorn less so. You had to spend the next day’s afternoon driving around Indiana looking for a store that might sell it. Eventually, a herbalist gave you the address of an off-the-grid botanist. They had all sorts of non-native species.

She had invited you into her house. “A witch is always welcome.”

You didn’t ask how she knew and she didn’t tell you. With hawthorn berries and spikes in hand, you drove back to Hawkins, arriving too late to cast any spell other than slumber. The bat would have to wait one more day.

The sun had barely begun to warm when the bat climbed onto your head and nipped at the tips of your ears. He wouldn’t be stopped, your attempts to swat him away failing.

“Alright, alright,” you said to him, sitting up. He flew circles around the room, then headed out the bedroom door and disappeared into the trailer.

The bat chittered at you as you started a fresh brew of coffee. “No,” you warned him, finger pointed like you were scolding a child. “Coffee first. Then witchcraft. They’re the rules.”

Coffee, a piece of toast, and you got to work.

“I’m kind of… winging it here,” you explained to the bat as you squashed hawthorn berries and elecampane petals with your mortar and pestle. “This has to have a healing base, because that’s where my strength is. And I’m going to try to tailor it to both animal and human… Since we don’t really know what you are.”

The bat had sat on your shoulder, his apparent favourite place.

“But we also need the magic to see the truth… In this case, the truth of what you are. Which is why we have these.” A small mirrored circular plate and a piece of sodalite.

“The hardest part is the spell itself, the words. But like Kelsey said, if our intention is set, then you know, we should be okay.” It was reassurance for the bat, but it helped you to say it out loud too, like a good luck omen.  

With the petals and berries, you mixed in a drop of witch’s blood harvested through the hawthorn plant’s sharpest thorn, some dried four-leaf-clovers for luck, moon water, honey, and some of the bat’s fur.

On the carpet of the trailer, you painted a devil’s trap. “Sorry,” you offered to the bat. “If this works too well, and it turns out you’re a demon that should not have been turned back, I need a safety net.”

At each point of the trap’s pentagram, you placed a candle. In the center, the small mirror. You took the potion and tinted the mirror’s surface, covering it entirely.

“You’re up,” you instructed. The bat glided down from his fridge-top perch onto the mirror. “Hold this.” His little claws curled around the sodalite.

You closed your eyes, focused your energy.

“Hear now the words of this witch,

secrets hidden in the night.

The oldest of Gods are evoked here;

the great work of magic is sought.

On this day and in this hour,

I call upon the ancient power.

The truth of this life is to be revealed,

And let the damage be healed.

So shall it be.”

You opened your eyes and gently pushed the bat backward off the mirror, but not out of the circle. As you wiped the potion off the surface, you repeated the final line of the spell twice more.

“So shall it be.

So shall it be.”

With trepidation, you closed your eyes again and in unsteady hands, you flipped the mirror so the bat’s image would be reflected at himself.

Only a second of silence, maybe less than, before a sharp and loud intake of breath forced your eyes open.

The bat was gone.

In his place, a man with pitch black eyes and wild waves of hair. He looked terrified. Disorientated.

You stared at each other and as you parted your lips to speak, his eyes darted to the door and he leaped for it.

“Wait!” you called after him. You followed him out the door but he was gone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He couldn’t have gone far, you figured. He was naked and the trailer park was still packed with people.

You ran up and down roads and weaved between RVs. There was not only no sign of him but no sign that anybody else had seen him either. The surrounding woods were quiet and still. It was like the man had vanished into thin air.

When your search failed, you took to your car and spent a second hour looking for him. The only thing keeping you from all out panic was the fact that the man was not a demon; he’d passed through the devil's trap easily. At least you’d not brought more death and destruction to the town of Hawkins.

As you drove back to Forest Hills, you considered calling Kelsey and telling her your spell had worked. There was a nagging thought in the back of your mind though. Small but itchy. Whatever happened to the bat and the man, it wasn’t over. The circle had not come full.

…

The first thing he felt was hunger. Agony. Then he bolted and the sunlight outside your trailer burned. He moved too quickly for anyone to see, but he didn’t go far. He crawled under the trailer through a path cleared by raccoons and other animals.

It was dark but not enough. He dug at the dirt with clawed fingers, pushing the soil until he could burrow in and curl up. Motionless for hours, he searched his mind for any sort of explanation or sense of identity. There was nothing.

He didn’t know who he was. What he was. Vaguely, where. The same place he’d watched for all those years. When he was different. Smaller.

When the sun fell low in the sky, an old opossum trotted under your trailer. The man, entirely still, could hear its heartbeat. He listened as the animal sniffed around, its hairs bristling at the smell of raccoons. The opossum didn’t know it had been grabbed. The man moved too fast, breaking its bones and ripping it open to slurp at the blood inside.

He’d not been that kind of bat. He scared himself, his eyes wide as he looked down at the carnage. After, he crawled back into his hole, fated to repeat the murder with any living thing that found its way under the trailer.

…

“What were you doing yesterday, running around like a chicken with its head cut off?”

One of your neighbours was particularly… observant. When you got up first thing in the morning the next day, you did another lap of the trailer park. Still, no signs of the man. Just signs of you going mad, apparently.

“My, ah, cat… got out. Was looking for him,”

“Your cat?”

“My cat,”

“Michelle know you got a cat?”

“I don’t. Anymore.”

There was a three second stare-off, then you went on your way.

All day, while you helped make sandwiches and organise donations at Hawkins High, you half expected the man to show up. You kept glancing at the open doors, trying not to feel disappointed when it was a regular citizen looking for help.

It had been weeks since Vecna had opened the ground. Most people had either been moved to hospitals across the state and beyond, or had their smaller injuries attended to already. It left you with less healing to do, but your help was still welcomed.

Hawkins was through the worst of it, according to most people. You had to admit, it was calm. Perhaps too calm. You felt a sense of impending doom. Vecna would not go down without a fight, and you doubted the fight could be hidden from the townspeople entirely.

Still, you said nothing and did nothing. Healing Erica had already seen you cross a line. Maybe Hawkins was in the eye of the storm, but you couldn’t be the one to sound the alarm.

…

Scratching. Gentle at first, then claws against glass causing high pitch noises that made your body physically cringe. Awake, you sat and looked around the dark room. What time was it? Scratching. Scratching. Window.

The bat was at the window.

“What the fuck?” You hurried out of bed and pushed the window up, letting the creature into your house. “Are you…” When you opened your palms, he landed on them. It was most definitely him. “Fuck! Okay… Okay… Fuck.”

…

1836

“Those are not your apples,” you stated.

The boy spun on the spot, his hair whipping around. It was rare for anyone to sneak up on him. He grinned, all teeth and menace.

“Are they yours?” he countered.

Not a boy, you noted. A man. Young, but old enough to know better.

“No,”

“Then I won’t tell if you don’t.” He tossed the apple up in the air, catching it with ease. He put it in a sack that sat at his feet. There were a lot of things in there that were not his.

“I do not agree to that.”

He picked up the sack and slung it over his shoulder, moving closer to you. You stood your ground, entirely unafraid. Up close, the moonlight reflected in his eyes, which were as dark as the night sky itself.

“Then name your price,” he said, head falling lopsided dramatically, playfully.

The man was beautiful. Maybe, in all your years of living, he was the most beautiful human you’d seen. There was something about him. It wasn’t just that his beauty was disarming. His long hair was not common for men of the era. His skin looked soft too, like he came from royalty rather than the families that tended to the fields and fought in the wars.

It was when he took one more step toward you that you both figured it out.

The man’s easy expression dropped, a suspicious and cruel looking one taking its place. He made a hiss-like sound and let go of the sack of stolen things. He crouched low to the ground.

“Witch,” he spat.

You held your reaction in with far more grace than him. “Are you alone?” you asked him, voice measured.

He did not answer.

“Or, are there more of you?”

You took a step closer to him and leaned down to pick up an apple that had rolled from the sack. You took a bite without breaking eye contact. He stayed frozen to the spot as you chewed slowly and swallowed.

“My name is Amabel,” you told him. “And this land is not mine, but nor is it yours. My coven has dominion here. Make no mistake, we will protect this land. We will protect every human on it.”

The man’s eyes narrowed at the mention of humans. He stood, sure you weren’t offering violence in that first meeting.

“What was your name before? And what will it be after Amabel?” It was not what you were expecting him to say. “Is that not what you do?” he continued. “Live among the humans, love them, watch them die, then start all over again?” You couldn’t tell if he was taunting you or genuinely asking. His tone was far more disarming than his beauty had been. “Do you not feel alone?”

Your lips parted and your eyes glassed over. He’d trapped you in a truth and to what end, you didn’t know.

A dog’s bark cut through the silence, and you briefly looked out beyond the apple orchard, then back. He was gone.

…

1986

“So shall it be.

So shall it be.

So shall it be.”

If the spell worked a second time, it would likely be of short-term effect yet again. You said as much to the bat, but as he returned on his own, you drew the conclusion he was still looking for help. The spell a second time was all you could offer immediately.

As you held the mirror up, eyes closed, you whispered, “Please don’t run. Please.”

All was silent. You were almost too scared to open your eyes, but you’d not heard the trailer door slam. He was still there.

You both searched each other’s eyes for recognition or explanation or anything even vaguely familiar. Perfect strangers, you thought. Imperfect circumstances.

“I’m sorry,” you told him, still whispering. “I’m sorry it didn’t… work… completely. I can figure this out.”

The man said nothing, tearing his gaze from you to look around the trailer. You watched him for a few seconds more before standing. The man flinched at the movement.

“It’s okay! It’s okay. I’m going to get you something to wear.”

You didn’t have a lot of spare clothes, but one of your old t-shirts would work, and some sweatpants that absolutely would not fit properly.

He was still sitting in the center of the devil’s trap when you walked back out from your bedroom. He took the clothes from your outstretched hands, and you hoped he knew what to do with them.

You turned to the kitchenette, pouring a glass of water with your back to him while he stood up and dressed.

You turned and held the glass out to him. He took it. He looked awkward, skittish. Very much like a bat turned human. Fascinated at his general weirdness, you watched him take a sip and hold the water in his mouth. He looked panicked, yet he swallowed. Almost immediately he started to cough, then he threw the water back up onto your kitchen floor.

“It’s okay,” you tried to reassure him. He was staring down at the liquid, brows pulled together.

In the two seconds it took to grab a cloth from the kitchen sink, the man was gone. The trailer door swung wide open.

You sighed but decided to not go after him. All in all, you considered what happened as progress.

…

The smell was putrid. It seemed both obscene and histrionic to have piled all the corpses in the middle of the road.

For two days in a row, dead raccoons, opossums, cats, and dogs had been found. They’d been attacked, but not really eaten. The residents and guests of Forest Hills were concerned. They were already dealing with so much, and now a rabid animal?

You stood with a few neighbours, watching Michelle boss around a couple of teenage boys, making them find all the corpses.

“Lot of them under your trailer,” she’d said, nodding at you.

“Under it?”

“Yep. Got it boarded up but the little bastards always find a way under there. Lot of room between the trailer and the ground. You don’t hear them?”

You shook your head.

Michelle shrugged. “I’ll get one of the boys to come patch the holes.”

When you’d conversed with neighbours about the horror of it all for an appropriate amount of time, you excused yourself and hurried to inspect your trailer. Around the back, behind some trash cans, you found the hole.

On your hands and knees, you peered into the crawl space. Sitting in the dirt and mud were some clothes. You didn’t need to go any further to know they were yours.

There was a word on the tip of your tongue but you didn’t dare speak it because it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be. He wasn’t a demon, but maybe…

No. No, they had been eradicated. The species itself extinct. You’d had a hand in it yourself. There was simply no way.

Back inside your trailer, you paced from the bedroom to the lounge and back again.

Why were you in Hawkins?

What had been calling you there?

A wounded creature?

An enemy in disguise?

Had it all been a trap? A trick. A rouse to bring back the only thing you’d ever truly feared.

You cycled through options. Call Kelsey. Automatic writing to seek guidance from The Witches Who Came Before. Bite the metaphorical bullet and tell your coven what exactly you had done. Run away from Hawkins and pretend none of it had happened.

Sitting on the couch you buried your face in your hands.

No. No, you would not run. You would stay on the path you'd chosen for yourself. You would see this thing through. If a group of children could fight an impossible battle somewhere in an Upside Down Hawkins, you could right this wrong. Whatever that meant.

End Note: Don't forget to visit the Grimoire and timeline! I am so excited to bring you to the 1836 events...

Fic Taglist: @kaitebugg03 @paranoidmunson @munsonsbait @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes  @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob  @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl

#Mine #Burning Yarrow #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You #Vampire!Eddie Munson #Witch!Reader

[riddles-n-games]

The Poetry of Battlefields

    The last time Rebecca and I had spoken, she’d confessed to covering for Skye Hawthorne’s role in my attempted murder.

    “I’m not sure I want one,” I said, an edge creeping into my voice. On an intellectual level, I understood that Rebecca had spent her whole life living in her sister’s shadow, that Emily’s death had wrecked her, that she’d felt some kind of sick responsibility to her dead sister to say nothing about Skye’s plot against me. But on a more visceral level: I could have died. “Come back with a different response another time and maybe I will.”

    “You’re not still holding a little grudge about all of that, are you?” Thea Calligaris asked, claiming the seat that Rebecca had left open. 

    “Little grudge?” I repeated and blinked in disbelief. The last time I’d been this close to Thea, she had admitted to setting me up to attend my debut in Texas society dressed like a dead girl and now had the audacity to act like it was just a bit of dirt that could be swept under the carpet. “You play mind games. And Rebecca almost got me killed!“ But, even though I was currently angry at both, more so at the redhead, at least Rebecca had some decency to feel guilty about her actions. Perhaps guilt tripping and her ability to feel easily pressured is exactly what made it easy for Emily to manipulate her, to feel sorry and guilty about almost anything.

    “What can I say?” Thea let her fingertips brush Rebecca’s. “We’re complicated girls.” 

    I rolled my eyes. She was trying to get to me again but I wasn’t going to let her and if she wanted me riled up, I would let rip just to show her why she shouldn’t next time around. Seeing as she had her eyes on Rebecca again, I spoke up to redirect her attention back to me. “Aww, isn’t that cute? Is that your way of telling me you’re quirky? Or is it prep girl talk for ‘I’m not like other girls’?” I air-quoted with my fingers then clasped my hands back together and gave her the best fake smile I could muster before continuing, “Because Thea, that’s no excuse. Not a very good one either, might I add. Frankly, I’m actually disappointed. Last time, you told me you were screwed up and clearly, you still are, because then, maybe you’d actually care about your actions and those consequences. From my perspective, that’s basically a cry for help and either you haven’t sought it out or you don’t want it. Am I right on that one? I think I am. You need a therapist and simply choose not to go therapy even though it is a very viable option for you given the traumatic circumstances of your past year. I know you can afford one otherwise you wouldn’t be here and your folks are most likely filthy rich so all you’d have to do is ask. But no, that’s too easy for you. Instead you woke up and chose violence because needless revenge is apparently better, right? Rather ruin the lives of two brothers further by stupid attempts at brainwashing when they already feel the brunt of that guilt every day and self-destructing with their own unhealthy ways of coping than trying to focus on yourself. Yet, you know about that, don’t you? I would have gladly taken therapy if given the opportunity in your position and swallow my damn pride just so I could move on with my life but I guess you’re just too bored or make no time for that.  That’s prime psychopath behavior and you know what? If you continue down that road of mind games, remorselessness, self-righteous bratting, and manipulation, I can foresee you either ending up in a jail cell in solitary confinement or in a mental asylum with just the voices in your head. But maybe, try being a little more original than the Joker or Harley Quinn because this isn’t Gotham City. Maybe next time you try to pull a stunt like that, you won’t like what I have in store like a restraining order for me, Grayson, Jameson, even Xander here.”

    By the end of my little speech, with my eyes constantly trained on her face, I could tell I struck a nerve. Surprisingly, Xander said nothing and didn’t react at all to my last statement, just let it be even though I could tell that from previous interactions there was still some kind of connection he had with her. Any smugness had left her expression and irritation had taken its place though she would look placid to anyone else. However, she had a tell, her cheek lightly twitched and despite her effort to remain neutral, her mouth that was drawn into a thin-lipped smile, quivered ever so slightly. I had managed to annoy her. Good, she deserves it. It’s the least she does. Despite my lips threatening to reveal a traitorously victorious smirk, I maintained my innocent guise. I covered my mouth with a hand, in mock apology, “Oh, I’m sorry, was that too much? Whoops, I must have taken it too far this time, I didn’t mean to be so inconsiderate. Accept my deepest and sincerest apologies, but you know what ladies?” I stood up, brushed my skirt and straightened my blazer, and put my hands together. “I think it’s time for me to be going. Xander, my favorite Hawthorne, I’ll see you at home. “ I patted him on the back before turning back to the girls and putting a hand to my chest, “As for you two, I look forward to seeing you the next time around. It was such a pleasant surprise to bump into you, I’m sure we’ll have many more wonderful conversations like this one, isn’t that right, Thea? Really, I truly do anticipate with excitement what bullshit you’ll come up with next. Farewell and have a good afternoon.” I saluted them and walked away from the table, a sway in my step, leaving them to their affairs. There were better things to do, namely a bet to win and a Hawthorne to beat. Although, I’m sure Jameson would have been proud and even though I tried to push away any and all thoughts related to him and that crooked smile of his, a small grin tugged at the corners of my mouth anyway. It was a good day to be a winner.

#avery kylie grambs #mad avery on fire #thea calligaris #chaotic neutral thea #two can play this game #part 2 of the art of war #the hawthorne legacy #the inheritance games

[ammg-old2]

The west coast of Ireland is famed for its wave-beaten shores and bare, stony mountains, where only a few stunted trees grow in hollows and valleys, bent by harsh storms blowing in from the North Atlantic.

The coastline, with its cold, clean winds and ever-changing skies, gives an impression of unspoiled, primal nature. In 2014, the Irish government designated a 1,550-mile tourist route along the coast, and called it “The Wild Atlantic Way.”

Yet, where generations of painters, poets and visitors have rhapsodized about the sublimity of nature and the scenic Irish countryside, ecologists see a man-made desert of grass, heather and ferns, cleared of most native species by close-grazing sheep that often pull grasses out by the roots.

As climate change threatens even more ecological disruption, a growing Irish “rewilding” movement is calling for the restoration of the native forests that once covered these lands, both as natural machines to capture atmospheric carbon, and to preserve and extend what remains of Ireland’s dwindling biodiversity.

Rewilding, the practice of bringing ravaged landscapes back to their original states, is well established in Britain, where numerous projects are underway. For Ireland, this would mean the re-creation of temperate forests of oak, birch, hazel and yew that once covered 80 percent of the land but now — after centuries of timber extraction, overgrazing and intensive farming — have been reduced to only 1 percent.

For some, rewilding began with a personal choice.

In 2009, Eoghan Daltún, a sculpture restorer, sold his house in Dublin to buy 33 acres of gnarled oaks and rugged hillside on the Beara Peninsula in County Cork, in the far southwest. Where local farmers had once raised a few cattle and sheep, he erected a fence to keep out feral goats and sika deer, two nonnative, invasive species that nibble undergrowth and saplings down to the roots, and kill older trees by gnawing away their bark.

One day in late spring, with the wind driving rain off the foaming ocean, he proudly showed off the results. Wood sorrel, dog violet and celandine were already in flower beneath the twisted branches of mature oak and birch, thickly draped in mosses, ferns and epiphytic plants. New shoots of oak, hawthorn and ash pushed up through the grass and dead ferns.

“The sheep and deer would eat those little saplings before they even started on the grass, so when the old trees eventually died, there’d be no new ones to replace them,” said Mr. Daltún, who wrote about his experiment in “An Irish Atlantic Rainforest,” a memoir. “But the native forest is returning here, all by itself. I don’t have to plant anything.”

Ireland has committed to increasing the total proportion of forested areas to 18 percent by 2050, from 11 percent currently. Yet this would still be well below the European Union average of 38 percent, and most of it would consist of commercial spruce and pine plantations that make up more than 90 percent of Ireland’s current woodlands.

Grown to be harvested within 30 to 40 years, these nonnative conifers are treated with chemicals that pollute groundwater and rivers. Ecologists say little can grow on a forest floor carpeted with dead needles and a desert for insects and native wildlife. And much of the carbon they store is released again when they are harvested.

It would be better for biodiversity and carbon sequestration to pay farmers and landowners to grow native trees and leave them unharvested, according to Padraic Fogarty, the campaign officer for the Irish Wildlife Trust. He cited the example of Costa Rica, which has reversed the Central American trend of deforestation by paying farmers to preserve and extend the rainforest.

Ray Ó Foghlú of Hometree, another rewilding organization, believes farmers could be paid not to plow or graze strips land that border remaining pockets of native woodland — often only a few trees and bushes — that cling to inaccessible hillsides or in the awkward corners of fields. Biologically rich, these microforests would, if left to themselves, quickly recolonize neighboring areas, Mr. Ó Foghlú believes. He himself recently bought nine acres of “scrubland” — home to sessile oaks (Ireland’s national tree), hazels, wood sorrel, blue bells and anemones.

“I pinch myself still that I own it,” he said. “It has a river running through it, and I can’t believe it’s mine, for the price of a second hand car these days.”

Irish rewilding enthusiasts look enviously at the highlands of Scotland, ecologically very similar to the west of Ireland, but where the concentration of ownership in the hands of a few hundred aristocrats and magnates allows rewilding at much greater scale.

Ecologically minded figures like the Danish billionaire Anders Holch Povlsen, Scotland’s largest private landowner, with 220,000 acres, can clear deer and livestock from tens of thousands of acres, allowing native growth to quickly regenerate. Eradicated native species, notably the European beaver, have also been reintroduced to Scotland to restore ecological balance.

In Ireland, where the average farm size is 83 acres, such large-scale rewilding would seem to be unfeasible. The big exception, so far, has been in the unlikely setting of County Meath, in the flat, highly fertile and intensively farmed east of the island, and in the unlikely person of Randal Plunkett, a New York-born filmmaker, vegan and death metal enthusiast.

Since Mr. Plunkett — better known, to some, as the 21st Baron of Dunsany — inherited his 1,700 acre ancestral estate in 2011, he has cleared it of livestock and left one-third to revert to unmanaged forest, complete with a wild herd of native red deer.

“Biodiversity is expanding dramatically,” said Mr. Plunkett, 30, standing in thick woodlands humming with bees and other busy insects. “At least one species has returned every year since we started. Pine martens. Red kites. Corncrakes. Peregrine falcons. Kestrels. Stoats. Woodpeckers. Otter. We think there’s salmon in the river again, for the first time in my life.”

One of his forebears, Sir Horace Plunkett, pioneered modern, industrial farming in Ireland early last century, encouraging small farmers to set up cooperatives and to mechanize their operations and use fertilizers and chemicals. Today, Randal Plunkett says, not everyone in this rich farming area is happy about his decision to abandon intensive agriculture, or to ban all hunting on the estate.

“It’s safe to say I’m not popular with the hunting crowd,” he said. “I’ve had death threats.”

Rewilding has its opponents. Ireland’s influential agribusiness lobbies are economically and culturally suspicious of suggestions that farmland should be allowed to revert to what they traditionally derided as “scrub.” People will always need food, they point out. In more marginal areas in the uplands and west, farmers argue recent regulations have reduced the numbers of sheep they can graze per acre, and that removing them altogether would harm existing biodiversity.

“If you leave an area ungrazed and unmanaged, you leave an area that’s at risk of being burned,” said Vincent Doddy, the president of the Irish Natura and Hill Farmers Association. “I think cattle and sheep are the most cost effective way of managing the land.”

Even on poor soil and small farms, where livestock production is sustainable only through government grants and second jobs, the title of farmer is still prized beyond its cash value.

“You’d have some of them who’d say, ‘Sheep are a part of my family tradition, and my identity, and it’s what I want to do,’” said Mr. Daltún, who himself keeps some cattle on his 33 acres. “But others would see the benefit of being paid for looking after the land, and letting it regenerate, and to have time to focus more on their other work or business.”

#current events #environmentalism #ecology #agriculture #rewilding #ireland

[kontextmaschine]

Neighborhood has exactly the right mix of small properties to open things in, medium properties to adaptively reuse for a decade then turn over, and big auto-service or for-construction-crews-to-pick-up-going-to-the-job retail (tile, carpet, plumbing fixtures, countertops, landscaping) that can turn over big intact plots for 4-over-1s, this area is really gonna be the future, won't stall out like the closer Eastside like Belmont and Hawthorne where you've got to go narrow plot-by-plot cause there's like one store in the middle with 4 apartments on the 2nd floor whose owner juuuust doesn't find selling out worth it vs. that rent

#karafuto and friends

[coffeybush62]

Many folk are fair non well-to-do shopping online. The reasons for this diverge. But, piece at that place are many reasons that not everyone has jumped onto the online shopping bandwagon yet, on that point are precisely as many reasons that everyone should. Online shopping offers a buying have same no other, and it is really handy. Maintain meter reading to find oneself taboo Sir Thomas More.

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[holidayhunteraust]

St Georges Anglican Church - the legend of the “ghostly bride”

The Story of St. George’s Anglican Church in Mount Wilson

The Church’s History

St. George’s Anglican Church is a small church located in Mount Wilson. It was built in 1913 as a memorial to Henry Marcus Clark, who lived in Mount Wilson for only three years before his death. Clark was a man of innovative spirit and had a significant impact on the village. He transformed Balangara into Sefton Hall and installed the petrol-vapour lighting system from his city store in Sefton Hall. He also constructed a high lookout in his garden and connected his property to the post office at Mount Victoria by telephone in 1912.

The Need for a Church

Despite the early families on the Mount being staunch Anglicans, there was no church in the area. Services were held in private residences, and the school doubled as a place of public worship. The Anglican clergyman from Mount Victoria occasionally visited to nurture his reclusive Mount Wilson flock. Clark expressed his wish for a church in the last years of his life, and in 1913, St. George’s Anglican Church was built.

The Church’s Setting

The church’s setting was magical and fitting for the lost world image projected by Mount Wilson. The car glided silently and slowly through an avenue of stately elms and spreading chestnut trees. Fields of pure white English daisies formed a carpet of snow, and fragrant scents wafted from hedges of hawthorn and sweet briar. The fascination with this veritable Garden of Eden induced an illusion of being shifted in time and place.

The Church Today

Today, St. George’s Anglican Church is included among the parish responsibilities of the rector at St. Aidans in Blackheath. On the afternoon of the second Sunday of every month, the sounds of the Anglican liturgy blend appropriately with the old world memories that survive in this special part of the Blue Mountains.

#youtube

[xdeadxpoetx]

Therapy session 1.

Streetlights glowed in the dimness of dark clouds, and small droplets of rain tapped against his windshield only growing heavier at the speed of his car. It was Wednesday which meant therapy day the day he already loathed and would never look forward to but if he wanted to be better for Lowen he’d do something to try and cement the deep cracks within his heart. Getting there wasn’t the problem but getting his body inside the building was. He hotboxed his car the whole way, taking a spin around the block a few times to air out the clouds of smoke pouring out the windows. He hated the old building, the tacky faux panel wooding in the waiting room only made him antsy and they didn’t have anything good to read last time. Not even the expired magazines could dress up its 1800’s vibe. He could feel the anxiety creeping up the back of his throat. This was the first day they’d uncover some truths about the broken home he’d come from. Honey orbs peek up into the rearview mirror only seeing the glow of his own hazed-over eyes looking back at him. Weed was mild to what he’d typically used to hide the whirlwind of emotions he’d chained down over the years. The visine was always hidden in the sunglass holder above his head, two drops in each would do the trick. Opening the car door, his feet felt heavy like they’d been tied to cement bricks with every step he took. The office Eden went to held several small offices with no desk or receptionist to guide you in which way your destination was, forcing you to walk down empty halls to search for the right one. Passing many closed doors until he passed by one that had the television blasting, something about addiction and how you never “need” it -  you just want it.  He couldn’t help but feel like the world was mocking him with subliminal messages. Reaching unit 4B he stepped inside it smelled stale. “Mr…” the doctor said rounding the corner and peeking over at the appointment sheet “Hawthorn? Mr. Hawthorn.. I’m Dr. Meile and Antonio, my receptionist will be right with you” the gray-haired woman he now knew as his therapist greeted him, it was and only his first official appointment where they’d get into things. He couldn’t expect her to remember him. “Please have a seat around the corner in the waiting room, he will come to grab you in a moment.” With a nod Eden headed for the oddly empty waiting area, the wood paneling decorated with only one painting that looked like they’d found at a dollar store painted and a map that was supposed to be of the world back in pilgrim days with ships sailing south. The carpeting is an off-grayish white with black tiny diamond shapes accompanied by multiple stains from who knows what or who. The only furniture in the room had been different types of chairs: two auburn round chairs, two PTA meeting black canvased chairs, a dark brown wooden chair, and one olive plump chair that was facing down the hall where he could watch who came in and who went out. The long wooden table beside him held a magazine about historical sites around town, a magazine that expired four years ago and a book that read ‘Frederick Douglass Prophet of Freedom’ by David W. Blight was a new one.  Picking up the book he checked out the cover and began to read the back to see what it was about. “You’re not going to read it but it’s cute that you’re acting mildly interested” He looked up seeing himself sitting across in the auburn chair in the corner “Anything to distract your mind hm? We both know we don’t care for reading and that book has no pictures.” - “Shut up” Eden mumbled under his breath setting the book back on the table as another inked hand-picked it back up now opening the pages ``Even if we did read, it wouldn’t be a biography, too careless to educate our minds.” a laugh that sounded like his own echoed as another version of him took the book and closed it “Freedom is a cruel joke, you and  everyone else knows it deep down.” Soon all six chairs were filled with him picking at himself. Eden focused on the tiny waste bin across with the trash bag overflowing its sides just trying to shut off the voices of his anxiety that picked at him. The more he focused on the trash the more symbolic it seemed, the bin’s bag overflowed the sides and they stuffed it with garbage kind of like how his parents stuffed him with trauma, neglect, and bullshit despite the holding capacity and Eden kept it bottled down waiting for someone to show him how to get rid of it. “Nah, you’re just stoned, we know you’re actually just trash” the intrusive voice mocked. “Mr. Hawthorn?” the male’s voice rang pulling him out of the void he’d fallen into “It’s actually an easy read and gets your brain thinking. I’ve never been into history or biography but I highly recommend you read it.” The receptionist implored “I like the cover” Eden responded and followed him to the back, Antonio offered him water or soda to make the season feel less uncomfortable. “Good luck,” the male said, closing the door behind him, Eden’s eyes watching the space between the door and the frame disappear. He felt trapped and wanted to run but the weight in his feet kept him in place. To be continued.

#drabble

[wizteamincil]

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3. Have a picnic at Butler Park - Butler Park is one of the largest and most popular parks in Lake Forest. It's home to a playground, a basketball court, and acres of green space perfect for picnics and relaxation.

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[everlarkficexchange]

Unmasked ~ Twenty-Nine

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death. 

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange​ for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. 

Dear readers, I have neglected our game to assist you in figuring out my identity. We continue with this chapter, for those who still wish to play. The same guidance applies. At the end you will find a clue that will lead you to a word. Collect the words and save them for future use. We draw close to the end; only a handful of chapters remain and then all will be revealed.

Please enjoy the twenty-ninth chapter of this adventure.  Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 29 ~~

I am a swirling confusion and a fog of need. My mind feels separate from my body as I make my way carefully inside and upstairs to our rooms. Peeta is not there yet. I return downstairs, bathe, and then prepare for bed, all in such a daze. As I dismiss Mary for the evening, I settle on the floor before our fire, brushing my damp hair. 

The window is open, admitting a fragrant spring breeze, fresh with rain and new blooms. And still my thoughts do not clear.

Not until Peeta enters the room with a sigh, leaning back against the door and watching me. His blue eyes are deep, dark gems in the firelight.

“Should morning not come and we were stuck in this room for eternity… I think I might be happy,” he states and I smile but turn to the fire.

“Until I go into childbirth.”

He laughs lightly and makes quick work of disrobing. “Even then, I think I could find it in my heart to feel complete joy with the company.”

“Mother was not overly demanding, was she?”

“No she needed to discuss some of our lessening stores of medicines, and then I was needed to help with a burn in the kitchens, and Doctor Aurelius sends word that he is ill and unable to accompany me tomorrow should anyone have need and – heavens I worry that his health is fading and I will be called upon to fulfill his duties sooner than I am ready.” 

“Was the infantry such a poor training for a doctor then?”

“There is a vast difference in the primary requirement. A bullet hole is easy to diagnose, if not so easy to mend. Disease is… far more meddlesome to diagnose and more elusive to heal. ” He finally settles on the sofa, removes his leg, and spreads a medical text on his lap, brow creasing in study. It is quiet and I continue to brush my hair, unwilling to interrupt him.

“After Mr. Hawthorne’s visit, I think I will need to make a trip to Capitol,” he says some time later. 

I hum in answer, brow furrowed as I mull over Madge and Johanna’s predicament. I’ve still no way to know what to do or if I should do anything at all. I wish to discuss what I saw and heard in the stables with Peeta, but do not know if doing so amounts to a betrayal of their confidence in me – or at least Madge’s – because I was not supposed to see nor hear their tryst tonight. 

“Katniss?”

“Yes?” I ask rather testily, looking over at him. He gives me a wry smile.

“I knew you were not listening.”

“Of course I was. You said you would go to Capitol after the Hawthornes’ visit.”

“Yes, and I also said I would be making the trip to reenlist. In the infantry.”

“Fine then. I was not listening.” I glare at him and toss aside my brush. He shifts aside his books and comes to sit behind me, taking up the brush and the task. I relax into his touch. Into the comfort of being taken care of by someone who loves me. “Will you be gone long?”

“Hopefully not. I only wish to speak with a few professors. Perhaps sit an exam or two, to show them my progress. I would not want to miss the birth of our child, so it will need to be soon,” he murmurs and begins to braid my hair, the tips of his fingers tickling my scalp. My own fingers seem to adopt the motions, caressing lightly over the worn flesh where his left leg ends.

“Make it as swift as possible, then.” I feel as though water had replaced all the bones in my body. I become a lump of comfort, wrapped in his attentions. 

“Will you miss me?” he whispers and I smile, my eyes drifting shut as his fingers now brush the nape of my neck and lower.

“Abominably. Who will massage my ankles when I become foul tempered?” He pinches my bottom and I squeak but lean back into his embrace for a short kiss to my lips. 

“I will make it swift then,” he promises and gently moves me away from him so that he can tie my braid with a bit of ribbon. The task done, he rests his hands on my shoulders and presses sweet kisses to the side of my neck. “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

My body tenses as I think on my choices.

“Is it this additional guest Mr. Hawthorne brings with him?”

“Tis unforgivably rude,” I mutter and glare at the fire as though it had invited itself into my home rather than being stuck there.

“He did give us nearly a week of notice and we have the room, with a few adjustments.”

“But a business advisor? Peeta, I am not sure I can bear the examination of my home in this manner.”

“We will face it as it comes, together,” he says and lifts our joined hands to kiss my fingers. “Shall I rub your ankles now or once we are in bed?”

“Should you study more first?” I ask with a look at his texts.

“I probably should, but I am so tired tonight.”

“Oh,” I say and bite my lip. I should not burden him with more of my troubles but…

“Is there something else we need discuss?” Peeta murmurs to me that he is never too tired to listen to me air my troubles.

Finally, I turn to him. “It is about Madge. And Johanna. They are…rather close…one might even say that they have become…” I cannot finish the thought but Peeta seems to understand, his face relaxing and his eyes lifting to the ceiling. He curses under his breath.

“I was afraid she might. I will talk to her, if you wish. Remind her of the differences in their stations.”

“Oh no, don’t do that,” I say and he stares at me. Blinks for a moment. My hand clenches into a fist and I stare at the carpet. I manage to tell him what I saw and some of my thoughts since then. “Do you think so low of me then that you believe I would judge my friend for her unconventional attachments?”

“To another woman? Or to a servant? Either would be cause for censure among many people,” he says and I lift my eyes to his. A sudden softening happens in the blue depths and I know. He understands. “But not to you. Nor to me.”

“Had circumstances been different, had you not been playing with Robert that day…” I say and swallow, “you would have been a baker.”

“You and I would never have met under those circumstances, Katniss. I would have been working in the kitchens somewhere, never to be seen and certainly not to be noticed by the gentile Miss Everdeen, to say nothing of loved by her.”

“I was never so wealthy as that. You think I would not have snuck into those kitchens for late night repasts? Come now, you know me better than that.” He smiles at this and twines our fingers together. “Or mayhaps I would have visited the house where you worked and been so enraptured by your creations that I would have insisted on an audience with the baker, that I might show my appreciation.”

“A highly improper flirtation or perhaps a tawdry affaire in the kitchens, then. For it could have gone no further.”

“Yes. Instead of hay in my hair it would have been flour spread over my thighs and breasts.” For a moment, his eyes darken as his gaze sweeps over me, clearly imagining such a sight. I laugh lightly at him.

I am not certain where we begin kissing, only aware of the feelings it evokes inside me. His arms hold me warm and secure, my fingers thread through his curls to keep him close. We part reluctantly and with soft gasps.

“However briefly our paths may have crossed, I am certain I would have been in your thrall,” I whisper. Then the desire lifts from his eyes and he shakes his head.

“It would never have been. I would have been terrified of you. Even as we are, I scarcely dared to hope such a one as you could love me until it had already happened, and truthfully, were I the baker instead of the bastard brother, I would have been too concerned that I would lose my post to be bold enough for an affaire.”

“Even for me?” I ask and feign a pout. Peeta laughs in my face and kisses me once more.

“Especially for you. That would have required a monumental amount of courage, my love.”

“You possess courage enough.”

“Perhaps I do, but the baker might not have.”

“Then, I suppose I would have had to be the one who was bold,” I say and lean in to kiss him. It is only a brief caress before my shoulders once more slump with the weight of dilemma. “What are we to do?”

“What do you wish to do? It is one thing to imagine a scenario where you, the landowning farmer’s daughter, would have fallen in love with the humble baker, but… odds are it is only that. A pleasant imagining. A comforting lie to think that no matter the circumstances, we would have found one another.”

“Do you not believe we would have? Do you not believe that love can overcome all obstacles? That this would have happened anyways?”

He shakes his head. “As much as I wish I could believe it, I cannot even find my own mother, Katniss.”

Guilt is swift and I think on his words a long time before resolve settles into my bones.

“Then that is my answer,” I say with conviction. “I wish to do whatever we need do to make it so that the widowed countess and the stable lad who is truly a woman in disguise being together is not a pleasant imagining, but a reality.”

“Have you spoken to Madge about this?” he asks and for a moment, I cannot meet his eyes.

“No…I confess that I am afraid to do so.”

“She is your friend. As long as you make it clear you wish to help and continue being her dear friend…”

“It is more than that,” I say and huff then shake my head. It sounds so terrible and yet it must be said. “She and I shared a bed many a time…for years. Even up until my wedding to you. It is a common enough practice amongst sisters and girl friends, meant to be a safeguard for our virtues, but if she feels physical attraction for other girls… Nothing… happened between us and yet when I saw her with Johanna, it… caused things…feelings…”

I am burning with shame as I look up at Peeta’s grinning face. “You were aroused.”

“I was not!”

“Why the indignation?” he asks. “Careful of your answer, for it will reveal much.”

“I am a married woman!” I protest and thump his chest. “A faithfully married woman!”

“Ah,” he says, positioning me to straddle his lap, cumbersome belly and all. “So then it is not disgust that upsets you, but the implication that your arousal at watching two people engaged in an amorous embrace might make you unfaithful to your poor husband?”

“That was…part of it…” I trail off as he kisses along my throat. “And you are not poor.”

“No, I am not. I am excessively wealthy in life.” His hands wander beneath my shift and find me already damp with arousal. I squirm in his hold, cheeks flushed. “And the other part that upset you… Oh Katniss, my love… there is nothing strange about what you felt. You witnessed an arousing sight and so you were aroused. It does not mean you harbor a secret attraction to either Madge or Johanna. And even if Madge felt desire or love for you in the course of your friendship with her…she now has Johanna. You will not hurt her in loving me.”

I stiffen at his words, at how precisely they capture how I feel. Yet, the stiffness passes almost as quickly as I am filled with relief. Relief that he understands. Relief that he is not disgusted with any of us. Only then am I truly able to enjoy the feel of his kisses.

It is some time later, when I am draped across the bed, having finally recovered my breath but not my ability to move my legs, Peeta’s head resting alongside my belly his hand absently caressing over my thigh, my fingers combing through his wild hair that I know he’s right. I must speak to Madge. Soon. No matter how much I dread the conversation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is, of course, the great paradox that as soon as you know you must speak to your dear friend…you are unable to. 

All is in chaos from the moment of waking. Last minute preparations for the arrival of our guests begin as soon as the breakfast plates are cleared. I am about to climb a chair to help repair some of the draperies in the hall when Peeta finds me and makes a sound of protest, gesturing towards my stomach and pulling me gently away from the chair.

“Do you wish to induce early labor or cause harm to the babe?”

“I am perfectly capable of completing a simple task without injuring myself.”

“I found you on your back in the mud when we first met. Be careful what you claim to be perfectly capable of,” Peeta says, his cheeks turning red and his voice raspy. His anger stirs my own and I scowl at him.

“Are you suggesting that I cannot–”

“I am suggesting you use better judgement,” he says and takes my hands in his. I attempt to extricate them, furious at being ordered about, but give up when I feel his fingers tremble around my own. “Katniss, please. What if you had fallen?”

There is no anger in his voice now, only worry, and palor beneath his skin. I suddenly feel rather guilty for my actions and my words.

“You would attend me,” I whisper and rest one hand on his cheek.

“I am grateful for your faith in me, my love. I would prefer you not test it so. Not today.” He seems so worried that I cannot deny him and ask Horatio to see to the task before turning back to Peeta.

“Better?”

“Yes,” he breathes and I drop my gaze to the floor. It is then that I notice his boots, and the gloves he dropped on the floor before touching me.

“You are dressed for riding.”

“Martin Farrow sent word that his wife has gone into childbirth. A fortnight too soon.” His concern suddenly makes sense as I snap my head back to look at him.

“And Dr. Aurelius is indisposed.”

“I must beg your forgiveness for abandoning you to the preparations, my love. And also for taking your mother with me, Katniss. I am so sorry. I know we have guests–”

“I will be fine. Mr. Hawthorne and his companions are nothing I cannot handle. As long as I climb no more chairs.”

“Yes, please do not,” Peeta laughs and embraces me, kissing my hair and whispering that he loves me. It is then that I realise he is afraid. Of what, I am unsure. I dare not ask him to tarry and explain. We will have tonight to discuss it.

Tarry we must, though. As I walk to the door with him to see him off, a shout goes up.

“Ho there! Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. A word if you please!” The man shouts from a fair distance as he walks up our lane.

“It cannot be the Hawthorne party at this early hour,” I grouse and quickly wipe my hands on my apron to meet the new arrival. 

“No and they would not be walking on foot,” Peeta adds.

The figure approaching on foot is familiar, and as I place who it is, I sigh. “Damn.”

“What is it?”

“Father Crane approaches,” I tell Peeta and he too curses. I hurry to the door and call for the person I need. “Sae… take Maysilee and Miranda upstairs. Tell my mother that she and Mr. Mellark will be delayed a moment in leaving.”

I then exit the door to greet Father Crane. I have a suspicion his visit is to do with Miranda and what happened in the gardens yesterday. No doubt he is here to defend his boar of a son, the youngest of five, all of whom run rough shod over the entire area. The oldest of which made attempts at courting me when we were much younger. I shudder at the memory of the vulgar poem that came right before the fire, and the speed with which David Crane ceased his suit afterwards.

But it is not youthful poetry that concerns me, it is a broken toy and a curse muttered in anger. As much as I applaud Miranda for defending herself, such an act will no doubt have consequences. Consequences that march now down the lane towards us. Would that we were free to speak our minds fully, I might throw a shoe at the preacher and curse him as well. 

But…all is not dire. I stand beside my husband as he waits with me.

“Should you not depart?”

“Not yet, I think,” Peeta says and grasps my hand to link our arms together. And even though I do not look forward to this audience, I am glad for Peeta’s presence beside me. He is quite deft at calming any situation that has the potential to boil over.

I cannot fly off in a temper with Father Crane, as much as I would like to. As long as he resides on Everdeen as the cleric, I must pretend to niceties and obedience. This is no highwayman waving a pistol and thus requires more subtlety to handle. Abominable to have to lie, to deceive, but likely necessary. Therefore, I roll my shoulders back and paste a smile on my face.

“Good morning, Father! To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Peeta calls out as he approaches at last.

“No pleasure, Mr. Mellark. I am here on the Lord’s business,” he huffs as he approaches the steps. His face is red and he pauses on the steps to wipe sweat from his brow, carefully folding his handkerchief and placing it in his pocket before he climbs the steps towards us. Together, Peeta and I drop into a genuflection.

“Welcome, then. Would you care for tea? Or perhaps lemonade,” I offer.

“Tea will be fine,” he says and we turn to lead him into the house. “What is the fuss about?” he asks, indicating the servants still hard at work in the hall.

“We are expecting guests today. Mr. Gale Hawthorne, his brother, and one more travels in their party,” Peeta offers.

“Ah, the new owners.”

“Not as yet,” I say, unable to keep the bite from my words, the reminder that my father is still alive.

“Hmmm. I should like to meet him while he is here.”

“I am certain you shall. They will be here for at least one Sunday and will no doubt attend church with us,” Peeta says. Father Crane makes a noncommittal noise and I manage a grateful smile for my husband. He somehow manages to be polite and ensure that Father Crane will get what he wants without my having to invite the odious man to dinner or some such thing. He would not dare rudely invite himself now.

I show him to the parlor and Peeta manages pleasantries until Nell, one of the kitchen maids, brings tea with a quick curtsy. I pour and pretend not to notice Father Crane watching her movements a little more than is seemly.

As soon as the maid is gone, Father Crane clears his throat.

“I’ve no wish to waste time, so I’ll get right to it. The girl, the one you brought here in winter, she cursed my boy.”

“Cursed him how?” Peeta asks, feigning ignorance or perhaps forcing Father Crane to speak the words aloud, in all their ridiculousness. I calmly add sugar and cream to the tea as needed, although I’d much rather dump it in the man’s lap.

“Does it matter? I’ve a responsibility to the souls of my congregation and the child is practicing witchcraft. I demand that you turn her over to me that I might convince her to reverse this dreadful deed and rescue her before she is completely lost to the devil.”

I have no intention of handing my daughter into his care. Not in a million years nor if the Rapture came this afternoon.

“Has anything befallen your son?” I ask.

Father Crane examines me at length, his eyes cold and his jaw working. He answers begrudgingly. “No, thanks to providence.”

“Then what exactly is your concern?” Peeta asks rather gently. Crane sputters.

“That is beside the point Mr. Mellark. These things may not have immediate results.”

“Oh,” I say rather innocently. “I would not know. I’ve no experience with witchcraft.” He stares at me and blinks before adopting a concerned expression, reaching across to pat my hands. 

“Of course not, my dear.”

“Because I do not believe such witches exist.”

Father Crane sneers at me and sips his tea.

“Your innocence in such matters is a credit to you, Mrs. Mellark. But I doubt that you want a child of the devil about when your own precious lamb arrives.”

He pointedly looks at my swollen belly. I cannot help myself. I place a hand protectively over the growing babe. Father Crane makes a noise of triumph in his throat and turns to Peeta again. He delineates all possibilities and Peeta listens, nodding as appropriate. When Father Crane has exhausted all his considerable advice, Peeta sets aside his empty cup and stands.

“Father Crane, I do thank you for sharing your wisdom on such matters and we will carefully consider your council.”

I stand and Father Crane thankfully has enough manners about him to stand as well, to gather his things as he insists that he only wishes the best for the souls under his keeping. We give him a promise to speak with Miranda about such behaviors and see him to the door.

My mother arrives then, a basket of supplies over her arm, my father helping her into a cloak. “Are we ready now, Peeta?”

“Yes,” he says, tugging his gloves on.

With a swift kiss to my lips, despite the presence of both my parents and several servants in the area, Peeta and my mother then depart. I fold my hands together and sigh, leaning against the house in a spot I know will afford me a view to watch him ride away.

He has already spent months with such a schedule as this. There are of course the regular visits amongst the servants and out to the tenants, and not just of Everdeen. Peeta has ridden as far beyond the borders of our land as he can manage in a day to see to patients. And yet this, him leaving with my mother beside him to deliver a baby, without the guidance of Dr. Aurelius… I am filled at once with a strange sort of melancholy, pride, and love.

But I’ve no time to savor it, I’ve details to attend, and a friend to lend my support. I turn back to the house to immerse myself in tasks only to find myself facing a panting and flushed Sae.

“Mrs. Mellark…I could not find Miranda. I’ve looked everywhere.”

A strange fear bubbles up inside me and I cast about for ideas on where she might be hiding.

“She must be about somewhere, check the stables,” I insist. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Sae departs. It is then that a flash of red and a blue dress emerge from behind a clock positioned near to the parlor. She flees upstairs even as I call out to her.

“Miranda!”

Her footsteps pound on the stairs and I hurry after her, muttering under my breath at how much slower I now am. How much more careful I must be with the babe altering my balance.

The door to her and Maysilee’s room slams. It takes a moment or two for me to catch up with her. I knock and then warn her.

“Miranda, I am coming in.”

The door opens easily beneath my hand and I gasp as a blanket is dropped over me. “Miranda!” I struggle free and scowl at her as she hides beneath the bed. I toss the thing aside and take a deep breath. More footsteps in the hall and Sae in the doorway.

“I heard you shouting.”

“I have found her,” I say and then send Sae away to see to Maysilee. Once more alone, I sigh and move towards the bed.

“Miranda, my love… what do you hope to gain with such a trap?”

“Are you going to send me back now?”

My heart breaks the instant she speaks. My knees buckle with the pain and I sit clumsily in the bedside chair. To have her first words to me be such a thing. 

“Heavens no! Miranda why would you think I would?”

“That man…the preacher. I don’t like him. But he said you wouldn’t want me once you have your own baby.”

“Oh Miranda, my dove. No. No, he was wrong, and I don’t much like him either. He thinks me rather wicked.”

“But you didn’t…you let him say it and didn’t correct him.”

“I know. I know, but I wanted to. Oh how I wanted to.” She sniffles and shifts beneath the bed. “But sometimes, we must pretend to believe things we do not, or behave in a certain way so that others do not hurt us. Like wearing a mask. Like you used to do at the orphanage sometimes.”

One small hand becomes visible to me as she moves again. The cat wanders out and leaps into my lap. Miranda does not call him back.

“What did you name your kitten, Miranda my dove?”

“Odysseus,” she whispers. “Like that poem you read to me.”

I hum and pet the cat. Of course. It has become one of her favourites for me to read to her. Slowly, she pulls her body from beneath the bed and stands before me. Dust has caught in her hair and her ribbons are undone. Her blue eyes downcast and sorrow on her face. I reach out and take her hand in mine, and she allows it.

“Now that you are speaking to us, I feel that I must ask…Do you want to return to the orphanage?”

“No!” she shouts and then shrinks back, softens her tone. “No. I… I thought we were to be a family.”

“We are a family,” I say and pat my knee, lifting the cat enough that Miranda may slide into my lap. I deposit her pet into her arms and brush back her hair. “I am not upset with what you said to that boy yesterday, but there are others who will be.”

“But I’m not really a witch. I can’t curse anyone!” she protests.

“No, but there are some who will believe you can. And the first time something dreadful happens to Jacob Crane…they will look to you to blame.”

“They’ll blame me even if I hadn’t cursed him,” she complains. “They did that at the orphanage, too.”

“They might. But I won’t.” Her eyes widen as she stares at me. “I will smile at every misguided soul who enters the parlour looking to have you punished when you’ve done nothing wrong. I will lie to them in whatever underhanded manner I need to protect you, and then send them on their way.”

“You will?”

“Yes, if that is what it takes to protect you, Miranda. I will be a merciless liar.”

She giggles at that and the sound warms me.

“Is that what you were doing today?” I nod and her giggles calm. “And Papa too?” For a moment, I am confused.

“Papa?” Miranda nods and curls into me as best she can.

“I know he said he is my brother but…he seems more like a Papa to me. Like your Papa is to you.”

I embrace her and kiss her wild tangle of red hair.

“Yes. Yes, Miranda, your Papa-brother will lie for you as well.”

“Mama?” she says and once more, my heart shatters inside me. With joy this time as tears line my eyes.

“Yes, my dove?”

“I am sorry for throwing the blanket on you.”

I hug her close and fight back my tears. “Oh my darling. I am not angry over that.”

A cough at the door catches our attention and I lift my head to see Madge smiling at us. “I hate to interrupt, but I believe lessons are about to resume in the school room.”

“Oh,” Miranda says. “Do I have to?”

I ignore Madge’s astonishment at the revelation of Miranda’s voice and turn to my daughter.

“Yes, you must. Learning is the most important task you now have before you. Madge, she will be right down.”

“Of course,” Madge says and then leaves in almost a daze.

“Now before you go, my dove, you must repeat after me. This is the most important lesson you will learn today.”

She blinks up at me and nods, determination to please shining in her eyes.

“My name is Miranda Mellark.” I wait and she takes a deep breath before speaking.

“My name is Miranda Mellark.” Such a beautiful sentence spoken in her calm voice.

“I am eight years old.”

“I am eight years old.”

“My home is Everdeen.” She dutifully returns each phrase I give her.

“My Papa is also my brother. We are twice bound together as family.”

“Somewhere I have a mother who wanted me to have a better life than what she could give me.”

“You’re my mother now, are you not?” Miranda interrupts the proceedings and I nod.

“If you insist… My second mother is Katniss Mellark.”

“My mother is Katniss Mellark,” Miranda says with a saucy smile that makes me laugh and kiss the tip of her nose.

“My parents are both marked by fire in their skin as I am in my hair.” She dutifully repeats the phrase, her fingers lightly touching my scarred shoulder.

“They love me from the roots of my flaming red hair,” I ruffle the already wild locks, “down to the tips of my witchy, twitchy toes–” I tickle her and she laughs, squirming in my hold until the cat makes an escape. “–and everywhere between.”

Miranda giggles at this and then turns sombre for the last line I feed her.

“So long as I remember who I am, and how I am loved, I will never need to wear a mask.”

Miranda curls close to me and we sit like that for a moment before a question can no longer be contained.

“Did you only bring me here because Papa and I are brother and sister?”

“No,” I tell her. “That may have been the reason we started with, but reasons can grow and branch into something new and change.”

“Like the flowers in the garden,” Miranda says. “Or the trees.”

“Yes,” I say. We sit there for too long, talking quietly. About why we brought her here, how we came to love her, and how that at least will not change when her new sibling arrives. We are neglecting her studies and my duties and yet I cannot bring myself to care.

Finally, when her questions have been exhausted for now, I send her on her way.

“One more thing, Miranda,” I say and she pauses in the doorway.

“Yes, Mother?” I may never tire of hearing her use that word.

“When he returns home tonight, Peeta will want to hear you speak.” She smiles and nods, then races down the hall with the exuberance of a child who is loved and cared for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The work continues. The day brings the warmth of spring sun and the drifting fragrance of early blooms in the garden, the mud coated laughter of men and women dancing on the breeze, heartened after the beginning of the planting. The end of the harsh winter brings promise, and yet, once I have dealt with Father Crane and Miranda, and half a dozen other issues, I cannot help but examine Madge’s downturned face for signs at every turn. It becomes apparent that we will have no time today for that talk, and I am desperate with worry for her now.

Is the pallor of her skin that of a sleepless night? Sleepless because she spent it in the arms of a lover in the stables? Or because she did not, and instead spent it thrashing in bed, doubting her choices and fearing her future.

I am tormented the entire day, catching the falseness in her laughter as she converses with several of the tenants. Bright spots of blush on her cheeks whenever Johanna is within sight, and once more I reel with questions.

Is it the blush of memory? The flush of a body sastfied and a passion sated? Or the blush of denial?

In the end, I’ve no chance to find out. The cry rises up, the sighting of an approaching cart. The luggage of the gentleman who even now make their way towards Everdeen. A pair of servants with the luggage is swift to distribute and settle in, to prepare for the arrival of their employers. All too soon, a carriage and a trio of horses in trail arrives.

I recognise the gentle brown with the white socks that Rory Hawthorne rides and Prim is quite occupied adjusting her dress and appearance.

“Will you cease? You look radiant,” I tell her and she blushes.

It is an annoyance to be greeting them at all, and I find myself wishing that Peeta were here. There has been no word from him or Mother as yet, and so I can only assume that the child has not yet arrived.

It tastes foul in my mouth, greeting the man with the potential to usurp my family, toss us all out on our rears with next to nothing. Miranda slips her hand in mine and I glance down at her. She is once more wearing the blue turban, but she stands tall and proud beside me to greet our guests.

No. Not with nothing, I realise. Mr. Hawthorne cannot touch our money. Cannot touch the love between Peeta and I, nor the child growing inside me, nor the one clinging to my hand. And even without Peeta beside me to say it again, I know he is right.

“It will be alright, Katniss.” He had said last night in our room.

I smile at Miranda now and give her an encouraging nod.

The carriage halts and Rory Hawthorne is the first to emerge, a bright smile on his face as he does. His eyes find Primrose first and, seemingly assured of her presence, he descends the step to greet me and the man standing beside me.

“Mrs. Mellark. A pleasure to see you once again,” he says warmly, with a gallant bow in my direction. “And this…”

“My father, Mr. Kent Everdeen,” I say and Papa grunts slightly as Rory’s eyes widen and his cheeks pinken.

“Sir, it is an honor. I was quite glad when Miss Everdeen wrote to me of your recovery,” he says and then stammers for a moment, realising his error in mentioning that he is a young man who openly corresponded with an unmarried girl, without her father’s permission.

“My girls made it quite easy, all of them capable of managing affairs so well that I am not certain I was needed or missed.”

“Papa, of course you were missed and are needed,” Primrose scolds and steps forward so that Rory may greet her now. He does so swiftly, almost awkwardly, and then turns to the two young men who have stepped from the carriage behind him.

The first is tall and lean, well turned out, his complexion dark and his hair darker. Even his grey eyes appear to swirl with an impenetrable darkness. The similarities make it clear that this is Rory’s brother. Mr. Gale Hawthorne. After so many months of hating him from a distance, I had rather fancied him a mustache twirling villain with pocked skin, perhaps greasy hair, or a bad form caused by gluttony and excess. Unfortunately, he is undeniably handsome in a way that would make all the ladies of an assembly scheme for his name on their dance card. He moves with a lithe sort of grace that reminds me of a panther. He gazes over the facade of the house as one examines a meal. His chin turned up in arrogance and certainty.

Already I hate him.

The second man is far more amiable in appearance with bright green eyes and bright red hair beneath a jauntily cocked hat, freckles on his nose, bright pale skin. He is all brightness where his companion is dour darkness and brooding.

“Allow me, please,” Rory says and waves towards the two men in turn. “My brother, Mr. Gale Hawthorne. His business associate Mr. Darius Fremont.” They bow in unison and Rory turns to our party. “Now let me hope I do not err with so many names.”

He runs down the names from my father all the way to Maysilee without a single error. He has been paying attention to Prim’s letters and I can feel her excitement radiating off of her. I send her a small smile. Thus far, her suitor has acquitted himself admirably.

“I hope we will not inconvenience you, Mrs. Mellark,” Mr. Hawthorne states with a pointed look at my pregnant form.

“Indeed not,” I assure him and bite the inside of my cheek when a swift kick from the child nearly me makes me cry out in pain.

“Now I do not see Mrs. Everdeen, nor one who might be Mr. Peeta Mellark…” Rory states uncertainly.

“They were called to attend to a woman in childbirth,” Primrose explains and invites the gentlemen into the house. “They will hopefully join us for dinner, so long as the babe cooperates.”

“Your husband is a midwife?” Mr. Hawthorne asks me. The air shifts in a subtle manner at the veiled insult within the folds of his tone, as if being a midwife were somehow shameful.

“My husband is studying to become a doctor,” I explain. “And as such, he is respectful of the knowledge and experience that a midwife and healer, such as my mother, can impart to him.”

Prim laughs nervously and Madge asks Rory how their journey was as we enter the house and servants are called upon to guide guests to their rooms. I abscond to the study and immerse myself in work. I will need to be charming and pleasant for dinner tonight and so I will need time to myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am given very little respite as, before long, my father interrupts me. “Katniss, I hate to interrupt, but Mr. Hawthorne wishes to see the estate.”

“It is late. Can it not wait until tomorrow?” I ask then snap my mouth shut as the impertinent prat himself enters the room.

“In all likelihood it could wait,” he says. “But I am never one to wait for tomorrow when a task could be completed today. Such a habit smacks of laziness.”

I believe he just called me lazy. Wonderful start.

“Very well then. I shall order the cart prepared. Shall you ride along or exercise your mount, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“A good ride is just the thing,” he states and I curtsy before hurrying from the room to see to the arrangements.

It only takes a moment to wait for the cart to be prepared, yet it feels an eternity. Noise from the stables draws my attentions and I enter to find Mr. Hawthorne examining Sagittaria, Johanna holding her by the bridle.

“And you exercise her daily?”

“I wouldn’t usually have to,” Johanna explains. “Except this fine beauty belongs to Mrs. Mellark.” I clear my throat to draw their attention.

“Mrs. Mellark, you have a fine horse here,” he clicks his tongue at her and Sagittaria snorts at him in protest. “Quite free spirited. Have you any trouble handling her?”

“None,” I say.

“And she only one of several fine mounts in your stables.”

“None of which are to be part of the estate,” I remind him and he eyes me for a moment before Mr. Hawthorne finally unhands my horse. Johanna has turned away to hide what I suspect to be laughter.

“Your conveyance awaits, Mrs. Mellark,” Rory declares as he pauses in the doorway to bow at me. “If you can tear yourself away from the horseflesh, Gale.”

I sweep past Rory and only vaguely hear him mutter that Gale is forever distracted by horses and spent nearly their entire childhood in the stables or in the saddle.

Father hands me up onto the box and then Primrose. He hands me a list for the cargo loaded into the rear of the cart. “He might as well see exactly what is involved in maintaining the place,” Father says and I nod. 

“At least this will make it not be a waste of a trip.”

“Good girl. Chin up, Firecracker.” I smile at him as Madge emerges from the stables atop Diablo, Gale Hawthorne beside her on an unfortunately equally impressive black stallion, already engaging her in what appears to be a lively discussion of horses. Rory and Mr. Fremont follow on their own horses. 

We are a strange party. I wish that I could claim that I held on to my ire for longer, but I unfortunately do not. It is difficult to be cross with such beauty and natural delights to behold. As always, Everdeen, my home, awash in her spring glory, easily brings a smile to my face and a lightness to my heart.

“It is a fine view, is it not?” Prim asks and I turn to catch her smiling at Rory before dropping her gaze bashfully.

“It is indeed, Miss Everdeen. A most refreshing view.” His horse skips a few lengths away and I nudge my sister with my elbow.

“Have a care, Prim. The poor man will likely be befuddled with love before the day is out.”

“Oh I do hope so,” she breathes and links our arms. “You do not despise him still?”

“No, I think not. He appears to be kind and sensible…and smitten with you,” I tease and she curls into me. “And there is something to be said for his constancy in writing to you for such a long time now.”

Mr. Hawthorne asks a great many questions as we follow the roads. Tenants greet us as we deliver the items in the cart and collect items in trade. Time is spent sharing news and well wishes. Mr. Hawthorne watches it all with a critical eye.

“You seem eager to acquire Everdeen,” Madge remarks at one point as I carefully guide the horses and cart through a rather large section of muck in the roads.

“I had thought to auction it off in pieces, but my most recent business venture was such a success that I am considering retaining the estate and doing the same with it.”

“And that would be?”

“Improving it, turning it into an exemplary farm.”

“You find it deficient thus far?” I ask and he brings his horse to ride beside me.

“I find it mediocre, Mrs. Mellark, as many an estate that handed down through generations of a single family tend to be. The expectancy of inheritance dulls any feelings of ambition, the desire to make improvements and so many estates are left to languish or fall into lethargy, disrepair when they could be thriving.”

“Where exactly was your last venture?” I ask instead of contemplating his other words. Unless I am mistaken, though, the question brings a blush to his cheeks.

“Mining. Copper in North Panem and diamonds abroad.”

“Diamonds? Truly?” asks Prim. She turns to Rory with a smile. “Did you try your hand at diamond mining, Mr. Hawthorne? You made no mention of such in your letters.”

“Rory turned out to have a nose for it. At least for the diamonds. He would not admit such a thing to you, as he is far too humble,” Gale states and I refrain from stating that humility is clearly not a family trait.

“So then your experience is not at all in farming.”

“No, yet it does not seem so complicated. A bit of seed, a touch of harvest. Nothing to it. Not nearly so complex as mining.”

“Oh it is far more complicated than that,” Madge says with a beatific smile. Mr. Hawthorne frowns at her.

“Have you farming experience? Were you not a countess?”

“I was but I am no longer.”

“Surely a countess can afford to pay others to do her farming for her,” Mr. Hawthornes says and Madge’s cheeks flush brightly.

I steer the conversation back to how exactly Hawthorne intends to improve my home and how successful mining could possibly translate to successful farming.

“The trick was the workers,” Mr. Fremont explains. “They were underfed, underpaid, needing medical care in some cases. Gale provided those things and the investment turned into a success shortly after.”

“Tis only human decency. How can one expect a man to do anything well if he is starving or otherwise maltreated? Generations of inheriting what amounts to the livelihood of people, of expecting an unholy amount of sacrifice from so few.” Politics quickly enter the discussion and I am uncertain exactly how we ventured down this path. “There is a sense of entitlement that poisons the gentry and the nobility. It is what caused the war in France, part of what caused England to lose her colonies, and if we are not careful, Panem will follow next into turmoil and strife.”

“You are interested in preventing conflict then, Mr. Hawthorne?” I ask. “Would a mine that produces metal ares not profit from such a thing?”

“Of course it would, Mrs. Mellark, but the profits would be short lived. Panem only engages in brief skirmishes when pressed to do so by her allies. We haven’t the might to support an extended engagement such as several of our neighbors. Such a conflict would cause the owners of mines to further burden their workers with longer hours and higher expectations to produce. Conditions would turn from dire to bestial.”

Rory attempts to calm his brother’s rant, but it has little effect. “We are guests, Gale. No one wishes to discuss politics when there are such lovely sights.”

Darius has far better luck. “It helps that there are those willing to correct the transgressions of the past.”

“It may only slow the march towards internal strife but cannot stop it,” Gale states and then, thankfully, he does cease his talking, and yet he remains in a quiet sort of rage. For my part, I feel a strange sense of triumph. 

Mr. Hawthorne fancies himself a hero of the people, rescuing the common man from the indifference or even cruelty of the upper classes. He thinks to rescue the tenants of Everdeen from such a fate. What then would he think if he saw that those who live on Everdeen land are never mistreated nor left in the cold shadow of indifference. What would he think if he knew that the landed gentry who own Everdeen sweat and work right alongside her tenants, go without during lean years as do her poor.

It is with great joy that I conduct them about the estate and converse with several tenants. Handing out the goods my father sent forth, hearing complaints and rectifying any immediate problems that I can.

Eventually, we reach a row of houses that causes my heart to speed a little.

“The Farrow family lives here,” Prim remarks and I only nod. Peeta should be here. I spot Cicero first, tied in the shade of a lean-to next to Mother’s horse, Thistle.

“Great jehoshaphat. How does a tenant farmer have such a beast? May we stop?” Gale asks, not waiting for an answer before urging his mount forward at a faster pace.

“Mr. Hawthorne…” I begin and then a great screaming of woman in labor rises up from the walls.

“Oh! The babe has not yet arrived,” Madge announces unnecessarily. “We should continue on and leave them to it in peace.”

“Try telling that to Mr.Hawthorne,” I say and urge the horses to move faster.

As quickly as it rose up, the cries die down. As we approach, the door opens and Peeta emerges. His coat has been removed and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He moves with purpose to a water pump in the yard, filling a bucket with a handful of forceful pumps. Setting it aside, he then pumps more water onto his hands and quickly cleans them. Gale slows his mount near the gate and calls out to my husband just as Peeta splashes a fair quantity of water over his face and hair.

“You there. You reside here?” Peeta sputters and wipes his face clear then looks up at Mr. Hawthorne on horseback.

“Not directly. This is the residence of Martin and Kate Farrow,” Peeta says as I finally catch up to Gale and bring the cart to a halt. Peeta turns his eyes to mine with a strained smile. I can see he is weary, worried. The birthing must not be going well.

“And the new babe, husband? How fares the child?” I ask and Gale turns his mount a bit too sharply, forcing Peeta to step back. He maneuvers around the pawing stallion and passes through the gate towards me.

“Hopefully better now that we’ve turned them the right way. It could still be several hours though. I may miss dinner as yet.” 

Peeta grasps hold of the side of the cart, using only his arms and his good leg to pull himself closer to my height. He must be terribly worried and distracted to have snubbed Mr. Hawthorne so easily. Peeta’s gaze sweeps over me and I smile as I whisper to him.

“And you, my love? How do you fare?”

“Infinitely better now that I’ve seen you.” He places and hand over mine on the seat and gives my fingers an affectionate squeeze that I return. “Your mother insisted I take some fresh air before we continue. I should go and relieve her so that she may do the same.”

Mr. Hawthorne then clears his throat in a rather annoying manner.

“Might I trouble you for an introduction, Mrs. Mellark?” I scowl slightly at this. As a man of near equal rank to Peeta, he could introduce himself. But he is our guest and I am endeavouring to not anger him so I change my expression to a smile. Peeta blushes, properly chastised for his lapse in manners and once more lowers himself to the ground.

“Forgive me. My husband, Mr. Peeta Mellark. Or if you prefer to use his military title, although very few do, Captain Mellark, and quite soon it shall be Dr. Mellark. Husband, this is our prestigious guest, the illustrious Mr. Gale Hawthorne and his companion Mr. Darius Fremont. Oh and Mr. Hawthorne has a fondness for horses. He was ogling Cicero as we rode up. Perhaps you might show him off later.”

“Or now if your patients can spare you,” Mr. Hawthorne suggests.

Another scream rises up then and Peeta glances back at the hut. “I would be delighted to, but I’m afraid they cannot. I’ve tarried too long as it is.”

“Pity,” Mr. Hawthorne says and shifts in his saddle, tipping his head back to look at the sky.

“Perhaps later, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“We shall leave you to your task, then husband,” I say softly. Something strange flickers in his eyes as I lean towards him, presenting my hand to him, strangely needing one last touch before I depart, or perhaps it is that I sense Peeta needs it and would never ask me for such a thing, encumbered as I am with so many guests. 

He grasps my hand to gift me with a kiss on my fingers, despite the presence of our guests, and I know we will have much to talk about tonight. 

“I will see you back at home,” he tells me.

Such a simple phrase and yet as the spring breezes dry his hair, I cannot help but think of how far we have travelled together since our first meeting a year ago. I can only nod as he releases my hand, calls out a farewell to the rest of the party before he picks up the bucket of water and hurries back inside. 

As we set off again, Mr. Hawthorne continues to turn about and stare from whence we came until I become annoyed with it.

“I assure, Mr. Hawthorne, you will be granted an opportunity to examine Cicero. He is a remarkable horse and I am certain my husband will oblige.”

“Yes, Gale, she is certain her husband will oblige,” Mr. Fremont says. There is something strange in his tone and Gale clears his throat before turning his mount at last to point in the direction in which we travel.

I continue to act as a guide, pointing out various features of the land, explaining the crops we grow and so much more. At one point, a break in the trees along the roadside reveals one of my favorite sights of my home. And today… today it is beyond perfection.

“Oh,” Madge breathes. “I had forgotten how lovely this meadow is in the spring.”

I had not. It is a rolling sea of green grass, dotted throughout with vibrant yellow and orange blooms, and yet I see it now through different eyes a warm joy filling my breast as I run a hand over the swell of growing child. How I wish I could raise our children here for always. Since I am uncertain that I shall be able to, I intend to pluck joy from every moment that I can. I beg a favor of Rory and he is swift to dismount.

“Only one,” I beg and he moves carefully to not trample any before plucking one lush orange bloom and handing it to me.

“Will this suffice, Mrs. Mellark?”

“Perfectly,” I tell him and then continue the tour.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The word you seek this time is but one letter and found countless times throughout this chapter, indeed through every chapter, a crucial piece of every first person narrative.

To be continued…

#Springtime Edition 2019 #prompt 88 #M #late submission #submission

[taeken-my-heart]

Independent {f} Chapter 14

Summary: Your mom calls you stubborn, your friends call you wild, and the boys you’ve left in your wake call you a frigid bitch.  You’ve built a life of independence and you like it that way. Kim Taehyung, however; seems to be able to change your mind.

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Genre: fluff, mild angst

Word Count: 4648

Warnings: This chapter is just an angst fest, I’m sorry! Next chapter gets better, I promise!

**There is a read more linked but it doesn’t seem to be working and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m sorry! TT

                                                    *************

Spring semester was a misleading name. It indicated that it was going to be warm; flowers blooming, rivers and streams melting and warming, getting ready for the impending summer swim parties 

But this, no this was not spring; not yet, at least. A fresh 6 inches of snow greeted you on your reentry to university and after warm greetings to your housemates and giving Charlotte the gifts you’d brought her from Paris, it was back to campus to buy your textbooks and seek out your classrooms in preparation for classes the next day. 

Campus was busy with life, chatter from winter vacation high and the four of you trekked up to the center of campus where the bookstore was, syllabus and book lists in hand. Charlotte asked you all about Paris, insisting that you show her all your pictures and pouting after she’d seen them all. 

“I want to go!” She complained, stuffing her mittened hands into the pockets of her oversized grey coat. “I’m so jealous you got to see all those amazing things.”

“I thought of you the whole time,” you smiled, wrapping your arm around her shoulder and pulling her scowling face next to yours in a side hug as you walked.

The heat of the book store was almost sweltering compared to outside. There were too many bodies and not enough space, but you all needed to be here so there wasn’t much that could be done. Stomping your boots on the carpet and removing your gloves, you began weaving your way through the isles in search of the books listed on your phone. 

“I can’t believe I’m taking Molecular Biology this semester. I’m going to die.” Anna sighed beside you and you turned to raise an eyebrow at her.

“No one told you to go be a forensic scientist.” You teased and she stuck her tongue out at you. 

“You know what, I don’t need your logic.” She sassed. 

“So, what’s going on with Jin?” You asked, turning to glance at Sarah over your shoulder. She smiled; blush high on her cheeks. 

“He’s actually on a plane right now. He spent most of the vacation in California, but he got to spend a few days back home with family.”

“You know that doesn’t answer my real question,” you grinned, “you guys dating or what?”

Sarah laughed, shaking her head and sliding her fingers along a nearby book as a distraction. “Yeah, we started officially dating about a week ago.”

“Well finally!” You huffed, “everyone could see that coming from a mile away.”

“Oh stop!” Sarah blushed and you chuckled, scanning the row of books for the one you needed. H.B. Hawthorne, check. Grabbing the book, you tucked it under your arm and looked back at your list. 

“Go get your books, we’ll chat about this at home.” You waved Sarah off and she smiled, walking around the isle. 

Your class load this semester was a little more intense than last. It wasn’t that you had more classes than before, but that the credit hours were higher. You’d also added a few classes that were required of your major, but if you were being honest, you weren’t sure exactly what they were meant to cover. Like Virtual Form and Space. What even was that?

After scoping out the rest of the books you needed (and finding a basket to put them in because you were foolish enough to believe you could carry them all in the first place) you made your way to the front of the store to wait for your friends. 

Anna came back first, flipping through a page of one of her text books and you grimaced when she showed you the Solving Cold Murder Cases book in her hand. “Can’t believe you actually want to work with dead bodies.”

“To be fair, I want to work more in the lab with test results, but I’m keeping an open mind. Who knows what my true calling with be?”

“Not working with dead people; that’s mine.” You said, nodding firmly and Anna chuckled. 

“Good thing you’re studying Visual Arts.”

Just then you spotted Jimin and Jungkook walk through the door, shaking the snow from their hoods and your heart jumped into your throat. “Jungkook, Jimin!” You called and they both turned to look at you, Jungkook bounding over with a smile and a hug.

“Y/N!” He said, pulling back and Jimin followed behind him, rolling his eyes at his younger brother and chuckling. 

“Hey Y/N.” He said, giving you a quick hug.

“How was Paris?” Jungkook asked, pushing into your personal space and you laughed as Jimin smacked him away. He pouted over at him, rubbing his arm, before turning back to you. 

“It was absolutely amazing.” You said, a little shy from all the eyes on you now that Charlotte and Sarah had also returned. “Biggest adventure of my life. I learned a lot of really valuable lessons.”

“About photography?” Jungkook asked and you looked over at Jimin briefly before turning your gaze back on his over eager younger brother. 

“Yes, and about life.”

“Are all the same guys living together?” Sarah butt in, moving to stand beside you. 

“Yeah,” Jimin nodded, shaking some hair from his eyes, “but this is Jin’s last semester with us so we’re gonna have to find a new roommate next year.” 

“Well you guys should come over for dinner sometime this semester.” Sarah continued, “feels like forever since we’ve all hung out.”

“That sounds like fun!” Jungkook nodded enthusiastically. “This time we could bring something, too, like desert.”

Anna grinned, nodding, “I like the sound of desert!”

Jimin glanced down at his phone as it beeped noisily, lips stretching into a frown. “Ah, sorry to interrupt, but Kook, we gotta grab our books and hurry. We’re on a bit of a deadline.”

Jungkook nodded, eyes widening with understanding. “Ok, yeah. Well we’ll all have to plan something when the semester gets underway.”

You all nodded, exchanging goodbyes before the guys walked quickly into the rows of books to search for the textbooks that would rob their bank accounts of life. “Did everyone get everything they need?” You asked. 

At your friends nods of confirmation, you all worked your way up through the line, paying for your things and bundling back up for a cold walk back to the house.

                                                 *************

The first day of classes were brutal. One, because you were used to not going to classes and restarting an old routine was like whiplash. Two, because you’d made the terrible mistake of choosing an 8am class. There had been later times for this particular class, but they’d been with teachers you didn’t really like or they just didn’t fit into your schedule properly. 

Still, despite the fact that you’d chosen the class that was best timing wisely…it was a terrible decision. Your eyes were screaming from how tired they were as you made your way to the top of campus, scarf wrapped warmly around your face and the wind whipped slurries of snow off the ground and around your head. 

The campus was mostly barren of life, just a few freshmen trudging bitterly to their classes. The joys of being underclassmen. By the time you got to the top of the hill, you were sweating, an interesting juxtaposition to the winter storm raging around your cocoon of coat and scarf. 

You’d worn your coat from Paris wanting to look cute for your first day of school, but now you were realizing the errors of your ways. The peacoat was definitely more fashionable than practical. 

The warmth of the digital arts building was like a welcome hug and you breathed a sigh of relief, unwinding the scarf from around your neck and unbuttoning your coat as you made your way through the empty hallways and into your classroom. 

The professor was already there, unpacking her bag and swishing around the mouse to her computer, and so were a handful of other unfortunate souls. A.K.A, your classmates. 

You chose a seat relatively close to the front in an effort to encourage your attention. It would be more difficult to slack or doze off if the teacher could see you. You nodded a few bleary hellos at some friends you recognized from classes before, before unpacking your bags and getting ready to take notes. 

The class was mostly boring, but it was a quota you had to fill and led you to your 9:30 am photo workshop class, which was far more exciting. Lots of hands on, practical activities that got you into the nitty gritty of what you were even in university for. Because it was just the first day, you spent most of the class going over the syllabus and being introduced to the darkroom and equipment you’d be using over the semester. 

Your last class of the day, an 11am class, was a little more sedated, but you could see it picking up in the weeks to come, once the semester was really underway. The syllabus, at least, promised some exciting material you could work with. 

Your first week followed much the same way; settling back into routine and getting used to the teaching styles of new professors. You had noticed with a sinking feeling in your gut, that you had yet to see Taehyung and for a moment you worried that maybe he’d decided to drop out after all and stay with TTIG in California’s corporate grounds. 

A week to the day after school had once again begun, you found yourself back in the library. You finally had your first real assignment to do and you needed a quiet that your apartment wasn’t currently able to offer. Jin and Sarah were both in the living room, TV blaring while they studied together. You weren’t sure how they did it, but studying with that kind of noise made your ears bleed. 

You chose a desk near the stacks in the back, pulling your laptop from your bag and setting up comfortably behind the comfort of the wooden privacy the desk offered you. Popping in your earphones, you turned on your phone, switching to a station that played the sound of rain for 5 hours straight. A little monotonous, but it soothed you. 

You’d only been studying for around 30 minutes before suddenly needing to pee. You stood up, stretching your legs and making your way to the bathroom. After heading back out once you were done, you paused to glance down at your phone. Sarah had texted to ask if you wanted to go out to eat tonight and you smiled, replying quickly that you’d be done in the library around 4:30 and you’d be up for just about anywhere.

Sighing, you slid your phone back into the back pocket of your jeans before glancing up and freezing. Across the room and standing with a few friends you recognized from his study group last semester, was Taehyung. He’d clearly gotten a tan out in California, the honey glow of his skin making him look even more handsome than you’d remembered him. 

You wanted to go and talk to him, but with all the people around, you knew it wasn’t really the right time. You’d likely just have to go to his house at some point and ask to speak to him. Just as you were about to unstick your feet from the floor and head back to your desk, you watched, almost in slow motion, as Beth walked from around the corner, smiling and running to his side, linking her fingers with his. 

You felt like your heart was going to shatter as you watched him smile down at her before leaning in to give her a quick kiss. Your throat was burning, heavy with emotion. You’d waited too long. 

It had never occurred to you that maybe he would move on. You chastised yourself for even feeling this way; he wasn’t a possession and you were the one to shut him out in the first place, you didn’t really have a right to feel this way. Your heart wasn’t a great listener, though. 

Your eyes were blurry with tears and your throat felt like it was constricting around fire. You walked quickly to your desk, packing your things to go. Screw studying, there was no way you could allow him to see you like this. It felt selfish to cry over him when you’d been the one to ultimately give him up. The walk back to your house was frozen and miserable, your tears leaving icy streaks against your cheeks. If you’d told yourself 6 months ago that you’d be heart broken and crying over a man now, you would have wanted to throw up. Now you really did want to vomit, the emotion so intense as it clawed at the cavern around your heart. 

Slipping into the front hallway of your apartment, you could hear Jin and Sarah’s voices in the living room and you tried to compose yourself before going in. You really weren’t in the mood to divulge how much of a loser you felt you were. 

You tried to slip passed unseen, muttering a quick hello with your gaze focused on the door to your left, but you should have known better. Sarah knew you too well. 

“Y/N?” You could hear the alarm in her voice, hear the shifting of her clothing as she stood from the couch, “what’s wrong?”

You paused in the doorway to the kitchen, shoulders stiff as you willed yourself not to cry again. “Nothing.” You croaked, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration and clearing your throat. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t give me that.” Sarah scolded, coming to stand in front of you, pulling your chin up to look at her. “What happened?”

You couldn’t hear him or see him, but you knew Jin was sitting behind you on the couch and you wanted more than anything to not blubber your eyes out in front of the roommate and good friend of the guy who’d unintentionally broken your heart. 

“I saw Taehyung.” You mumbled, shrugging, and you could feel rather than see Jin’s eyes on the back of your head. 

“Did you talk to him or something? Was he rude?”

“No,” you shook your head and despite your best efforts, you were crying again, “I’m too late.”

“Come sit down!” Sarah insisted, fussing around you as she sat you on the couch, going to the kitchen to grab you something and you dropped your bag by your feet and buried your face in your hands. 

“I feel so stupid.” You cried and Jin scooted close to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and Sarah came back into the room, kneeling in front of you with a glass of water. “Did you know?” You asked, glancing over at Jin and his face fell.

“I’m guessing you’re talking about Beth?” He asked gently and you nodded, wiping the sleeve of your sweater across the top of your lip. He nodded, sadly, “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“How long have they been together?” You croaked.

He sighed, pulling his hands back into his lap, lacing his fingers together awkwardly. “Probably around 2 weeks now. She texted him all throughout his internship and they just really clicked.”

You felt like your heart might give out. It was like you’d been dumped, but you can’t really break up if you were never together, could you? “I just feel so sad.” You admitted, taking the glass from Sarah and twisting it idly in the circle of your hands. 

“It’s normal to feel sad.” Sarah said gently, “it’s not easy to let someone go when you care about them.”

The idea of letting Taehyung go made you feel sick to your stomach, insides churning. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath through your nose to calm the nausea. You turned to look at Jin and he looked so sad that you almost felt angry. You didn’t want to be the type of person who incited other people’s pity, it only made things worse. 

“Is he happy?” You asked and Jin squeezed his lips together, like he was trying to keep the words inside. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, “he’s pretty happy.” You nodded, standing and grabbing your bag, pulling it over your shoulder. 

“Good. I want him to be happy more than anything; he deserves it.” You walked quickly towards the kitchen before pausing and turning to look back at your friends. Sarah was still knelt on the floor, one hand resting on Jin’s knee as she kept her eyes trained on you. “Please don’t tell him you saw me…you know, crying.” 

Jin nodded, smiling softly up at you. “Promise.”

You spent the next few hours holed up in your room. Between the attempts at study and a few sessions of wailing into your pillow, you were exhausted. Mostly, you were upset with yourself. This was your own fault; you hadn’t been ready or willing to let him in and he’d moved on. You really couldn’t blame him for that. 

At the end of the day, you really did mean what you’d said to Jin. You wanted Taehyung to be happy. He was such a good guy, so deserving of the love he’d been seeking, even if you couldn’t be the one to give it to him. 

You wanted to be able to look him in the face one day and tell him you were happy for him. You weren’t there yet, but you knew someday you could be. He would just have to be a bittersweet memory that you learned from. Growth was pain and sometimes you really did just burn your bridges. 

Around 5:30 there was a knock at your door and you called softly for whoever was on the other side. Sarah opened the door, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Hey.” She said softly. 

You smiled up at her, index finger bouncing against the surface of your desk with nervous energy.

“We were thinking of going to Harvest tonight, grabbing some soup or something. You wanna come with?”

You shook your head, staring down at the carpet, toes digging into the time worn patterns. “I’m not really hungry.” You said. 

“Ok,” Sarah sighed, “you want me to bring you back something and just leave it in the fridge?”  You shrugged, scratching your fingernail across the top of your wooden chair. “I’ll get you your usual.”

You nodded and she walked across the room, kneeling down in front of you and pulling you into a hug. “I’m so sorry you’re sad.” She whispered, “the pain does go away, I promise. Try and focus on doing things that make you happy.”

You nodded, smiling down at her. “Thanks Sarah.”

After your roommates had left the house, you grabbed your camera, bundling warm into your coat, gloves, and hat, and making your way out into the evening. You needed a distraction. You wandered around aimlessly for a while, unsure of where to go. 

Small roads led to picturesque neighborhoods, icicles hanging from rain gutters and porch railings. You hated the winter, but it sure was beautiful. You snapped pictures here and there, fiddling with the settings and trying new angles. 

The sky was mostly dark, but where the sun had set was still a shadow of light blue and purple. You station yourself in between trees, aiming to capture the lighting just right. The stars above were shining despite the pocket of sunlight still left at the horizon and the picture itself was so beautiful that your heart throbbed a little. If only everything in life could be as awe inducing. 

The slush was beginning to seep uncomfortably into your shoes, but your feet had a mind of their own and you followed their guidance, making your way into a small clearance surrounded by trees, quiet and blocked from the lights of the school around it. 

The snow was pristine, beautiful in its natural state and you realized belatedly that this was the clearing Taehyung had brought you to back in November when you��d gone sledding. It was beautiful, fir trees lining the entire enclosure and you lifted your camera to take some pictures, breathing fog into the air. 

It was amazing the power a cluster of trees could have, blocking out the sounds of the outside world. You felt so far removed from civilization, despite being only a tree line away. It was likely a mistake, but you weren’t really thinking straight so you immediately let your knees buckle under you, plopping in the snow and laying back, letting your camera rest on your chest. 

You were wet and you were cold, but the sky was magnificent. Stars winking down at you from their spots in the universe. You sighed up at the view. It couldn’t fix any of your problems, but somehow, it gave you peace, allowing for a sense of hope to build in your chest. 

You weren’t sure how, but you knew things would be OK. Right now, your heart was aching, but you would move on. You’d missed your shot with Taehyung, but that didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be a shot with another guy somewhere down the line. You’d be ready for him when the time came. 

You stood slowly, shivering as your clothing, now wet with snow, sopped through to your skin. You needed to get home quickly and get warm before you caught a cold; it was maybe already too late to prevent it anyway. 

After returning home and taking a nice warm shower, you cuddled up into bed, listening to the sounds of your roommates returning from dinner. It wasn’t that late, but you felt too tired to stay up, so turning to your desk light, you flipped the switch off and allowed yourself to drift into sleep.

                                                   *************

The next morning you woke late. The sun had long been risen and the house was quiet; you supposed your roommates had already gone to class. You only had 2 classes today and your first didn’t start until 1pm, so you took your time, making breakfast, showering, and getting ready. 

You decided to look your best today. Even though you didn’t really feel that confident on the inside right now, you didn’t need to look the part. There was something to be said for building your confidence in other ways, and though you didn’t think it was smart to always put so much stock in the way you look on the outside, today you needed a little pick me up and a cute look was gonna be it. 

After finishing a very lazy morning routine and even watching an episode of your favorite show, you made your way back to campus and into your cinematography class. In general, your entire schedule this semester was pretty promising and you settled into a brief explanation of what to expect in the class and then a video showcasing work done before, some of the famous names who’d taken the class before stardom, and some movie trailers from movies that the school had worked on directly. Last class you’d merely gone over the syllabus and done introductions, so this was a fun twist. 

By the time you’d left the classroom you were buzzing with excitement, chatting away with a classmate and friend about your expectations for the semester. 

“My dad said that Mike Posner took this class when he was here, and look at him now.” Your friend, Adrian, remarked and you smiled lopsidedly at her. 

“But isn’t he a singer? What does cinematography have to do with that?”

Adrian shrugged, checking her phone before sticking it back in her backpack. “Don’t know, still famous, though. I gotta run to class, only got 20 minutes to make it there and it’s across campus.”

“I wish you luck!” You called, giggling as she waved and bounced off in the other direction. 

You yourself had another class in 30 minutes so you stopped by a vending machine quickly to grab a snack before bundling up again and making your way out into the snow to head to your digital art history class. You were really looking forward to this week because now your classes would actually start to get interesting. 

After class you made your way back to the library to catch up on the work you’d avoided yesterday. Honestly, it was the beginning of the semester so it wasn’t like you were behind on anything, you only had that one assignment, but you liked to feel prepared and ahead of the game. 

You shoved your granola bar in your mouth, staring distractedly at your phone as you made your way down to the first floor of the library. You needed a little peace and quiet that the social atmosphere of the 3rd floor couldn’t afford you. Just as you were stepping through the doors to the first floor, you collided with someone, nearly dropping your phone and gripping the bar between your teeth before looking up, apology dying on your tongue.

“Taehyung.” You breathed, pulling the bar from your mouth. 

His dark hair was fluffy, like he’d just blown it dry, flopping messily across his head. He looked cute. 

“Uh, Hey, Y/N.” He replied, scratching at his chin. 

“How are you?” You asked, looking up at him, watching as his dark eyes darted from your face to the walls around you.

“I’m ok; I’m good. How’re you?”

“Yeah, I’m OK.” You nodded, shifting your feet as the two of you plunged into awkward silence. “I heard you had a good time in California.”

He looked down at you, eyebrows rising in surprise. “From Jin?” You nodded and he continued, “yeah, it was a really cool experience.”

You paused; tongue heavy with the words you wanted to say. I miss you, I’m sorry, I was scared. Nothing felt right, but you should have known your mouth would run before you could really think it through. “I also heard about…you know, about Beth.”

Taehyung frowned, jaw ticking as he clenched his teeth. Perhaps Jin wasn’t supposed to say anything about that, but you’d been the first to see them after all. 

“How long have you guys been together?” You asked awkwardly, the words uncomfortable in your mouth. 

“A little over two weeks.” He said and he sounded annoyed with you. Your heart wilted at the thought.

“Oh.” You nodded. 

“Why oh?”

“I guess it just feels kind of fast.” You commented softly, shrugging.  

“It’s been over two months, Y/N, it hasn’t been that fast. We were never even together. How long do you expect me to pine for someone that doesn’t want me?”

“It was never a matter of not wanting, Taehyung.” You insisted.

“Whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t matter; you rejected me so why are you acting like this?”

“Why her?” You asked. 

“Who, Beth?” At your nod he frowned, “I’m sorry, but it’s honestly none of your business. I offered up my whole heart and you didn’t want it so now it’s time we both move on.” He looked into the distance, nodding at someone over your shoulder, “Look, I gotta go. Have a good semester, ok?” He reached up to pat your shoulder but stopped suddenly, staring at you in discomfort before fisting his hand and dropping it to his side, walking around you. 

You wanted to be sick all over again. You’d really messed up. Not only had you lost out on a guy you’d really liked, but you’d destroyed a friendship. Your bottom lip trembled at the thought, but you refused to lose another night of studying to an all-night cry session. You rounded your shoulders, making your way to a desk at the back of the library and sitting down.

Your broken heart would just have to wait.

____________________________________________

Only two more chapters left in this story and I promise they are MUCH happier than these last few! Thank you so much for sticking around. Please let me know what you think. I’m so curious! xx

Chapter 13

Chapter 15

Copyright © 2017  by taeken-my-heart (Nora.) All rights reserved.

#taehyung scenario #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #taehyung x reader #taehyung fanfic

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