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anuragthecoach · 2 years ago

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How To Grow Your Business

What is the most important thing to run a business? Business training? Advice from relatives and friends? Business tips? A business coach who can help you out? Yes, these may be required when you want to scale your business but there is one more important thing. Always keep in mind that your business can run only and only if you have sales. Without sales, your business won’t survive. Your business needs sales, customers, prospects and if have all these, your business problems would be reduced massively. But what are these business problems that can be reduced by sales and customers? These problems could be related to purchasing, inventory, manufacturing, employee management and a lot more. Every businessman is stuck in these kinds of problems from morning till evening. So, in short, your business needs sales to reduce the burden of your problems.

Now how to get these sales? By doing hard work? No, just doing hard work may give you results in the beginning phrase but in the later stages, with hard work you need something else also. You need more of mind work in the later phrases than the hard work. A lot of brainstorming is needed to come up with ideas for improving sales and achieving the target. You have to take your business to a higher position really smartly.

How to grow your business or sales?

Here are 3 ways by which you can grow your business by improving sales and getting more customers.

Create an ecosystem (Win-Win)- Create an ecosystem such that it is a win-win situation for everyone- you as a business owner, your clients, your customers and your employees. Creating such an environment/ situation would help you grow your business. What does a customer want? A customer wants that you should be able to solve his problems and help him reach his goal. If you are able to do so, the customer will be your agent forever. If you are not able to do so, then to make a sale, you will have to lower the price of your product. So, you will have to do either of these two things. Think from the customer’s point of view, think about what he wants from you. If your customer is benefitted, you and your employees will be benefitted too. To do all this, you must invest some amount of your earnings and time on yourself, on your development. Abraham Lincoln said, “ Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.” The same funda goes for a businessman that he must invest on himself, on his own development. The more you develop yourself, the better you would be able to understand your customer and his needs.But developing this ecosystem may not be an easy task. You may be able to develop it within 2-3 years or you may take 10-15 years which is too long a time period. If it takes this long, you must think f changing your business. For example, Ritesh Aggarwal, owner of Oyo Rooms started in2012 and his worth today would be more than $1 billion. He could do this because he developed his ecosystem really fast and is able to maintain it.

Solve the problem quickly- You may face many problems in creating an ecosystem but you must find the solution to these problems very quickly. These problems should be solved by you, your team and your expertise. You must come out of your cocoon, your comfort zone and do a little more than you usually do to succeed. Never give up and if you give up then don’t expect to win also. Keep a stopwatch with yourself and tell yourself that you must solve the given problem within a particular time frame. Don’t try too hard to go into each and every detail or be a perfectionist else it may take a lot of your time. Solving the problem is more important than being a perfectionist in it. Without delaying it, just do it.

Concentrate on the small market- Start your business by catering to a small market first. Make customers in a small area, make name and goodwill in this small market and once you think you have made good customers and reputation in this market, start spreading in the nearby markets, take small steps and expand gradually. Dominate a small market first and then look for other markets. This would also tell you where you have a better scope of your products. If you try to do everything in one go, you will end up getting nothing. Make yourself an expert in a few things and focus on them. Don’t divert yourself by indulging in too many things and not having an expertise in any.

To summarise, you must create an ecosystem (Win-Win situation), have the ability to solve the problems quickly and begin by concentrating on small markets and then expand progressively. By taking these three steps, you may be able to grow your business and take it to the next level.

#publicspeaking #anuragaggarwal #anuragthecoach #motivationalspeaker #business courses #business #https://businessandpublicspeaking.in/blog/#https://www.anuragaggarwal.com

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cicada-bones · 4 years ago

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The Warrior and the Wildfire

Chapter 3: Oath-Breaker

Sorry for taking so much longer than I thought I would! But I hope it was worth the wait! Please let me know what you think- your comments are seriously what keeps me going. love you all sm ❤︎

word count: 4108

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

It was fresh, and completely unmistakable. Within the past few hours, Lorcan Salvaterre had passed by Mistward, heading for the sea.

Rowan immediately swooped low, following the scent to where it meandered over the forest floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The trail skirted around the edge of Mistward’s perimeter, following a path that was just out of their sightline, but close enough that in the morning, the scouts would find it immediately.

It almost felt like a message.

Rowan shifted in mid-air, landing hard on his heels and already drawing the wind towards him from all directions, searching for anything, any whisper of a dark form, flitting between the oaks, quick as a shadow –

But there was nothing. Only the memory.

Rowan began to run, following the trail westward. Even though Lorcan had passed through these trees barely a few hours ago, the wind couldn’t sense him. He was already gone, miles and miles ahead. Out of the reach of Rowan’s wind.

As the trail solidified before him, Rowan’s stride lengthened, his footing becoming more sure with each step. And he longed to be able to shift again, to use the wind to propel him over the land.

He could fly so much faster than he could run, but then he risked losing the scent – a chance he could not take. So instead Rowan dug his feet into the earth, tearing through the forest mists. A predator on the hunt.

Only one thought in his head.

Why in rutting hell was Lorcan Salvaterre trying to get his attention?

···

Fenrys wasn’t there when she found out.

He was out on a run, hunting through the forests around Doranelle. Chasing down after whispers of the forest-spirits. He knew they were here: the elemental beings, as ancient as the very stones and mountains and valleys. Older than history – than time itself.

Fenrys would hear them in the night – sounds of crashing rock and tearing metal, the felling of trees when no wind blew. Still fighting their ancient wars, either uncaring or ignorant of the affairs of lesser beings. But Fenrys had never seen them, nor did he know of anyone who had.

Every now and again, he would glance a fairy or two. One of the Little Folk, going about their little-great-deeds. But it was never when he was looking for them.

It was something he and Connall used to do as young ones – charge through the forest, hunting for fairies. For the heroes of the tales their mother would tell them, over glasses of sweet fruit juice on lazy summer afternoons. Stories of battles and warriors and the hidden magic of the land. To this day, Fenrys didn’t know whether the stories were true, or if she had made them up herself.

He knew it was only purposeless distraction, and one that he would likely pay for when he returned. But he just had no idea how much.

So no, Fenrys wasn’t in the palace when Maeve found out.

But Connall was.

···

The trail was nearly a straight shot through the woods, barely deviating for trees and boulders. Lorcan was really hauling ass. And as he drew closer and closer to the coastline, and the little market town that was waiting for him there, Rowan felt his suspicions begin to grow.

It was nearing evening when Rowan finally began to hear little signs of approaching civilization – the neighing of horses, the soft thumps of an axe chopping wood. But the trail pushed on, breaching the edges of the trees, following over the cobbles through the market, out towards the end of the main street, until it came to a stop. Right at the end of the long wooden dock.

Rowan stood at the brink, right where the path met the sea. And he could feel fury coiling in his gut.

Lorcan had left. And Rowan thought he might be able to guess where his former commander was headed. But before he decided anything, before he made a plan, he needed to be absolutely sure.

Rowan turned on his heels, headed back into the village. His cloak was pulled high over his head, hiding much of his face. He let his body fall into a slump, hiding its powerful shape. Evening was coming on, and if he kept his movements sloppy and wide, he could be just another traveler, coming to wet his throat with watered-down ale.

Outside the pub, a young maid was lighting the lamps, her hair neat and apron clean. When she looked up at him, Rowan caught the glint of sharp eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to go inside the tavern.

“Hello miss,” Rowan said, ever so slightly shifting his accent, letting the words fall from his mouth like marbles. “Might you be able to tell me where I could hire passage on a ship?”

Her face twisted shrewdly, and she gave him a quick once over as she straightened and said, “Depends on where you’re goin’. And how much coin you’ve got t’ spend.”

Rowan nodded, making sure to keep his clothes hidden with the cloak, knowing that an accidental glint of silver from one of his hidden blades might be enough for her to call for help from inside the tavern. And that last thing he wanted was trouble. “When was your last ship headed for Adarlan? And when will you be expecting the next one? It doesn’t have to be fast, or comfortable.”

Her expression tightened, but she answered reasonably enough. “We get a fair few ships headed to the western continent this time o’ year – the sheep’ve just been shorn and ships head that a-way bearing wool to trade for furs from the north, and steel from the south. I’m pretty sure we had a ship go through this morning.”

“And the next?” Rowan prompted, his expression schooled into neutrality.

“If you ask around the dockyards, I’m sure you might find another ship headin’ that way – once the tide comes in. And if not, then I’m sure there’ll be another come tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Rowan slipped the girl a coin. “By chance, you didn’t catch another traveler come through here today, heading the same direction – asking questions? Tall, dark hair, harsh look?”

The shrewd look fell into a scowl. “Maybe. Either way, my answer’ll cost more’n just a copper.”

Rowan slipped her another couple of coins, and she pocketed them. But her scowl didn’t soften.

“I might’ve seen your man. Came through around mid-morning, in a massive rush. Massive man, at that. Huge. Musta been six, nearly seven feet? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that tall. And he nearly knocked me over coming in the pub to ask after passage to Rifthold. Kept his face covered though, so I couldn’t be sure.”

Rowan nodded again, but before the maid could turn to leave, he asked, “Oh – and do you happen to know a place where I could send a letter?”

“If you give it to me, I can get it to my mother and she’ll give it to the courier when he comes ‘round in the mornin’. You gonna come in for a pint?”

The maid held open the door, and Rowan followed her in, thinking it much easier to just go along with the girl, and far too wrapped up in his thoughts to come up with a polite refusal that wouldn’t leave her even more suspicious than she already was.

The tavern wasn’t bustling, but it was far from empty either. A few farmers sat at a table in the far corner, enjoying a few beers after a long day’s work, while a few younger boys, perhaps their sons, were laughing and joking across the room. There were a few other individuals – travelers like himself, or people who lived and worked in the village. But the majority of the bar was filled with sailors – teasing and joking and climbing all over each other, celebrating their last night on dry ground for many weeks to come.

Rowan headed for a quiet corner, flagging down the waitress and settling onto a creaky wooden bench. He ordered some bread and ale, which she had brought over in mere seconds, and he began to pick at it mindlessly.

There could be no doubt. Lorcan was heading for Adarlan, for Rifthold. For Aelin.

Maeve had sent him to go after Aelin. And she had ordered him to pass by Mistward, Mistward specifically, so that Rowan would be drawn into the conflict. Maybe they were planning on using him to get to Aelin, to follow him in order to find her.

The question was, why only Lorcan? Where were the twins? Gavriel? Vaughan? Would they follow Lorcan? Were they already headed for Adarlan?

Rationally, Rowan knew that Aelin was safe. That she was still somewhere in the middle of the ocean, on her way to Rifthold. But it took all of his self-control to keep himself from shifting right there, in the middle of this tavern filled with mortals, and fly out into the ocean skies to find her.

What really worried him was the idea that he would get there too late. That even if he got on a ship right at that moment, he would get to Rifthold after she had already been found, taken, overwhelmed. The idea that there were already forces there, waiting to seize her.

And no matter what, Lorcan would arrive in Rifthold hours or days before Rowan would be able to, and well before Aelin could read any letter he sent. Not that he even knew where he could send a letter. All he knew was that she used to own a hidden apartment in the slums, and that for the past six months, she had lived in a stone tower in the castle.

It seemed unlikely that she would return to either. Both were compromised, the castle being an obviously insane choice. Unless of course she had something hidden up her sleeve that she had kept from Rowan. Which felt distinctly possible. And Arobynn had to know about the apartment. She had nowhere safe to go, and Rowan had nowhere safe he could send a warning.

So the only way he would be able to tell her about Lorcan would be to go there himself. To break his oath.

Rowan knew that he could, and without much difficulty at that. But it still felt wrong – a violation of trust. If he left Wendlyn without being told to by Aelin, he would be going against her wishes. He would be taking advantage, both of the flexibility of their bond and of her trust in him.

And it definitely didn’t make things any easier that he so desperately wanted to leave in the first place. It felt like he was exploiting the opportunity to be close to her again, no matter how rationally necessary it might be. And there was a chance that she might not forgive him for it.

But no matter how much that might sting, he couldn’t live through following her requests to the letter, and Aelin dying because of it.

So, Lorcan was headed for Rifthold. And soon, Rowan would be heading there as well.

Rowan tore into the bread, newly reinvigorated. He didn’t see any reason to return to Mistward, there wasn’t anything there worth sacrificing another day for. But he did feel bad about leaving without any notice. Deserting Emrys and Malakai, and…Luca.

So as he ate, Rowan dug out a piece of paper from his pack and began to write.

Emrys,

I’m sorry. Something came up. Tell Luca to remember to practice swings off his left side just as much as his right, I don’t care if they hurt more.

When I see her, I’ll tell her you say hello.

Then he folded up the paper and sealed it, leaving it unmarked. Hopefully, even if someone – such as that suspicious maid – opened the letter to see what it said, what he wrote would be meaningless.

He spent the rest of the evening listening to the sailors’ conversation, until he heard mention of a crew headed for Rifthold. The barmaid hadn’t lied – it was a ship bearing crates of wool heading to Adarlan to trade for steel. This was their last night ashore, and they were setting sail sometime in the early morning, just before the tide shifted.

So Rowan waited a few minutes more, then left the waitress his fee, gave the maid his letter, and walked out into the lamplit village, his jaw squared and his shoulders set. Determined.

···

Fenrys returned to broken furniture. Splintered wood and broken glass. Twisted metal and shattered stone. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he noticed was the silence. It stretched its fingers through the walls and corridors and archways, until it brushed through to his skin. Until it was the only touch he could feel.

Silence.

Where there should be sound.

The third thing he noticed was the bodies. Their touch was even colder than the quiet. There was no red, no black. None of the usual gory signs of death. Just nothing. An absence.

Fenrys worked his way through the wreckage, his hands empty of feeling, his heart a stone in his chest. His intestines resting somewhere near his toes.

Until he reached their rooms, and found Connall in a dark huddle across the sea of space, and he was still breathing and it felt like Fenrys could breathe again too, but then Connall spoke and sound returned to the world, “Why did he leave? Why did he leave us?” and his voice was so full of fear that Fenrys felt tears sprout from his eyes like wings.

“Who?” Fenrys asked. “Who, Con? What happened?”

But then the palace stones began to thunder, and the questions that had seemed so important only a moment ago fell from his mind on a scattered breeze.

···

Rowan flitted into a dark alleyway around the back of the tavern, and once he was sure there was no one there to see, he shifted into his hawk and flew out over the small village.

From his eavesdropping earlier, he had learned that the ship headed for Rifthold was an old galleon vessel near the edge of the docks, bearing white and yellow flags. It had a large enough cargo bay that hopefully Rowan would be able to find a place to stow away, but wasn’t so large that the journey would take even longer than it should. Which was already far, far too long for his liking.

Rowan circled high above the ship a few times, making sure that he appeared as nothing more than just another sea bird, hunting for its dinner. Although most of the crew, including the captain and first mate, appeared to be drinking away their pay on the floor of the tavern in the village, the ship wasn’t completely empty.

His winds told him that at least three men were asleep below decks, their rumbling snores echoing through the wooden beams. But a few lamps still shone, and with their light Rowan could see a few flickering shadows just beneath the upper deck that made him think not all of the sailors were yet asleep.

So Rowan would have to be extremely careful in making his approach.

He waited for long minutes for those lights to vanish, and shadows to disappear. And the second they did Rowan was sailing down among the rigging, twisting and turning around the sails and masts until he could be absolutely sure that there weren’t any watchful eyes to mark his presence.

Then Rowan was swooping down into the maze of rooms below decks, making sure to avoid the various sleeping quarters, kitchens, and officers’ cabins. Heading towards the hold at the very bottom of the ship in as straight of a path as he could.

Rowan found a dark corner behind a case of flour and barrel of barley, and then shifted back into his Fae form. Once they passed the halfway mark between Adarlan and Wendlyn, magic would stop working, and he wouldn’t be able to move between forms. He had to find a place he could hide in during the day that was large enough for his Fae body. A task far easier said than done.

A ship like this had a crew in the dozens, and quarters were cramped all to hell. Every piece of available space was used, from every corner to closet and even the toilets. Only the captain would have room to stretch his legs, and even then, it was barely by a few feet. Nothing like the space he would need in order to not attract attention.

Rowan looked over the hold once again, scanning for anything that could possibly be large enough. Then he nearly huffed a laugh when he realized exactly what he needed to do.

···

When morning came, Rowan was crammed into a wooden case lined with wool. The back panel carefully pried out and its nails removed, but then leaned carefully back into place to allow him a quick exit. And the majority of the wool was now taking a trip down the coastline.

He had spent an hour or so that night carefully removing armfuls of the fiber and tossing it overboard, using his wind to propel it from the shipyard and out to sea, leaving only just enough room for himself. It was crammed, scratchy, uncomfortable, and smelled like sheep dung, but it would do.

Now, as the ship slowly meandered its way through the reef and out into open ocean, with the occasional shouts and curses of the sailors toiling above, Rowan had nothing to do but think.

For the next month.

It might just be the longest month of his life. At least he couldn’t complain about not having enough time to plan.

Aelin certainly would have a strategy, and by the time he reached her, she would have been working away at it for nearly two weeks. And while he could only guess at her aims, he knew that when he reached her, he would do whatever he could to help her reach those goals.

The question was, should he reach her at all?

Rowan knew he needed to warn her about Lorcan, but once he was actually in Rifthold, that could be done in many ways – not just by contacting her in person. And deep in his bones, Rowan knew that Lorcan had dragged him here on purpose. That the male had wanted him to follow, to pursue. There were faster ways to travel from Doranelle to the sea than to go by Mistward.

So wouldn’t it be playing right into Lorcan’s hands to join up with Aelin? Giving him exactly what he wanted?

Lorcan wasn’t familiar enough with Aelin’s scent, nor with the city of Rifthold, to track her down by himself. He would be digging in the dark – except for the trail that Rowan would give him, as easily as handing over their lives like so much coin.

Perhaps Rowan could go to Rifthold, warn Aelin anonymously, and track down Lorcan by himself. And the faster he rid himself of his former commander, the sooner Rowan would be able to reunite with his Queen.

The pain of that future made him physically flinch.

And it wasn’t only the idea of being in the same city, or even just on the same continent, as Aelin and not being beside her. It was the thought of Lorcan, Lorcan, his commander of nearly three centuries, someone he had almost once thought of as a brother, or even a friend, Lorcan, as someone he needed to dispose of.

Someone who was his enemy.

It was a heavy, uncomfortable weight. It felt strange, and wrong, to have someone he had so trusted become such a dangerous enemy. No matter how necessary he knew it might be, Rowan couldn’t really think of killing him.

It would be like destroying a part of himself, an old part, but a necessary one.

Without Lorcan, he wouldn’t have become the person he was today, wouldn’t know the things he knew, or understand what he now did. About war and sacrifice and leadership and teaching.

Lorcan had been a pillar in his life when he needed one. And while Rowan hadn’t loved him, he had respected him.

And now they were enemies.

Rowan scowled, the crate somehow becoming even more uncomfortable.

What he did know was how Lorcan worked, how he operated. If Rowan did decided to reunite with Aelin, then he would have to keep his distance. Because Lorcan was expert at finding pressure points, and using them to his advantage.

Lorcan already knew that Aelin had turned Rowan away from Maeve, knew that Rowan had chosen her over his oath, over his life.

Idiot. He was such an idiot when it came to her.

If Lorcan found out that there was anything more, that there were other, deeper feelings –

No, Rowan could keep his distance. He could keep those thoughts under control because he had to. Not only because they did no good, but because they might get Aelin killed. Or worse, captured and taken back to Maeve.

But Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be able to deal with Lorcan without her – that he wouldn’t be able to return to Rifthold without reuniting with her. No matter how much easier it might be to keep her safe if he stayed away.

The only thing that was keeping him sane was the thought that at the end of this journey through hell, stuffed in this tiny rutting box that smelled like dung, unable to lay down properly for weeks, was an image of Aelin’s face. Even if she wasn’t happy to see him, even if she didn’t forgive him breaking his oath.

For the first time in weeks, he was heading towards her, instead of away.

So Rowan curled up and turned on his side, and tried to get some sleep, as the shouts of the sailors above him faded into the rising dawn.

···

Across Wendlyn, Emrys was stirring a large pot of rabbit stew, listening to the potatoes crackling as they fried on the stove. It was a lot of work, feeding this many people each and every day. But Emrys loved it, caring for this large family of his. Making sure they were all fed. Taking in strays.

Aelin Galathynius had been such a stray, and he couldn’t say that he didn’t miss her. But he knew that she was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do. No matter what that prince said, or how much he tried to hide, Emrys knew that Aelin had survived her encounter with Maeve, that they both had escaped. Together. And now she’d moved on to other – perhaps even greater – foes.

Even when she was all the way across the ocean Emrys was worried about her.

The old male just sighed, then shuffled over to the counter to begin chopping scallions to add to the stew.

But before he could start, he was interrupted by the afternoon courier, bearing a letter for him – of all people.

Emrys wiped his hands off on his apron, and took the letter from the boy’s fingers. It was unmarked, but the paper was old and worn. As if it had lived in someone’s saddlebags for some time.

Emrys ripped it open, then read through it. Unable to keep a smile off his face.

That scoundrel.

He began to untie his apron, then headed out of the kitchen to go find Luca. Emrys couldn’t really find it in himself to be disappointed in the prince, even if he had abandoned them. Had left Luca with his grief and his guilt.

The boy had finally told him and Malakai about what had happened, and they had talked and cried together into the wee hours of the morning. Even so, Emrys had really hoped that Rowan might be there to help Luca through that grief. He knew that Luca had too.

But it was not to be. Perhaps they might see each other again, in years to come. Perhaps Rowan might even be their king one day.

Emrys almost wanted to laugh. He could already see the scowl that would twist Malakai’s face when he told him the news. Rowan, gone off to chase the future. Leaving them to tend to this little piece of the present.

When Emrys told Luca what was in the letter, the boy smiled too.

···

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···

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years ago

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Klaine Advent Drabble 2020 - “To Tree or Not to Tree” (Rated NC17)

Summary: When Blaine tells Kurt that they're going out to "get a tree", Kurt never imagined they'd be trekking up a freezing cold mountainside to chop one down. (2820 words)

Notes: A re-vamp for the @klaineadvent Drabble Challenge 2020 prompt 'farm'.

Read on AO3.

“Oh. My. God!” Kurt groans, hopping out of his SUV and sinking up to his ankles in snow. “I thought you were kidding about this!”

“Nope.” Blaine rounds to the hatch of Kurt’s Navigator and pops it. He unzips a duffel he brought with, one Kurt had hoped was filled with fun surprises like a picnic lunch that they could enjoy in the vehicle with the heater blasting before they braved the weather to get their Christmas tree from a quaint but upscale tree farm, the kind that smells strongly of cinnamon pine cones and which offers customers plastic flutes filled with sparkling cider as they pass over the threshold into an idyllic Winter Wonderland lit by twinkling white fairy lights beneath the cover of a gigantic canopy.

He’d dressed entirely in brands that Vogue recently featured in their center spread and had planned on snapping a few shots for the website - kill two birds with one stone. He’d even lent Blaine a few pieces he’d squirreled from The Vault. He could see the whole layout in his head. Behind his eyelids, the slideshow of images he had planned was fabulous.

But no.

Disturbingly, Blaine pulls out a wood-handled ax, along with a pair of safety goggles; thick, brown gloves; and some rope. He holds them up for Kurt to see. “Totally not kidding."

“Do we really have to cut down a tree?” Kurt asks, watching Blaine gear up, a one-man wrecking crew, leading Kurt to the conclusion that he should stay at the SUV and let Blaine go on this ridiculous errand alone.

“Yes, we do.” Rope looped over his arm and dangling across his chest, Blaine hoists his ax over one shoulder and begins the journey, carving a neat path up the slowly rising incline as Kurt follows behind, contemplating his options. He has the keys. He could definitely implement the stay behind and keep the heater company fantasy. But there is the small matter of he loves Blaine. He would be miserable and lonely waiting hours in the SUV without him. Besides, considering how well Blaine fills out those North Face pants and Carhartt jacket, Kurt sees how he can make this work in his favor. The new outdoorsman, who can go from big city to big country in the blink of an eye (courtesy of the right separates).

He’s not married to that headline, but he can hash it out as he goes.

“You do know there’s a Christmas tree farm right there,” Kurt points out, raising his voice to be heard over the howling wind. When Blaine peeks over his shoulder, Kurt throws out an arm in the direction that they came. Past the snow-covered asphalt lot, where Kurt’s SUV is currently one of five cars parked, stretch miles of evergreens, cut down and mounted onto wooden stands, waiting to be plucked, flocked, and paid for.

“Cutting down a tree has been a tradition in my family since before I was born,” Blaine says.

Kurt looks at him sideways. “I ... didn’t know that.”

“Yup."

"How did I not know that? We've been married for three years!"

Blaine turns a full circle as he walks and gives Kurt a wink. "I guess I'm just full of surprises."

"You're full of something," Kurt mumbles under his breath.

"It's a tradition," Blaine continues, unaware of his husband's grousing. "One I want to hand down to our children someday.”

“Can’t we get them a pony instead?”

“I recommend not stomping up this incline,” Blaine advises, changing the subject, “or you’re going to exhaust yourself. I’m not sure I can carry you and a tree back down this mountain.”

"Hmph. Not with that attitude, you can't."

It’s a crisp December day, almost too cold to bear. The difference in temperature between the city and where they ended up is so drastic, it’s hard to believe they’re still in the same state. A perfect day to sit by the fire while binge-watching Netflix, with a cup of hot cocoa beside a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. Kurt had everything he needed to make that happen, too, except the tree.

Kurt and Blaine had yet to have a day off together to pick one out.

So when Blaine came home, tossed Kurt a coat, and said, “Grab your keys! We’re getting a tree!” Kurt had been ecstatic! Until he discovered that Blaine’s idea of “getting a tree” wasn’t a simple matter of driving to a tree farm and picking out a decent six-foot Scotch Pine.

No.

Blaine had Kurt drive over an hour away from civilization to a place where there are no Starbucks, spotty WiFi, and no doors on the bathroom stalls.

The snow on the ground at this altitude is deep, becoming deeper as the slope of the mountain rises. And as breathtaking as the world looks from this elevation, Kurt hates everything about this. He hates the snow getting into his boots, soaking his three pairs of socks. He hates the wind that seems to purposefully sweep down the mountain straight into his face. Blaine walking ahead, right in front of him, does nothing to provide a barrier from the wind.

That’s because Blaine is loving this. And as a reward, the wind must be going right through him.

Blaine leads them deeper into woods that climb higher and higher. Even though the man who greeted them at the entrance, dressed in head-to-toe red flannel and brown corduroy, directed them up the mountain, saying this was the place locals preferred to get their trees, Blaine and Kurt don’t see anyone else past the tree line. The air gets thinner. The sunlight off the snow is brighter, blindingly bright, but it doesn’t offer Kurt or his rapidly chapping cheeks any warmth. He folds his arms over his chest and shoves his gloved hands underneath his armpits, but it doesn’t help thaw the tips of his fingers, which he can’t feel anymore.

“There are trees everywhere up here!” Kurt complains.

“Yeah! Isn’t it great!”

“Pick one! What are you doing?” Kurt gripes when they pass a swath of gorgeous trees and yet keep walking.

“I'm searching.”

“For what?”

“I’m looking for the perfect tree.”

“And what constitutes the perfect tree, in your opinion? Because from what I can see, we passed over two dozen perfect trees getting here!”

“When you see the perfect tree, you’ll know the perfect tree.”

Kurt has no idea what the heck that means but decides not to ask for clarification in an effort to get them off this frickin’ mountain and home quicker. Home equals warmth, comfort, and not succumbing to hypothermia. “Well, what about this one?” Kurt asks, pointing to a tree on his right.

“Ooo! That’s a good one!” Blaine says.

“Really?” Kurt asks, surprised that he got it right on the first try. Maybe he has a knack for this, like his knack for fashion. He does have an eye for aesthetics. “So this is the perfect tree?”

“Nope.”

Kurt stumbles. "Oh." He did not expect that answer. Eager to prevail, he points out another one. “This one?”

“No.”

“O-kay, what about this one?”

“Not quite, but good try.”

Kurt would throw his hands up in frustration, but his arms are locked in place, hugging his chest.

“How did you become the tree authority?”

“Years of practice.”

“If you’re the one with the tree picking knowledge, what am I doing here that I couldn’t do at home where we have eggnog and cable?”

“You get to marvel in awe at my magnificent strength and skill.”

“I can’t help but remind you that I could be marveling at your strength and skill at home while you hold me up against the wall in our bedroom and make love to me.”

“True. But seeing as we did that all of last night and Mr. Mulroney has the night shift tonight, I thought it would be nice if we let the poor man sleep.”

“The walls in our apartment are thin, aren’t they?”

“They really are.”

They pass through a tight cluster of trees and enter a small clearing, coming upon a scene right out of a Hallmark Channel movie. God rays shine through the foliage overhead, lighting a single tree in the center. In the quiet of this enclosed glade, Kurt can’t hear the whistling wind, and he immediately begins to feel warmer. All they need now are cartoon animals bringing them presents and an angelic choir singing carols and they’ll be starring in their own Christmas special.

It would be ideal, Kurt thinks, considering he’s a motherless child and he’s standing beside an elf. He puts a pin in it, with a plan to write up a treatment as soon as they get back to their apartment.

Provided he doesn’t lose any of his fingers before then.

Blaine tosses the rope aside. He walks reverently up to the center tree and stops in front of it. He opens his arms wide, ax clutched in his right fist. “Here,” he declares. “Here it is.”

Kurt looks at the tree in front of them, then at all the identical trees surrounding it. “Here what is?”

“Our perfect tree.”

“And what makes this tree any different from the sixty or more trees we passed hiking up here?”

“This one’s fuller, more symmetrical, with an almost pyramid top.” When Kurt doesn’t immediately agree, Blaine motions to the tree more vehemently, trying to get his point across. “It’s just more … more tree than those other trees. More Christmas …” Blaine turns to his husband standing off to the side behind him, arms crossed, head tilted. Blaine sighs. “You obviously don’t know your Christmas trees. If you can’t see why this one’s superior, I don’t know how to explain it to you.”

Kurt shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“You’ll see the difference when it’s up in our apartment.” Blaine grips his ax with both hands and gets into position. “Okay! Stand back!”

“You don’t need to tell me twice. I love you, Blaine, but I have no intention of getting anywhere near you and that instrument of death.”

Kurt takes a step back, then three more as Blaine hoists the ax behind him. Kurt fishes his iPhone out of his pocket, preparing to document what is either going to be the sexiest thing Blaine has ever done, or evidence for the investigators who might try to pin Blaine's grisly death on him. Either way, watching Blaine attempt to chop down a tree might actually be worth wet socks and a nightmare case of the flu.

Kurt holds up his phone with the camera app accessed, ready to film as Blaine takes his first swing, which, surprisingly, buries the blade a respectable depth into the wood. But it’s the pullback that gets Kurt, the way Blaine locks his feet in the snow, bends at the knees, and dislodges the ax. Kurt can’t see Blaine’s back through his coat, but he imagines the play of his muscles, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the cut of his delts showing through as they strain with effort. Kurt has seen Blaine naked over a hundred times, has watched the man make love to him in videos they’ve made. He envisions everything going on beneath Blaine’s clothes as he swings that ax … and the frigid air around him doesn't feel quite as cold anymore.

“Mmmm …” Kurt hits record and focuses his camera on his husband’s assets. After a minute of chopping, Blaine realizes Kurt has stopped commenting. He lowers his ax and takes a breather, catching the tail end of his husband's complimentary hum.

“Mmmm what?” Blaine turns, curious to see what Kurt has been doing that’s kept him quiet this whole time. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the phone in Kurt’s hands. “Are you ... recording me?”

“Maybe,” Kurt says, biting his lower lip. “You know, now that I get a good look at it, you did find the best tree on the mountain. And watching you cut it down is becoming a massive turn on. You being all lumberjack-ish is kind of hot.”

Blaine grins, leveling the ax over his shoulder. “Only kind of?”

“Well, yeah.” Kurt switches off his camera app and puts his phone back in his pocket, seeing a make-out break forthcoming. “The walk up the mountain took a lot out of me.”

Blaine leans his ax against the trunk of a tree and saunters up to his husband. “Well then … perhaps I can put something in you.”

Kurt snorts. “Okay, that’s cheesy as hell ... but I wish you would."

With a suggestive smile on his frosty lips, Blaine wraps one arm around Kurt’s waist and pulls him closer, his other hand reaching between them to fondle the bulge growing in the front of Kurt’s jeans. He tugs at the buttons of Kurt’s fly, and Kurt knows Blaine has more on his mind than kissing. He shoots an anxious look around their private nook. “What? Here?”

“Why not? We’re alone. There’s no one else around. No one will see us or hear us. You can scream all you want.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds like we're in a horror movie!"

"Is that your only objection?"

"No. I'm objecting because it’s freezing!”

“Come on …” Blaine takes off his gloves and begins unbuttoning Kurt’s wet coat, starting at the middle and working down. “I’m not going to strip us naked or anything. Besides, you’ll warm up in no time. You know what they say about body heat …”

“This reminds me of one of those bad amateur porn videos on the Internet. The ones that try to have a storyline, but the acting is so awful it turns into a comedy?”

“As a professional actor, I think I take offense to that.” Blaine nuzzles past Kurt’s icy jaw and into the warm skin of his neck. “What videos are you watching anyway?”

“I can show you. Maybe we can … you know … watch one or two … when we get home …” Kurt stutters, shivering when Blaine’s cold lips connect with his flesh, then melting beneath the heat of his husband’s tongue. Blaine walks Kurt backward, away from their half-chopped pine to the shelter of a different tree, moving them a safe distance on the off chance the poor thing decides to finish itself off without their help.

“Oh, God! Kurt!” Blaine moans, warming his hands by wedging them between the soft skin of Kurt’s groin and his growing erection.

“Blaine,” Kurt murmurs as his husband sucks a mark into the sensitive skin of his collarbone, “I just … I just want you to know that … if we freeze to death … or get eaten by a bear … I’m blaming you entirely.”

Blaine grabs Kurt’s trembling hands and brings them to the zipper of his pants. “Fair enough.”

***

“Welp. That was less than memorable,” Kurt grumbles, trying to re-button his jeans with numb fingers. “I hope that doesn’t become part of the tradition.”

“For the ninth time, I slipped!” an embarrassed Blaine says, teeth chattering, rushing to help Kurt do up his now useless coat. “I didn’t mean for us to take a nose dive into the snow!”

“Who would have thunk that fucking on ice would be dangerous!?" Kurt says sarcastically. "Christ! I must look like a wet French poodle!"

"That's ... oddly specific."

In an attempt to salvage the look he had going, Kurt tries combing his fingers through his hair but hits resistance. “Ugh! I think I’ve got sap in my hair.” He tugs and tugs, abandoning his attempts with a huff after he manages to get his fingers free … along with a sizeable chunk of hair.

“Fucking on ice,” Blaine repeats with a chuckle. “That sounds like an X-rated skating show.”

Kurt glares at his husband, unamused. “Yeah. Hilarious. Can we go back to getting our perfect tree now, Grizzly Adams?”

“I don’t know …” Blaine looks at the tree they’d been fucking against before his enthusiastic thrusting caused them to slip and take a header into the snow. “I think I like this one now.” He pats the trunk, shaking loose a minor avalanche from the branches that contains more needles than snow.

Kurt steps back, making a face as he judges the less than spectacular tree. “Why?”

“We had sex on it. That makes it ours.”

“This isn’t a department store, Blaine. I don’t think you break it, you buy it applies here.”

“I think this falls more under the guidelines of I licked it, now it’s mine.”

“I understand the sentiment, but this one’s got a dent in it.” Kurt snickers. “A dent shaped like your ass.”

“That’s a good thing,” Blaine says, walking off to retrieve his ax. “We’ll know which side to face toward the wall.”

#klaine advent 2020 #klaine advent: farm #klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine

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scribbling-stiks · 4 years ago

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Puppets - XXII - Recoup and Rearm

The sun is beginning to disappear over the trees by the time Massachusetts returns to the center of camp. Ute creates a firepit with a circle of stones and dry leaves and plant matter thrown into the center.

"What do you think we should do now?" Russia asks.

"We shouldn't travel after sunset. You should stay here for the night. We can find the road tomorrow after sunrise," Ute says, retrieving two stones and striking them together. Sparks flew, and the leaves ignited.

Canada throws some small twigs into the fire, and Ute looks up. "Russia, can you take one of the states and collect some larger pieces of wood. I have an extra ax in my Tepee that you can use," Ute says to Russia, gesturing briefly to the Tepee that was the most separate from the group of tents. Russia nods.

"I'll go," Louisiana volunteers.

Russia agrees, and after some careful snooping, he locates the ax and pulls it out. The tomahawk is small, with a handle around the size of Russia's forearm, but the blade is sharp enough to draw blood.

Popping out of the tent, he raises the tool in the air and calls, "this?"

"Yes, that works. Try not to scuff it," Ute responds.

"Thank you," Russia says before turning to Louisiana with a nod.

"Wait," Massachusetts calls, causing Russia to pause and turning back to the fire, "don't go too far. The protection spell I cast isn't very large, so try to stay close to us."

"You got it, Massy," Lousiana says.

Russia starts toward the treeline, Louisiana, walking next to him, keeping pace. Russia begins scanning his surroundings for any large, dead trees that would supply them with wood. After walking out a short ways, he turns, and he and Louisiana circle around the camp. They aren't able to see the fire but can both still hear Texas' booming laughter.

Dusk lights up the trees in shades of orange and pink, and the sky begins to grow darker.

Finally, Russia sees a large, bare tree surrounded by brown pine needles near the cliff edge. He points to it with the tomahawk. "That will work," he comments to Louisiana, who hums in agreement. Russia gets to work, cutting out a wedge from the trunk that reaches to about the middle of the tree. Then, he circles the tree and begins chopping away, separating it from the roots.

Once the tree falls, he chops off the branches to collect manageable logs to take back with them and hands them to Louisiana to hold. Then, he spots a branch that catches his eye. It's a straight branch, with a uniform diameter, that would make a good baton. He hacks at the base and chops off the other extending branches. The remaining stick is around six centimeters in diameter and just short of a meter long.

Placing the staff aside, he chops enough wood to sustain the fire for at least a few hours. He grabs the staff and some of the larger logs, the tomahawk tucked under an arm. Louisiana and Russia walk back to the camp.

A few minutes into their journey, Russia heard Louisiana fall, and he spins around to see what had happened. She has tripped on the skeleton of a large animal. Most bones had been broken for the marrow, but a few of them still seem intact. Louisiana stands and collects herself before examining the carcass. She hums to herself before picking up the largest of the bones, steadying it in her hand.

She swings it through the air, grinning. "This would make a good bat. What do you think, Russ?"

Russia chuckles. "I think we should get back to the camp before it gets too dark. You can take it with you if you like."

Louisiana nods happily and collects the wood she'd dropped along with the bone. Walking quickly, they made it back to the campsite before dark. Louisiana dumps the timber she was holding onto the small pile next to Ute, and she plucks the bone from the heap. She turns around with a smile and hands it to Texas.

"Here ya go, Tazzy. I know you loved your bat, but this would be a good substitute," she says.

"Really!?" Texas exclaims happily. He hops up from his spot, taking it from Louisiana. He swung it experimentally before pulling her into a brief hug.

"Yup. It's all yours, little bro," Louisiana says once Texas releases her.

"Thank you!" Texas says, happily swinging it around.

Massachusetts ducks. "Will you watch where you're swinging that thing?!"

"Oh. Sorry Massy," Texas apologizes, lowering the bone to his side. Massachusetts rolls his eyes at the nickname.

"Anyway, I tried to fix your crowbar, but it too busted to be fixed," Massachusetts says apologetically, kicking at a mangled bar of metal toward Russia.

Russia shrugs, but he internally wishes that he had some weapon as a replacement. He hands the tomahawk to Ute and drops the wood into the pile. He then takes the shaft he found and looks at it contemplatively.

"Good find," Ute comments over his shoulder. Russia jumps, and he turns to look at Ute curiously. Ute holds out a hand. "Here. Give it to me," Ute says, and Russia complies, a little confused. Ute takes it and disappears into his Tepee for a few moments before reappearing with a knife, strands of what looked like string, the stick, and what seemed to Russia like an arrowhead.

"That's a great idea!" Canada says excitedly.

"Do you want to do it?" Ute asks, walking over to the fire.

"Only if I get to keep it," Canada says. Ute shrugs and hands the supplies to Canada.

"Just return the knife when you're done," Ute says before taking his seat by the firewood.

Canada begins carving into one end and makes a spear with a sharp, metal tip. Russia would admit, it makes him feel a little jealous at his own lack of a weapon, but he bites his tongue. It must have still shown on his face because Ute hands Russia the hatchet he had used earlier.

"Isn't this yours?"

"I have another. This is the right size for you," Ute says, insisting Russia to take it.

"How do you know it is the right size?"

"It is the size of your forearm. It was always too large for me," Ute comments.

"Thank you."

Eventually, Massachusetts tells the others that he would keep watch. Russia falls into a fitful sleep. He wakes up a few hours later and walks out to the fire. Massachusetts is sitting in the firelight, reading a large, beaten book, using a small ball of light in his hand to read. Russia sits down next to him.

"Why are you up?" Massachusetts asks, not looking up.

"Couldn't sleep," Russia answers.

Massachusetts hums and sets his book aside, dismissing the ball of light. Massachusetts looks up at Russia, and Russia feels startled by how lost the teen looks.

"Do you think my Dad is okay?" Massachusetts asks.

Russia is quiet for a moment. "Your father is stubborn. He is also very strong. He will be alright."

"I hope so," Massachusetts says before leaning against Russia's arm. "I miss him. I know I'm one of the older kids. I got to be stable for the youngsters, you know? But I'm really f***ing scared. We've already almost died, and we found nothing. F***ing nothing! Sorry. I shouldn't be screaming. I just want to find Dad and make sure he's okay."

Russia wasn't sure what to do, but he felt the need to comfort the state. He wraps an arm around Massachusetts, and Massachusetts turns to hug him back. After a few moments, Massachusetts lets go, and Russia pulls his arm back.

"Thanks," Massachusetts mumbles.

"I will take the rest of the shift. You should sleep," Russia says. Massachusetts stays for a few more minutes before grabbing his book and retreating into the tent.

"Good night," Massachusetts says with a wave before disappearing into his Tepee. Russia sits up for the rest of the night, simply waiting for the sun to rise.

Table of Contents

#rusame #countryhumans #statehumans #ch russia #ch america

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desperationandgin · 5 years ago

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If Only In My Dreams (Fraser’s Ridge Christmas)

Rating: General Audiences

Also Read On: AO3

Summary: Jamie and Claire spend their first holiday together on the Ridge, and Claire teaches him a bit about modern Christmas.

Author’s Note: Merry Christmas to all the readers who celebrate! I've wanted to give you all a little Fraser's Ridge for a while now, and this was the perfect time to do it. Thank you so much to my wife who read it first, who reads all my fic first and encourages me when I'm not very sure of myself.

Also, thank you so much to @smashing-teacups for quick reading this before spending the day with her family! I'm so incredibly lucky to have friends in this fandom that mean an incredible amount to me. Thank you all for being here and for reading!

If Only In My Dreams

Their first winter in their first home sees Jamie chopping wood more often than not in order to keep the fire going. The fact that it’s a holiday doesn’t matter; they still need warmth. But after splitting logs for over an hour, Jamie takes a break, letting his axe rest. Eyeing the horizon, he absently rubs one hand over his shoulder, rolling his neck and deciding to consider himself finished for the day. Once he’s loaded his tools and a bundle of wood onto Clarence, they trudge home together, snow lightly falling. The closer they get, the easier it is to detect the smell of something good and hearty cooking, and Jamie clicks his tongue, quickening his pace. Christmas Eve, and all that he wants is to be home now with his wife.

He and Claire hadn’t ever managed to spend Hogmanay at Lallybroch, but here, they can celebrate holidays in the home he built for them, for her, and she can teach him the different ways his daughter enjoyed this time of year. He’s thinking of her as he drops his bundle of firewood by the side of the house, then leads the donkey back to the small stable. Customarily, walking up the front steps of his home would have him removing his boots at the door, but tonight, his wife is waiting. That in and of itself isn’t unusual, but the fact that she doesn’t move to embrace him is, along with the sly grin on her face as she stands just behind the threshold, beckoning him in.

“Welcome home,” she innocently announces, taking a very measured step backward.

For a brief moment, Jamie’s sure she’s about to ask him to remove his boots, but when she doesn’t, an eyebrow arches, one foot tentatively stepping inside their home, damp sole and all. “Ye seem verra pleased to see me, Sassenach,” he begins cautiously.

Barely out of the doorway, Claire reaches out, yanking him down into a hard (and quite thorough) kiss. Without missing a beat, his arms wrap around his wife, yielding to her tongue until he finally parts from her with a shallow gasp.

It’s quite an ego boost, she realizes, to make him breathless with just a kiss.

“No’ that I dinnae appreciate being greeted this way, but what have I done to deserve it?” Typically, a kiss that torrid is immediately accompanied by trying to undress him.

She grins, then simply shrugs innocently. “Do you need to have done anything in particular?”

“Weel, no, but ‘tis a rare day when ye let me on yer floors wi’ muddy boots. Either I’m dreaming, or my birthday’s come sooner than I realized, and I ken I was born on May the first.” Even if he couldn’t remember the date, he’d met her the day after his birthday -- a belated gift he hadn’t even known he wanted, then.

At the mention of his boots, the spell seems to be broken and she shoos him back to the porch. “Alright, you’ve had your time inside with them. Off!”

“Will I receive another kiss when I come back inside?” Jamie asks with a cheeky grin, sitting to unbuckle his boots, then tugging them off.

“Will you?” Leaning against the door frame, she tries to keep a neutral look of uncaring on her face, losing the battle to a grin that wants to turn into happy laughter.

Rising from the chair, Jamie begins unbuttoning his coat as he walks inside again. “ I think I verra well might, even if I still dinnae ken exactly what’s gotten into ye. I’m no’ sure I care.”

She’s laughing when she kisses him again, though this one is much tamer than the last, and when she pulls back, her nose nuzzles lightly against his. “Merry Christmas.”

He hums softly, finding her lips again before stepping back to remove his coat and close the door behind him. “This is a Christmas tradition, then? Cannae say I dislike it myself, but...does everyone participate?”

It takes half a second for Claire to realize he means Brianna. “We were under the mistletoe,” she informs him as she points up at the doorway. “You’re to kiss who you’re with, but, a kiss to the cheek will suffice.” He’s such a father without even meeting Bree, and it makes her heart ache for a moment.

“I’ve heard of hanging it in homes. Weel, that druids do, to ward off evil and bring good luck. I dinnae recall stories of anyone kissing under it, but I enjoy it. Anythin’ to have a reason tae kiss ye senseless.”

When he takes a moment to do just that, Claire gladly allows him to take the lead, melting against his chest until the sound of his stomach growling pulls her out of it. “Come sit down and eat, Jamie. Is it my turn to do the entertaining?” On the evenings they feel up to it, they take turns telling stories over supper; fictional or real, sometimes anecdotes from the past twenty years, and other times they share dreams of the future.

“Aye, though I’ll take my supper by the fire, if ye dinnae mind. My bawls feel about the same as when ye press yer cold feet to them.” He keeps going, even at the look she gives him. “My shoulder’s aching a bit, too. No’ to mention my hand.” The cold weather isn’t kind to his body.

Claire shifts gears immediately, her face softening as she pulls a chair closer to the fire. “I’ll rub your shoulder while you eat,” she offers. “And your hand, after, if holding the bowl and the heat don’t loosen it up first.” She gets him settled, a bowl of stew placed in his hands before quietly tucking a blanket around his legs. Then, she moves behind him, taking a moment to drop a kiss to the top of his head. His curls are still cold, but she lingers a moment before beginning to rub his shoulder.

Quietly, Jamie eats (rabbit stew, one of his favorites), then takes note of the wreath on the back of their door, the red bows and garland over the mantle. “I like the way ye’ve decorated,” he praises. “I’ve seen some of the same in town, ‘tis all bonny. But I enjoy even more that things are the same in your time, that Brianna would ken what all of it is.”

“There’s a bit more, like chopping down a pine tree and decorating it with lights and ornaments,” she explains softly.

“I’ve seen the trees in town,” Jamie perks up, recognizing what she means, but as he looks around their small home, he realizes why she hasn’t asked for one.

“In a year or two, Sassenach, ye’ll have a grand place to put a decorated tree,” he promises.

As her fingers find the place she knows bothers him most, she massages his shoulder, smiling to herself. “What I like about all of this, is that now I get to share these things with you.” Something she dreamed of for years, but never thought would or even could happen.

Jamie hums in the back of his throat, a note of acknowledgment. “What sort of things did Brianna do for the holiday?” he asks, taking another bite of warm, hearty stew.

“Well, we would take care of the tree, then hang stockings over the fireplace to fill with small gifts,” she recalls, still rubbing his shoulder idly.

Jamie imagines it quietly before his eyes narrow and something from long ago clicks. “...Stockings. A nighean, do ye remember three evenings after our wedding, our camp was ambushed?”

Claire looks down as she thinks, mostly recalling their inability to keep their hands off one another directly after their marriage. She’s touched though, that he recalls things from so long ago. “I think so. You said the horses were spooked.”

“Just before that, ye’d said stockings would be hanging by the fire for the Yule. I thought ye meant for laundry but now I ken ye meant somethin’ else.”

Letting out a bark of a laugh, Claire leans down to kiss the top of his head again, pleased to find him warmer now. “You have a memory like a bloody elephant. But you’re right. It’s tradition to find an oversized stocking and hang it on the mantle. The idea is that Santa Claus will come down the chimney and fill it with small toys and candy, you see.”

“Ah, aye, the jolly fat version of Saint Nicholas,” Jamie says dryly. “Did Brianna believe in such a thing?”

“What, Santa?” Claire squints in thought. “Not for long. She’s very clever, our daughter. The first year she was onto it, she was six and tried to stay awake all night. The next year, she very nearly caught me putting presents under the tree, but luckily, seven-year-olds don’t know much about stealth.”

“Clearly she wasna getting anywhere by trying to outlast ye through the night,” Jamie says as leans down to put his mostly empty bowl on the floor beside the chair. “I’ll wager the next year, she did something different.”

For a moment, Claire’s struck by how well this man knows a child he’d hardly had time to realize existed before losing her. But then, he’s only thinking of what he would do, and it’s not a leap to assume Bree would have the same train of thought.

“She did, she outsmarted us. She wrote a letter listing everything she wanted and gave it to me to send to the North Pole.” At Jamie’s baffled expression over his shoulder at her, Claire clarifies. “It’s where Santa lives, you see.”

“I’m no’ sure why it matters, but I’m following,” he tries helpfully.

“Well, really, that letter was a list so that we knew what Brianna wanted for Christmas. What we didn’t know was that she’d already written a letter at school that was supposedly sent to Santa.”

“She wrote two different lists?”

Claire grins at Jamie. “She wrote two different lists.” Sighing contently at the memory, she shakes her head. “Brianna does love Christmas, though. She loves decorating and all of the baking.”

When she goes quiet, Jamie lightly tugs at Claire’s hand to beckon her around, guiding her to sit on his knee. He pauses, not wanting to encourage the sadness, only memories. “What were typical gifts for her?”

Letting her fingers play with his curls, she hums in thought. “Toys, when she was younger, mostly. Clothes here and there that she was only interested in with age.” At five, clothing items were the most boring, but at fifteen, she never minded new clothes for the new year. “When she was older, she would ask for bigger things. One year, she asked for roller skates. I was worried she’d do nothing but break an arm or leg.”

“A dangerous gift?”

“Well, roller skates are a novelty thing for fun. They’re like shoes, but with wheels on the bottom, so that you glide on the ground.”

“Och, I’ve seen such contraptions, now that ye say as such.” They’re not a new concept, but they’re uncommon enough that Jamie has never seen them in action.

“When she was even older, all she wanted was money to go buy whatever she wanted, or to spend time with her friends.” And then, things were much quieter, just the two of them. She’d been at a loss for what to get a young woman who missed her father dearly, and so had settled on simple things, nothing truly sentimental.

Perhaps if she’d known their Christmases were limited, she would have tried harder.

Quiet for a beat too long, Claire clears her throat and meets Jamie’s eyes again. “She was always grateful. That’s the important thing.”

“I ken ye miss her all the time,” Jamie murmurs softly, thumb gliding along the apple of her cheek. “But it must be even worse, right now.”

Absently, Claire begins to rub Jamie’s hand, her thumb massaging his palm. “From October to January she was practically glowing with excitement when she was a little girl. She loved playing in the snow, even if her favorite activities were in the summer.” Claire could keep going at length about Bree, but she worries, sometimes, that it hurts Jamie, to hear of all the moments he couldn’t be a part of. She tries to pull back a bit, to make a connection between him and his daughter.

“She always laughed and yelped when I stuck my cold fingers into the collar of her coat to get to her neck,” she recalls with a smile. “Just like you do, when you aren’t swearing,” she finishes with a tease.

Jamie smiles softly to himself, leaning back in the chair to look up at his wife. “Did ye always like this time of year as well? Even before Brianna?”

“I only ever had a proper Christmas a handful of times,” Claire murmurs, her thumb gliding along his jaw idly. “I don’t remember any holidays with my parents. And with my Uncle, we observed whichever traditions were celebrated wherever we happened to be.”

And she hadn’t really gotten to celebrate a Christmas with Frank during the war, though she doesn’t mention that.

“So, it meant more to ye then, after Brianna,” Jamie notes.

“She made everything mean more.” The first Christmas especially, when Claire was only just coming out of a black hole of grief. Leaning forward, she presses her forehead against Jamie’s. “And now, I get to spend my holidays with you.”

“Aye,” he acknowledges, raising his lips to her forehead to press a soft kiss there. “I miss her, but it’s no’ the same. Ye have the memories, the moments to miss.” He only has the idea of them.

“It might not be the same, Jamie, but it isn’t any less. You love our daughter as much as I do, I know it.” Letting out a soft breath, she closes her eyes and lets go of one more thought.

“I wish there were a way for her to know we’re alright. That you and I are together, and that we’re well.” Brianna wouldn’t even know to look for any history in America. As far as she knows, her mother is in Scotland.

Jamie has no good answer for her, but unprompted, he speaks quietly. “I tried to guess the best I could when ye’d be having our bairn. Couldna move or do much of anything while I was healing, after Culloden. I realized the wean would be born a bit after your birthday. I chose a day and I prayed each year, tried to imagine what our child had accomplished already.”

Of course he tried to calculate their child’s birth, and Claire’s heart breaks all the more with loving him. She kisses his cheeks as he exhales, then nuzzles her nose along his.

“Her first Christmas, she was barely a month old and still so small. I was always worried about her being too cold, that winter. New mother nerves, I suppose. I always held her in my arms, so bundled up that she was more blanket than baby,” she chuckles softly.

“What about that last Christmas?” Jamie asks, thumb stroking her hip idly over her skirts.

Claire takes a deep breath, then lets it out softly. “You mean the hardest one of my life?” She looks at him, eyes soft.

Abandoning her hip, Jamie reaches out to cradle her face, quietly tugging her closer until he can press a soft kiss against her forehead. The crackling fire in the room is the only sound filling the silence until he finally speaks once more.

“Ye gave up so much for me Claire,” he murmurs huskily. “If I could find a way to give ye all ye wanted, I would. I would bring you our daughter--” He stops abruptly, clearing his throat.

She knows if either one of them begins to cry it’s over for both of them.

“You gave me our daughter. And she gave me back to you. I’ll have a hard time topping that Christmas gift,” she says in an attempt at humor, though her own voice is suspiciously thick.

“You were able to give her a good life, Claire,” he murmurs, nuzzling her cheek tenderly. “I enjoy hearing about it, about everything ye were able to do for her.”

Sitting up straighter, Claire reaches out to tug at one of his curls tenderly, sighing softly.

“Do you want to know something else about our daughter?” She doesn’t wait for his answer before continuing. “She would be cross with us for being gloomy right now. She would say ‘Mama, you and Jamie are together and you’re wasting time being sad when I’m totally fine.’”

“Totally,” Jamie murmurs, though the corner of his mouth turns up in a smile.

“Just like that. Only less Scottish.”

She makes him chuckle, and once more, their foreheads press together as he breathes her in.

“Thank ye for remembering her wi’ me.” He plants a kiss on Claire’s shoulder tenderly. Looking up, he meets his wife’s gaze. “Merry Christmas, Sassenach.”

Leaning in, her lips press to his in a soft, tender kiss.

“Merry Christmas, Jamie.”

#outlander #outlander fic #jamie x claire #jamie fraser #claire fraser #if only in my dreams #my fic

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wordsthativelost · 4 years ago

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Stalking Jack

Hey, look what I found on an old flash drive! I guess that counts as “words I’ve lost - and found” I don’t even have a place to post original fic any more. Might as well put it here. I wrote this when I was very depressed. I still think it’s *interesting* if not necessarily *good* CONTENT WARNINGS: suggested child abuse, hints at sexual abuse, suggested violence. -----

"My real mother would never make me do that," you say to me.

All children tell themselves secretly that they have other, better, parents somewhere -- kinder, grander, more exciting -- or so I have heard. I never did, but then I was never one for daydreaming. Not like you. Most children are not brave enough, cruel enough, to speak that story aloud.

You, however, stand before me, your eyes now level with mine, your father's broad jaw jutting forward, and cross wiry arms against a chest that is no longer quite so thin. You repeat, "My real mother would allow me to stay." To hide the trembling, you push your hand through that ragged straw hair with its gleam of sunrise, covering your eyes so I do not see the hurt. O my careless burden, my Jack, your words slice my heart in two, and it falls empty to the dirt floor between us; but no blame spills out, no blame at all.

How can I blame you for denying me, denying this the home I made for you? We are dirty and dark, rough and ramshackle, no place for you, O my shining youth, my shame, all sunlight and softness and the sweet drone of summer bees. Surely you could not have sprung from between these splintered thighs, slipped from this chinked womb.

"Good. Then ask your real mother for food and a fire," I say harshly. Like this hovel, I have no shelter left to offer, and the Spring turning is still many weeks away. "Go and find work, for there is nothing more for you here."

Your eyes, molten gold, flow away from mine. "There's still the cow. I could take her to the knacker's yard."

"What? She is all that I have left from..." I do not finish. I do not think of the time before.

"She is too old. She is useless. She requires feed and water and gives no milk in return."

"She is not yours to sell." This is true. The cow had been a gift to me, a calf then, with eyes as warm and whimsical as a promise of faithfulness and fertility. It is also true that she is now withered and dry. I am still not ready to let her go. "You would kill her to purchase a few more days of idle scribbling?"

At that, your eyes flash. "I am not idle!" You shake your hand at me, still gripping the stick of charcoal you use to etch your fancies on scraps of wood and bark. "You have never understood. You have never cared about what is important to me!"

No, I do not understand you, O my strange one, my changeling child. How you drink tales and eat stories, how you exhaust yourself from your pretend battles and lie spent, bleeding words from a thousand invisible cuts. But still the ice in my chest melts before your fire. "See that you get a good price for her, then," is all I say.

But when you return the next evening, you bring me no cheese for our supper, no wood for our fire. No copper coins to purchase a few more tomorrows. Instead, you show me a fist filled with foolish fancies, and your mouth drips with dreams like poisoned honey. A strange man, you tell me, a man with flaxen hair and the eyes of a lion, met you on the forest path and offered you great things. You traded my cow, my past, for his promises and plans.

I say nothing. You chatter on nonsensically, but I cannot hear you over the howling in my ears and I cannot see you for the darkness in my eyes. I take your folly and fling it out the door, scattering your daydreams like dirt in our yard, and you fall silent, and I think that now the rage in your heart will choke the hunger in your belly.

Maybe this time your stories are true. Maybe you are not my son.

In the morning you are gone. You have followed this stranger's ensnaring lures, I tell myself. Trapped in the clinging vines of your own imaginings, you climb them into the clouds of fairytales, the fog of let's-pretend.

I hope that someone will feed you there.

As for me, I search beneath my pillow for my small bag of precious things: a faded blue ribbon, a crumbled flower wrapped in a yellowing scrap of lace, many tiny ivory teeth that tumble onto my hand, biting into the palm. There is also the ring, the one your father gave me six months before you were born. I use my own teeth to pry out the stone, sparkling topaz, like his eyes, like your eyes. It glitters like the deceitful endings of your magpie daydreams, and I close my fist tightly. The Travelers will come by soon, when the Winter rains end. Perhaps they will trade me supplies and seeds for the empty silver band.

Weeks later, I am digging in my new garden with a stout sharpened stick. You return to me, your golden eyes blazing like the sun reflected in the puddles all around me. Sitting in the doorway, you watch me kneel in the mud, and spin me fantastic tales of a giant's mansion, filled with amazing treasures. No, you did not see the giant, you admit; but you met his woman, a delicate, fragile, timid thing. She pitied you, you say. She fed you, and cosseted you, and hid you when the giant returned, his voice like thunder. The woman told you to run, and you did, ran all the way back to me.

"And look what she gave me!" Your voice cracks like ice with excitement, as you shove a small purse into my hands. "Gold! Jewels! She says that all the giant's fortune shall be mine!"

I look inside, and my eyes see only the dull gleam of brass buttons and bright shining beads. O my besotted fool, my dreamer. When have you ever seen real gold, real jewels, so that you should recognize them? But then, when have I?

I say nothing. Instead I give you hot soup, made from the wild onions and cattails I have gathered near the lake. You eat three bowls' worth, scowling all the while, comparing the meal to the rich scraps from the giant's table. "But you shall eat such food now, shall you not?" you tease me. You insist that you must go back on the morrow, to fetch me more wealth from the giant's store.

When you have left, I pull out my last set of spare sheets. The cotton is soft from many washings, but still not worn through. I boil the cloth with the onion peelings until it is the color of ripe wheat, of new butter, of your father's hair, your hair, shimmering under the smoking tallow-dips as you struggle to soothe your frantic fantasies to lay quivering, flat upon the page. I cut and pin and stitch it into a fine dress, such as an alderman's wife might wear, and sew the buttons you brought me down the front and sleeves. Tomorrow I will bring this into town, and see if I can trade it for an iron trowel.

It is only two weeks later when you return again. I am searching the ground for fallen sticks to burn; although the days are warmer now, it still grows cold at night. "My father!" you shout as you rush to me. "The giant's woman told me of my father!" Your words spray out like stones from beneath a cart wheel. I flinch as they strike me. Your father, you say, your real father, was a great man, a fine lord, a king! Indeed, he was the true owner of the grand house where you have been hiding for so many days. The giant came and slew him, and cast you, his infant heir, away into poverty and filth. Surely, you ask me, it is your duty to reclaim all that should be yours by right?

My duty is to feed you. I grind acorns dug from the beneath the bracken and set to boil for hours. They taste bitter and flat, so I stir in a handful of dried berries and the last of the windfallen apples. You wolf down the porridge and grimace, but then you grin at me, like you are hiding the most delicious secret. "Look at what I brought you from the giant's house this time!" You thrust an odd bundle of carved sticks and wires into my hands, fingers stained brown and purple from cooking. You tell me that this is a harp, that I can hang it in the doorway, and the wind will make it sing with marvelous, magical tunes. You say that it will make me less dull, make my days pass quickly and my sleep more restful.

I say nothing. You are so pleased with yourself and your gift. O my heartless poet, my clown, what need have I now for music? Your father whistled haunting melodies to me once, when I was young and lovely, and I would hum them back to you as you suckled greedily at my breast, to put you to sleep so your father could have his turn. If I want songs I can go listen to the senseless yammerings of the forest birds. My days are too short and my dreams too empty as it is.

When you are gone the next morning, I turn the little device over in my hand, recalling your tales of talismans and triumph with a sour smile. I take the beads you brought me, and string them on my old blue ribbon, wrapping it around and around the delicate wooden frame. A few early jonquils stuck here and there give a festive look. The blacksmith believes me to be a hedge-witch, and has been pressing me to supply him with love charms. Surely he will exchange this pretty bauble for a sharp axe. Who knows, it might even work.

You return to me again, only eight days gone. I am chopping at a dead tree with my new axe, pleased to depend no longer upon finding sticks on the ground. You are running through the trees, pale hair streaming behind you, something clutched against your chest. "The axe! Give me the axe!" you shout, shoving a squirming hissing bundle into my arms. Snatching the axe, you whirl about to face the path to our house.

I look down and see that I am holding a goose. It pecks at me.

"She betrayed me!" you say, voice raw with fury and hurt. The goose? No, the giant's woman. She had assured you that everything in that fine house should be yours. That you should eat at the giant's table. Wear his clothes. Sleep in his bed. She took your hand, you tell me trembling, and brought you to his rooms with silk soft words, promising to uncover his most secret treasure.

O my wounded innocent, my dupe. I hear the axe sing like a harp as it slices through the air, chopping your story into slivers. You asked her instead to take you to the giant's larder. So that you might share his delicacies with me, foraging too long in the dirt and the muck. The giant's woman flushed red and hot and sharp, answering that she'd as soon give you a goose that laid golden eggs as provide a feast for the harlot of the woods.

Your eyes flicker with hot angry flames as you repeat her words. Do you believe that they shall burn me?

When you asked to see this goose, she laughed at you. She pointed to the kitchen gardens, where the chickens wandered foolishly, and she laughed and laughed, and then the giant returned.

Stop thief she shouted, and he lunged for you. You ran, you say, and you ran, and as you ran she grabbed shrieking at the giant, and you ran. In the yard you saw the goose, the golden goose, and you snatched it and you ran. And now the giant is running too, running after you, coming for you. Coming for us. Down the forest path to our little hut. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you cry, "I will protect you," and O my brash brazen boy, my hero, you are weeping and angry and confused and terrifying, and I lift the axe from your hand.

I say something. "Take this wretched bird into the house and shut the door." And I turn and I wait for this giant.

I stand ready, axe held level. I shall chop down that strangling vine you have been climbing. I shall hew it out, root and branch, and no clinging tendril shall remain to claim you. I shall bite deep with my blade until the sap gushes out sticky and wet, and washes away any hidden thorns.

When I come back inside the little house, you sit still and huddled on your bed. Your eyes, your golden eyes, are bright and full of tears and terror, not dark and empty like your father's are now. "You were a great lady once, mother," you whisper to me. "You were a queen in a splendid castle."

I say nothing. But I nod, and hold you close until you fall asleep against me. When your breathing is slow and soft, I go back to my small garden, and finish weeding among the pushing green that reaches already to my knees. Later tonight I will take my axe and strike the goose dead. It would be wiser, I suppose, to keep it for the eggs, but I can render the carcass for the good yellow fat instead. I will make you many dip candles, O my treasure, O my song, O my prince, my son, and they shall burn clean and bright; and you shall scribble out your stories by their golden glow for many months to come.

Besides, goose broth will taste well with these beans.

#fairy tale retelling #jack and the beanstalk #second person narration #dark

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retorioworld · 3 years ago

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The One-Stop, Interview Prep-Shop for Video Interview

If you’ve ever wanted a one-stop, interview prep-shop, this is IT.

From an in-person meeting or a video interview, we're here to help.Interviews can be the most intimidating thing in the entire world. A close second could be asking someone on a date—in real life. You know, not through an app. Swipes aside, we’re aiming to lay out the prep work for a fantastic interview.

The kind that feels like you’re floating on air afterwards or the kind where you hear the cash register’s KA-CHING after an eloquent and to-the-point response.

We’ve outlined:

Interview homework: what to do to prepare for the (video) interview

During the interview: what to expect, what to avoid, and what to deliver

The interviewer's 3 essential questions

Interview Homework

Like a quote on Pinterest once said, “Proper preparation prevents poor performance”. Abraham Lincoln may not have said it, but if he had a fondness for alliteration, he probably would have. After all, he is the figure that said, “Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe”. Preparation is where you win the interview. The interview is where you show the interviewer you won.

Research the Company

The first line of defense is a good offense, a well-known military strategy. The same goes with an interview. Researching the company is essential to create a positive impression. It shows you’ve prepared well, take the opportunity seriously, and may possess a few ideas on how to contribute. Not all research is created equal. It’s important to land on a few key areas. These areas will prepare you to freestyle if any unexpected questions arise; they also showcase how thoughtfully you’ve considered the company, its industry, and its potential roadmap.

When researching, find the answer to these questions:

How do they view themselves?

What sets them apart in their particular niche or field?

What are keywords that showcase their uniqueness?

What are some ways that their intention may fall short of the reality?

If possible, learn about these areas: